Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

has entered, we can anticipate him.”
    “Boss,” Tarson said, leaning in, “there’s talk among the men. That you and Wax … that you two set us all up.” He cringed back, as if expecting a violent reaction.
    Miles puffed on his cigar, and managed to contain his initial burst of anger. He was getting better at that. A little. “Why would they say that?”
    “You were once a lawkeeper, and all…”
    “I still am,” Miles said. “What we do, it is not outside the law. Not the true law. Oh, the rich will make their own codes, will force us to live by them. But our law is the law of humanity itself.
    “Men who work for me, they are given the dispensation of reform. Their work here washes away their previous … infractions. Tell them I am proud of them, Clamps. I realize we’ve been through something traumatic, but we did survive. We will face tomorrow with greater strength.”
    “I’ll tell ’em, boss,” Clamps said.
    Miles covered a grimace. He couldn’t decide if the words were the right ones or not; he wasn’t meant for preaching. But the men needed conviction from him, so conviction he would display. “Fifteen years,” he said softly.
    “Boss?”
    “Fifteen years I spent out in the Roughs, trying to protect the weak. And you know what? It never got better. All that effort, it meant nothing. Children still died, women were still abused. One man wasn’t enough to change things, not with the corruption here at the heart of civilization.” He took a puff on his cigar. “If we’re going to change things, we need to change them here, first.”
    And Trell help me if I’m wrong. Why had Trell made men like him, if not to see wrongs righted? The Words of Founding had even included a lengthy explanation of Trellism and its teachings, which proved men like Miles were special.
    He turned and moved along the walkway. It hung like a balcony on the north side of the large chamber. Tarson and Clamps stayed behind; they knew he liked to be alone when he faced Mister Suit.
    Miles pulled open the door at the end of the walk, and entered Mister Suit’s office. Why he needed an office here, Miles didn’t know; perhaps he’d be keeping a closer eye on operations at this new base. Mister Suit had wanted them here from the beginning. It annoyed Miles that he’d finally had to accept the offer—it put him more closely under his backer’s thumb.
    Enough good robberies, and we won’t need him any longer, Miles told himself. Then we can move somewhere else.
    Mister Suit was a round-faced man with a full gray-streaked beard. He sat at his desk sipping a cup of tea and wearing an extremely stylish and expensive suit of black silk with a turquoise vest. As Miles entered, he was studying a broadsheet.
    “You know I don’t like the smell of those,” Mister Suit said without looking up.
    Miles puffed his cigar anyway.
    Mister Suit smiled. “Did I hear that your old friend has already located your previous base of operations?”
    “Men were captured,” Miles said simply. “It was only a matter of time.”
    “They aren’t very loyal to your cause.”
    Miles had no response to that. They both knew that most of his men worked for the money, and not for any greater purpose.
    “Do you know why I like you, Miles?” Mister Suit asked.
    I don’t particularly care if you do or not, Miles thought, but held his tongue.
    “You’re careful,” Mister Suit continued. “You have a goal, you believe in it, but you don’t let it cloud your vision. In fact, your cause is not so different from that of my associates and me. I think it is a worthy goal, and you a worthy leader.” Mister Suit turned over his broadsheet. “The shootings at the last robbery threaten to undermine my confidence in that assessment.”
    “I…”
    “You lost your temper,” Mister Suit said, voice growing cold, “and you therefore lost control of your men. That is why this disaster occurred. There was no other reason.”
    “Yes there was. Waxillium Ladrian.”
    “You should have been ready for him.”
    “He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
    Mister Suit sipped his tea. “Come now, Miles. You wore a mask on your face. You knew there was a chance he’d come.”
    “I wore a mask,” Miles said, keeping his temper with some effort, “because I am a man of some renown. Wax wasn’t the only one who could have recognized me.”
    “A valid point, I suppose. But then, with how dramatic you insist on being—cargo that vanishes, rather