Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

gritted his teeth. “I don’t need help to—”
    “You will take them,” Suit said coldly. “You’ve proven unreliable with regard to Waxillium. It is not open for discussion.”
    “Fine.”
    Suit stepped closer, tapping Miles on the chest and speaking softly. “The Set is anxious, Miles. Our monetary resources are very limited at the moment. You may rob the train, but don’t bother with hostages. We will take half of the aluminum you steal tonight to fund several operations you need not know about. You can have the rest for weapons.”
    “Have your two men there ever fought Allomancers?”
    “They are among our finest,” Suit said. “I think you’ll find them more than capable.”
    They both knew what this was. Yes, the two would fight Wax, but they would also keep an eye on Miles. Great. More interference.
    “I’m leaving the city,” Suit said. “Wax is getting too close. If you survive the night, send someone to update me.” He said that last part with a hint of a smile.
    Insufferable bastard, Miles thought as Suit walked over to the lift, where a quartet of bodyguards waited. He was leaving on his regular train; he’d probably come back on his regular one too. He probably didn’t realize Miles had been tracking those.
    Suit departed, leaving Miles with the two black-coated men. Well, he’d find some use for them.
    He returned to the main chamber, followed by his new babysitters. The Vanishers—the thirty or so of them that remained—were getting ready for the job tonight. The Machine had been brought into the chamber via the far platform, which moved up to ground level in a large industrial lift, a majestic electrical wonder.
    The world is changing, Miles thought, leaning down on the railing. First railways, now electricity. How long before men take to the skies, as the Words of Founding say is possible? The day might come where every man knew the freedom that had once been reserved only to Coinshots.
    Change didn’t scare Miles. Change was an opportunity, a chance to become something you were not. No Augur was bothered by change.
    Augur. He usually ignored that side of himself. His Feruchemy was what kept him alive—and these days he hardly noticed even that, save for the faint sense of extra energy to every step he took. He never got headaches, never felt tired, never had sore muscles, never dealt with colds or pain.
    On a whim, he took hold of the banister and swung over, dropping to the floor some twenty feet below. For a brief moment, he knew that sense of freedom. Then he hit. One of his legs tried to break—he recognized the slight pop. But the bone’s fractures reknit as quickly as they broke, and so it never fully snapped, cracks opening on one side but resealing on the other.
    He rose from a crouch, whole. The black-coated babysitters dropped beside him, one dropping a bit of metal and slowing a moment before he hit. A Coinshot. Well, that would be useful. The other surprised him, landing softly, but not dropping any metal. The ceiling had metal crossbeams. This man would be a Lurcher; he’d Pulled upon those beams to slow himself.
    Miles strode through the room, inspecting the Vanishers as they prepared their gear. Every bit of aluminum they had left had gone for guns and bullets. They’d use those from the start this time. At the wedding-dinner fight, it had taken the men a few moments to switch weapons. Now they knew what to anticipate. Their numbers might be fewer, but they’d be much better prepared.
    He nodded to Clamps, who was watching over the men. The scarred man nodded back. He was loyal enough, though he had joined up for the thrill of robbery rather than the purpose of any cause. Of them all, only Tarson—dear, brutal Tarson—had anything resembling true loyalty.
    Clamps claimed to be dedicated, though Miles knew otherwise. Well, Clamps hadn’t been the one to fire the first shot in the last mess. For all Miles’s professions about wanting to change things, his temper—and not his mind—had eventually ruled.
    He should have been better than that. He was a man created to have a steady hand and an even steadier mind. Made by Trell, inspired by the Survivor, yet still weak. Miles questioned himself often. Was that the mark of a lack of dedication? He’d never done anything in his life without questioning.
    He turned, studying his domain, such as it was. Thieves, murderers, and braggarts. He took a deep breath, then burned gold.
    It was considered one of