After three hours of reading reports and searching through Oversight's surprisingly thorough records, Samuel was eager to get his legs into motion again.

It felt too much like paperwork to Samuel. Like the precinct Captainship in the Blackened Stone District he had turned down twice.

So Samuel set the three of them off at a brisk pace, devouring street blocks quickly as they mad their way to their next destination.

"So inspectors, where are we going?" Bertram asked them, as he stalked in their wake.

Samuel grinned at Angela, who openly scoffed and shook her head. "It's like dealing with someone fresh out of the academy."

"Hey, be gentle. That was you just eighteen months ago," Samuel reminded her, without any bite in his reprimand.

He glanced back at Bertram, and the jovial humour he felt evaporated. The man's eyes had vanished behind the shadows of the building, his steps were light and smooth, and he moved with nearly unnatural grace.

"And only one of us is authorized to carry weapons in public spaces," Samuel added to Angela.

"My question still hangs in the air, inspectors," Bertram reminded them quietly.

Samuel nodded, impressed. "Our quarry is a high-central brat, which means he has formidable family connections. However, being a reject also means he isn't welcome in that rarified company. So most of his associations and friendships will likely be at his place of employment, or whatever watering hole he frequents. All of which we can learn at his work."

"Wait, how do you know where he works?" Bertram asked.

Angela laughed. "An easy bit of deduction. A young man with good family connections can get himself into some fairly comfortable work. And stay there long after a foreman might have normally tossed them out. Now, for a reject, where is that kind of job?"

Impressing Samuel, Bertram answered immediately. "Ceramic pipe fabrication, at the Red Crucible. That job doesn't require any substantial crafting, but the kilns are so hot nearly everyone who works them are rejects."

"Would you look at that," Angela said. "We have a budding detective hiding in all that black. If we put in a good word, we could even get you a career change."

"Are you sure the two of you wouldn't like a Bureau job? Agrias might even pitch you an offer if we get this wrapped up quickly," Bertram countered.

"Your Bureau could never match the perks I get as an inspector. My current apartment is so big, there's one corner where I can fall over without hitting a wall," Samuel replied.

"And it only took three weeks to get that hole in my shoe sole patched," Angela agreed.

"My coat doesn't have enough burn holes in it to qualify me for a new one," Bertram added.

"And we all know where this is going," Angela said wryly.

"I should have written the entrance exams for Distribution," Samuel and Bertram said at almost precisely the same time.

Samuel lead them for the next few minutes in a comfortable silence, and found himself relieved the killer assigned to them by the Bureau of Oversight was an actual human being.

Eventually, they made their way to a wide clearing, where several sets of tracks stretched past, terminating inside the massive building ahead.

It was less a building, and more of a shell meant to contain some monstrous creature of fire. Nine storeys high, fire poured through every one of the dozens of windows along the front side of the building. Four massive archways were set against the building, as the tracks passed inside each arch. The entrances for the trains glowed with a menacing orange haze that seemed to shift subtly in luminosity in a slow, rhythmic manner.

Like some massive beast drawing breath.

"Charming place," Samuel muttered, managing more bravado than he felt.

They approached the only entrance they could see; a small door set near the corner of the building. Samuel drew close and pulled the chord for the doorbell. He then stepped back and waited.

After just long enough to surprise Samuel when it happened, the door popped open like the seal on an over-pressurised reservoir. Samuel blinked and backed up a step, and Angela very nearly jumped.

"James Braid, you miserable smoking cinder, yer so late I can just about call ya early! Now-" a middle-aged man with an impressively long beard, so long he might have been able to tuck it in behind his oversized work belt, bellowed before he saw what was on the other side of the door.

The man studied them for a long moment before he seemed to give up with an idyllic shrug of his arms. "Well, my brains have finally turned to ash. No idea what to make of the two of ya. Lean and creepy behind you, he's easy, but I can't place either of ya."

Samuel smiled and took out his badge. "Inspector Fraser, and this is Inspector Ostal. We're investigating a young man who works here, Silas Miller. Is he here?"

The bearded man shook his head, a scowl crossing his lips. Asides from that, there was no other motion in the man's face; nothing to suggest that Miller's absence was suspected to be anything other than casual indifference.

