Mistborn #01 The Final Empire

thought. How did she get so good so quickly?
    “You don’t have to use Allomancy, Vin,” Kelsier said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know that.”
    She flushed. “I didn’t mean it . . . it’s just habit. Even still.”
    “It’s all right,” Kelsier said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Just remember—no matter what Breeze says, it’s bad manners to touch the emotions of your friends. Plus, the noblemen consider it an insult to use Allomancy in formal settings. Those reflexes will get you into trouble if you don’t learn to control them.”
    She nodded, rising to study Camon. Kelsier expected her to turn away in disgust, but she just stood quietly, a look of grim satisfaction on her face.
    No, this one isn’t weak, Kelsier thought. No matter what she’d have you believe.
    “They tortured him here?” she asked. “Out in the open?”
    Kelsier nodded, imagining the screams reverberating out to the uncomfortable beggars. The Ministry liked to be very visible with its punishments.
    “Why the hook?” Vin asked.
    “It’s a ritual killing reserved for the most reprehensible of sinners: people who misuse Allomancy.”
    Vin frowned. “Camon was an Allomancer?”
    Kelsier shook his head. “He must have admitted to something heinous during his torture.” Kelsier glanced at Vin. “He must have known what you were, Vin. He used you intentionally.”
    She paled slightly. “Then . . . the Ministry knows that I’m a Mistborn?”
    “Perhaps. It depends on whether Camon knew or not. He could have assumed you were just a Misting.”
    She stood quietly for a moment. “What does this mean for my part in the job, then?”
    “We’ll continue as planned,” Kelsier said. “Only a couple of obligators saw you at the Canton building, and it takes a very rare man to connect the skaa servant and the well-dressed noblewoman as the same person.”
    “And the Inquisitor?” Vin asked softly.
    Kelsier didn’t have an answer to that one. “Come on,” he finally said. “We’ve already attracted too much attention.”

----
What would it be like if every nation—from the isles in the South to the Terris hills in the North—were united under a single government? What wonders could be achieved, what progress could be made, if mankind were to permanently set aside its squabblings and join together?
It is too much, I suppose, to even hope for. A single, unified empire of man? It could never happen.

    12

    V IN RESISTED THE URGE TO pick at her noblewoman’s dress. Even after a half week of being forced to wear one—Sazed’s suggestion—she found the bulky garment uncomfortable. It pulled tightly at her waist and chest, then fell to the floor with several layers of ruffled fabric, making it difficult to walk. She kept feeling as if she were going to trip—and, despite the gown’s bulk, she felt as if she were somehow exposed by how tight it was through the chest, not to mention the neckline’s low curve. Though she had exposed nearly as much skin when wearing normal, buttoning shirts, this seemed different somehow.
    Still, she had to admit that the gown made quite a difference. The girl who stood in the mirror before her was a strange, foreign creature. The light blue dress, with its white ruffles and lace, matched the sapphire barrettes in her hair. Sazed claimed he wouldn’t be happy until her hair was at least shoulder-length, but he had still suggested that she purchase the broochlike barrettes and put them just above each ear.
    “Often, aristocrats don’t hide their deficiencies,” he had explained. “Instead, they highlight them. Draw attention to your short hair, and instead of thinking you’re unfashionable, they might be impressed by the statement you are making.”
    She also wore a sapphire necklace—modest by noble standards, but still worth more than two hundred boxings. It was complemented by a single ruby bracelet for accentuation. Apparently, the current fashion dictated a single splash of a different color to provide contrast.
    And it was all hers, paid for by crew funds. If she ran, taking the jewelry and her three thousand boxings, she could live for decades. It was more tempting than she wanted to admit. Images of Camon’s men, their corpses twisted and dead in the quiet lair, kept returning to her. That was probably what waited for her if she remained.
    Why, then, didn’t she go?
    She turned from the mirror, putting on a light blue silken shawl, the female