Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

they took it from someone. But look. Someone wrote some numbers on the inside.”
    “Indeed,” Waxillium said. He narrowed his eyes, then looked at Wayne, who nodded.
    “What?” she said. “You know something?”
    Waxillium tossed the box back to Wayne, who tucked it away inside the pocket of his coat. It was large enough that it hung out. “Have you ever heard the name Miles Dagouter?”
    “Sure,” she said. “Miles Hundredlives. He’s a lawkeeper, out in the Roughs.”
    “Yes,” Waxillium said somberly. “Come on. I think it’s time for us to take a trip. While we go, I’ll tell you a few stories.”

11

    Miles stood by the railing and lit his cigar. He puffed on it a few times to get it going, then slowly released a stream of pungent smoke from between his lips.
    “They’ve been spotted, boss,” Tarson said as he walked up. Tarson’s arm was in a sling; most men would still be in bed after taking a shot like he had. But Tarson was a Pewterarm and koloss-blooded. He’d heal quickly.
    “Where?” Miles asked, looking down and surveying the setup of the new hideout. Besides Tarson, the only one up here with him was Clamps, third-in-command.
    “They’re at the old foundry,” Tarson said. He was still wearing Wayne’s hat. “Were talking to the beggars there.”
    “Should have dumped the lot of them in the canal,” Clamps grumbled, scratching at the scar on his neck.
    “I’m not going to start killing beggars, Clamps,” Miles said softly. He wore a pair of aluminum revolvers; they gleamed in the electric lights of the large chamber. “You’d be surprised at how quickly something like that can backfire; turn the city’s underclass against us, and all kinds of inconvenient information will find its way to the constables.”
    “Yeah, sure,” Clamps said. “Of course. But, I mean, those beggars … they saw things, boss.”
    “Wax would have figured it out regardless,” Miles said. “He is like a rat. Wherever you least wish him to be, there you will find him. In a way, that makes him predictable. I assume your explosive traps—foolproof though you promised they would be—were ineffective?”
    Clamps coughed into his hand.
    “Pity,” Miles said. He took his silver lighter, still in his hand from lighting the cigar, and put it back in his pocket. It bore the seal of the lawkeepers of True Madil. It made the other men uncomfortable to see that. Miles kept it anyway.
    The space before them was completely windowless. Big, glaring electric lights hung from the ceiling, and men were setting up forging and casting equipment. Miles was skeptical. A foundry below the ground? But Mister Suit promised that his ducts and electric fans would pull the smoke away and circulate the air. It helped that there was a lot less smoke with the electric furnaces they’d be using down here.
    This room was very curious. A large tunnel led off into darkness on the left side of the chamber, and railway tracks were set into it. The beginnings, Mister Suit said, of an underground railway line in the city. How would it cut through the canals? It would have to run under them, he guessed. A strange image.
    As of now, that tunnel was only a test. It led a short distance to a large wooden building, where Miles could quarter the rest of his men. He had another thirty or so. At the moment, they were bringing in boxes of supplies and what was left of their aluminum. There wasn’t much. In one blow, Wax had all but upended the Vanishers.
    Miles puffed on his cigar, thoughtful. As always, he was drawing upon his goldmind, invigorating himself, refreshing his body. He never felt sick, never lacked energy. He still had to sleep, and he still grew old, but other than that, he was practically immortal. So long as he had enough gold.
    That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Smoke curled in front of him, twisting upon itself like the mists.
    “Boss?” Clamps asked. “Mister Suit is waiting. Aren’t you going to go meet with him?”
    Miles blew out smoke. “In a moment.” Suit did not own him. “How is recruitment, Clamps?”
    “It’s … I’ll need more time. One day ain’t enough, ’specially following half of us getting slaughtered.”
    “Watch your tone,” Miles said.
    “Sorry.”
    “Wax was bound to enter the game eventually,” Miles said softly. “He changes the rules, and it is true that we lost far more men than I would have liked. We are fortunate at the same time, however. Now that Waxillium