The crew’s lair itself was hidden in a tunneled stone cavern beneath the building. The room was one of many at the back of the store that served as a front for the safehouse. She brushed past Ulef and hopped out of the trap door, moving into a run-down pantry. When is he not? However, Vin nodded, scrambling out of the cramped-yet comforting-confines of the watch-hole. Life was harsh on the streets, and if a skaa thief wanted to keep from being caught and executed, he had to be practical.Īnd ruthlessness was the very most practical of emotions. Betrayal had nothing to do with friendship-it was a simple fact of survival. Nice, after his own fashion-naive, if one who had grown up in the underworld could ever really be called “naive.” Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t betray her. That’s kind of why I hid in the first place. “There you are! Camon’s been searching for you for a half hour.” “Vin!” Ulef said, sticking his head into the room. She heard a shuffling a short distance away, then the trap door at the back of the small chamber snapped open. A thing without thought, capable of simply being, not thinking, caring, or hurting. Sometimes, Vin imagined she was like the ash, or the wind, or the mist itself. Her brother had taught her so many things, then had reinforced them by doing what he’d always promised he would-by betraying her himself. When you’re alone, no one can betray you. Reen’s words. Vin wasn’t on duty-the watch-hole was simply one of the few places where she could find solitude.Īnd Vin liked solitude. From within it, a crewmember could watch the street for signs of danger.
Vin sat quietly in one of the crew’s watch-holes-a hidden alcove built into the bricks on the side of the safehouse. They drifted in corners, blowing in the breeze and curling in tiny whirlwinds over the cobblestones. The puffs of soot fell like black snowflakes, descending upon the dark city of Luthadel. Vin watched the downy flakes drift through the air. I guess it all comes down to one fact: In the end, I’m the one with the armies. What is to make that man’s opinion any less valid than my own? Perhaps another person, reading of my life, would name me a religious tyrant. But, what man does not? Even the cutthroat, I have noticed, considers his actions “moral” after a fashion. I consider myself to be a man of principle.
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