The Frosty Hearth was considered the jewel of the Billows, the prize of the steelworkers, and the best bar outside of Lower Central. A wider variety of ale and scotch than the Unlicensed Pantry, easier to access than the Derelict Inspector, and the only bar in the City asides from the Maudlin Metallurgist that served chilled beer. Despite the long walk from the nearest train station, and perhaps because of the lengthy walk from the nearest precinct, the bar was full to bursting.

None of this deterred Angela in the least, as she sauntered with enviable comfort through the throngs of people, and guided Samuel to a bench at the end of the long serving table.

"Clovis!" Angela called, waving towards the solitary, beleaguered fellow busily pouring drinks.

Samuel idly rested his hand on the table, surprised to find it was a polished marble slab rather than a cheaper stone.

Marble was a rare sight outside of the core districts.

"Clovis, get your surly mug over here with a couple of pints, before I tip off the health department!" Angela called out, banging on the table with her fist for emphasis.

Samuel was surprised to see her threat worked. The bartender handed out the drink he had been pouring, took a pair of glass mugs off the rack, and poured something that looked like to molten gold into them.

The bartender sauntered over, grinning despite Angela's threats. The mugs he carried were topped with inches of froth, that spilt off the sides as he set each one down. The heavy glass made a satisfyingly deep clang as the bartender set the first in front of Angela.

"Is that Northwatch Hill mead?" Angela asked, her eyes widening as she hefted the mug. "I wasn't serious about having someone from public safety stop in here."

"I know," the bartender, Clovis, said as he set the other mug in front of Samuel. Samuel couldn't help but notice the long, silver scar that ran across the left side of his face, crossing both above and below his eye. "Your threats are as empty as your left sleeve."

Samuel baulked at the bartender's insult.

"And your in-house beer tastes like sewage," Angela bit back, but without any venom in her voice. She took a long sip from her mug and smiled at Clovis. "But this is magnificent."

"It had better be. The Quashed Redeemers only make a dozen barrels of the stuff a year," Clovis said. "Getting it out of Distribution's hands was, shall we say, difficult?"

"Nothing illegal, right?" Angela asked. "You're worse with ethics than I am at the piano."

"Not at all. Though not because I'm afraid of the long arm of the law," the bartender said, pointing at the shelves of ale behind him. Samuel half rose, hands in fists until he saw the grin on Angela's face.

Angela's smile only faded after she saw Samuel's expression.

"Okay Clovie, we should tone it down a little. This is my partner, Inspector Samuel Fraser. Probably the best orderly in the Billows," Angela said, introducing him to the bartender. "And Sam, this is Clovis Hanover, owner of the Frosty Hearth."

Clovis grinned and shrugged. "The Hearth really owns me. But it's nice to be able to have a place like this so far away from Central."

"You seem to be doing a roaring trade," Samuel said.

"Try the mead before it gets warm," Clovis advised.

Samuel lifted the glass mug and took a long, slow sip.

And for a brilliant, precious moment, there was nothing in the City besides the taste resting on his lips.

It tasted like honey spread on freshly baked bread, rolled across his tongue like cold water in a drought, and went down his throat like good news. Samuel closed his eyes and took another slow sip.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Angela asked.

Samuel held up his other hand, pointing his finger into the air. But asides from that, Samuel ignored her while he drank.

He didn't drink it quickly, but he didn't pause until he had drained the mug and set it down on the table with reverent care. "Embers of the last flame, Mr Hanover. You have risen high in my esteem."

"Sam gets like this when he gets a bit of alcohol in his system," Angela laughed, pushing her empty mug toward Samuel's. "Get him drunk, and he'll start talking with 'thee' and 'thou' and 'forsooth'. Get him sloshed, and he'll try to recruit you on a quest to rid the City of sin and corruption."

"Sin and corruption holds the City up," Clovis retorted, as he took the glasses from the counter.

Samuel was sure it was something in the mead that spoke for him. "Do you mean that?" he asked.

Clovis started at him for a moment, before he nodded. "I do. Sin is the balm that helps us normal people cope with the madness waiting for us beyond the walls. And corruption is an outlet for our own depravity."

"But surely it deserves to be fought," Samuel insisted.

"You're burning right it does," Clovis replied, surprising Samuel by pouring another round for them. "But you won't ever win. And it's better that way."

"Explain that, sir," Samuel said with a grin, taking the next mug.