"Miller? He was supposed to start four hours ago," the man muttered irritably. "Useless fop, but I can't get rid of him lightly. It helps that mommy's a parliamentarian, and he's a fairly good-natured kid. Strange that he's in the kind of trouble that brings inspectors to his work. Normally we just have shadows kicking in doors and asking blunt questions."

"He's gone missing and might be involved in something serious. We'd like to find him as quickly as possible," Angela said, holding her hand out and deliberately letting her voice get quieter as she reached the end of her sentence.

It was a neat trick of hers, and worked well to keep people from getting too agitated. Samuel had never quite managed to imitate it.

"Aye, you may as well talk to our site boss, let you talk to him while I round up a couple of his drinking buddies," the bearded man said, stepping back and waving them inside.

They followed him inside, through a small entranceway, towards a much larger industrial door that looked more like the steel plating on a train engine.

"Thank you, mister?" Samuel asked.

"Ivan Tergedore. Site foreman," the bearded man replied.

Ivan reached for the handle with both hands; his legs set wide to back himself. He pulled, grunting with the effort, and the massive door reluctantly slid to the side.

The other side of the door looked like someone had trapped the sun and poured it into their kilns.

The light warmed Samuel's skin and instantly brought a sheen of sweat to his forehead. Breathing the air felt like trying to guzzle freshly poured tea. The air was scalding hot, and the room was so bright Samuel could almost make out shapes despite having his eyes closed.

"You'll get used to it in a few seconds," Ivan promised, waving them forward. He had an impressively forceful voice, easily heard over the cacophony of work and the constant roar of open flames. "Just stay to the far wall as much as you can, until we reach the door. And if you have to stray, do not pass the black posts."

Samuel squinted as his eyes adjusted to the intense light, holding his hand in front of his face as he followed Ivan.

"Are those posts made of Coldstone?" Angela asked.

"You think Research would waste Coldstone on us? With Civil Development having to slow down the reclamation projects and airship construction clamouring for enough to make their lift-bags?" Ivan asked, appearing to be genuinely incredulous. "No, those posts just mark the point where the air can be too hot to breathe unless you can craft."

"Burn me," Angela whispered, and Samuel nodded in agreement.

"It would," Ivan said, laughing to himself. "Come on. Sooner we get you into an office, sooner I can go round up a couple of Miller's buddies."

Ivan led them into a small office at the far end of the massive work-floor, a trip that ended up being one of the most gruelling two-minute walks of Samuel's life. By the time they reached the door, Samuel's eyes hurt from the light, and his shirt was partly soaked from sweat.

Angela had weathered the experience in a similar state, but the shadow looked surprisingly untroubled by the experience. And their guide was unflappably cheerful despite the oppressive heat.

"High-heat resistant ceramics are the unappreciated marvel of the last few decades! We were starting to worry about expanding the City much further than we have unless we could pipe the fire out further," Ivan explained, pointing to one of the pipe sections just being finished in a kiln.

"Will we have to wait long until we see this site boss of yours?" Samuel asked.

"No time at all," Ivan said as he opened the door and stepped through it.

Samuel followed and breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he stepped through. The room's air was refreshingly cool compared to the oppressive heat of the Crucible.

"Ivan?" someone asked from inside the room.

It took Samuel a moment for his eyes to adjust to a normal amount of light. He blinked as he waited, and listened to Ivan respond.

"Hey, boss. A couple of inspectors from the Orderlies want to ask about Silas Miller. Said you were free to talk, sorry if I overstepped," Ivan replied. Samuel was surprised by the marked change in the man's demeanour as he addressed whoever sat at the desk in the middle of the room.

Stepping into the room, and past Ivan, Samuel could see the man at the desk was young, surprisingly clean considering the ash and dust the site must produce, and wore a well-tailored red coat.

Samuel's eyes widened as he saw the colour, and understood the implications.

A crafter.

"Miller? Has something happened to him?" the young crafter asked.

"Sorry Crafter, I don't know. He's four hours overdue for his shift, and the inspectors are playing it close to the chest, so to speak," Ivan said, standing to one side of the door as they stepped inside.

"So he hasn't been hurt here at least?" the young crafter asked pointedly.

"No no. Haven't had an accident in months. Most of the heads we hire on have something other than smoke in them. Even Miller wasn't bad for a coddled child of high society. Once those delusions of grandeur were finally beaten out of him, he'd probably do okay here," Ivan said.

Samuel could feel Ivan's attention for a moment before the man shrugged and seemed to give up on whatever he was trying to glean. "But I'm guessing he got himself into something serious if you're here."

"I'm afraid that's the case," Samuel said, stepping towards the desk and extending his hand to the crafter. "Inspector Samuel Fraser, of the Orderlies."

"Crafter Arnold Derriskew," the crafter introduced himself, shaking Samuel's hand. "I'm currently serving as the site boss, though I'm not allowed to actually tell any of them to do anything unless it's an emergency."

"I was hoping to learn what I could about the young reject named Silas Miller. By the sounds of it, he wasn't here by either of your invitations," Samuel said. "I'm under the impression he has connections in High Central."

"He grew up there," Crafter Derriskew said. There was an odd note in his voice, a scarred emotional undertone that subtly flavoured the Crafter's words. "His father is the lead architect for residential design in the Bureau of Civil Development. Even without a parliamentarian for a mother, Silas has connections enough to make himself as permanent as the burn stains in the stone around here."

"I imagine you didn't interact with him very much directly, did you?" Samuel asked.

"Please, have a seat," Crafter Derriskew said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. "Ivan, I imagine the inspectors want to speak to the people closest to him here at work. That would be that irritating duo he washed out of the Apprentice Hall with, they should both be on shift. Would you bring them here?"

"Washed out?" Ivan asked, in a surprisingly timid voice.

"Rejected. Failed. Whatever the term is these days. Go bring them here, Ivan," Crafter Derriskew said tartly, gesturing to the door.

The burly foreman lip was twisted a little, in the ghost of a scowl, but he only nodded before he turned away and walked back out the door.

"No, inspectors," Crafter Derriskew said, as Samuel and Angela sat down. "I didn't associate much with Silas Miller. I tend to focus on research and inspection, and I tend to be disliked by the workers here."

"Why is that?" Angela asked.

"Because I'm a constant reminder of what they couldn't be," Crafter Derriskew said, pulling at the lapel of his immaculately tailored coat. "And a reminder that the City doesn't trust them with their own power."

Samuel smiled, nodding as if to agree, to cover his own distaste for the man. "Did that chafe at Mr Miller more than most?"

"No. In fact, the boy didn't seem as bothered by it as most. Probably that High Central childhood. Silas Miller's problem had more to do with having his head in the clouds," Crafter Derriskew said. "He's still auditioning to become a stage actor."

Samuel coughed once in surprise before he managed to compose himself. "A stage actor?"

"Yep. According to Mr Miller's friends at work, his current goal is to be the first actor to play Captain Gerald Raeth on stage," Crafter Derriskew said with a snide scoff.

Samuel nodded, odd little details of the recent months creeping up in the back of his mind.

Captain Gerald Raeth is technically a reject. Superficially, he was just as maligned as mistrusted as any other reject; judged by the Guild of Flamecrafters are being unfit to wield the flame unsupervised.

But that had to be weighed against his current service as the captain of the Midnight Songbird, the City's first Airship. And against the fact that the Sixth Tapestry, the tapestry depicting the greatest heroism of the defenders of the walls, will have his face on it.

To someone like Silas Miller, or many of these other rejects, Gerald Raeth might represent a new pinnacle of achievement for them. Or more importantly, a new story for any reject.

"So you didn't notice anything odd about his behaviour recently?" Angela asked.

"Not particularly. Although, he did ask me a peculiar question a few weeks ago," Crafter Derriskew admitted. "He asked what could make a crafter or a reject sick. Strangest thing."

Samuel was suddenly, profoundly aware of how little he really knew of the Craft; the power that allowed roughly one in five thousand people in the City to wield the flame.

"Why is that strange?" Samuel asked, leaning forward.

"Those who can Craft don't get sick. At least not nearly as often," Crafter Derriskew said. "The thing is, that is something he should know."

Samuel exchanged a glance with Angela, who could only shrug in confusion. But before Samuel could think on the mystery further, there was a sharp rap on the door.

Samuel turned around to see it swing open tentatively, and the foreman Ivan lean into the doorway. "Crafter, inspectors, I have them here for you."