"Take a look around you," Clovis said. "This is sin. Particularly to the prudes and hypocrites of High Central. But unless we have places like this, where we can drink and laugh, and pretend for a moment the siege isn't endless..."

"Then you get crazies like the Cult of the Quashed Redeemers," Angela finished for him, while Samuel was busy taking another sip.

"Or worse. Despair inspires rebellion. And rebellions have a bad habit of breaking fragile things, like walls and distribution pipes," Clovis insisted. "But decadence deserves to be fought. Indulge sin and corruption too far, and we get nasty stuff like that child prostitution ring in the Undercity that was running until eight years ago. So, inspector, I don't want you to win. But I'll donate a few pints to keep you fighting."

"I can accept your charity," Samuel said as he drank again.

"So Angela," Clovis asked, "how bad is this case, that you're willing to bring your partner here?"

"It's as bad as it gets," Angela admitted.

"Have anything to do with whatever happened at Billows Station?" Clovis asked. "Heard an airship was there for half the night."

Somewhere in the back of Samuel's mind, something ticked at his suspicions. He set his mug down, only half finished, and listened.

"Yeah. We have a weird case. Really can't talk about it, since it's still ongoing," Angela insisted.

"So you haven't caught him yet," Clovis said blandly.

Him. While the odds were three to one in favour of the average criminal being a man, Samuel was surprised at how confidently Clovis spoke.

"Came close," Angela said before she flinched and covered her mouth.

"Don't worry about that, Ang," Samuel said, not wanting the conversation to end, despite Angela's somewhat loose tongue. Something about the way Clovis was asking questions reminded Samuel of his own interrogation techniques, and he found himself curious about the bartender's motives. "Some of what we've done is too high-profile to not make it in a paper or two."

"I heard a rumour," Clovis said carefully, "that Oversight is on a manhunt."

"Aren't they always?" Samuel asked in reply, shrugging nonchalantly. He didn't feel as flippant as he tried to appear, but his question was meant to make Clovis expose himself a little more.

"True," Clovis said. Samuel was impressed and a little irritated the man didn't rise to the bait.

Clovis then leaned towards Samuel, and said, "she looks a little shell-shocked."

Samuel didn't respond for a moment, as he considered this bartender's impressive technique.

His statement was a stick shoved into the coals, meant to rile up an interviewee. But the bartender had slipped a single sentence that not only jabbed at Samuel's protective instincts, but would also prod at Angela's fierce streak of self-dependence.

Recognizing it, Samuel decided to counter the move. "That's fatigue you're seeing on her face. Real weariness, the kind you get from actually working for a living."

Clovis' eyes widened, and the bartender studied Samuel's face for several heartbeats.

"Thanks Sam," Angela said, tapping him on the shoulder with her fist.

"I was worried that Angela's promotion was out of pity. Meeting you has, shall we say, extinguished that itching ember," Clovis said.

"What did I tell you?" Angela asked dramatically, as she set her empty mug down on the table. "Sam is the best inspector in the Billows."

"I'm starting to believe you," Clovis said. "Another round? I'll have to start asking for tokens if you take any more of the Redeemer's Mead, but I'll discount the house brew."

"We should probably start showing some restraint, Ang. Tomorrow is an oncoming train, and we're still tied to the tracks," Samuel said, as he finished his glass.

"Fine," Angela said, but she pushed her glass to the far side of the bar table, and stood up. "Good night, Clovie. Try to keep your nose clean. Coming with, Sam?"

"Give your partner a minute, Ang. I need to have one of those 'man to man' conversations with him," Clovis said.

"Going to ask him if his intentions are honourable? That would be the dust criticising the linen for being dirty," Angela said. "See you at the office, Sam."

Samuel waved as Angela left, unable to shake the feeling that he had just missed out on something important.

"Inspector Fraser," Clovis said. The words shook Samuel out of his musing and helped remind him that he was not engaged in an idle conversation.

"I believe we might be able to help each other," Clovis said, sitting at a stool across from Samuel and leaning forward.

"Now why would you believe that?" Samuel asked.

"There are more than a few rejects who work in the Billows. They and their employers make up a lot of my clientele. Let's just say I have a vested interest in keeping them happy," Clovis said.

A half-lie. Samuel recognised it as if seeing someone else wearing a familiar coat.

"I expect a few constables have already talked about associating with Oversight," Samuel remarked dryly. "Three people can keep a secret only if two of them are dead."

"Sometimes all three," Clovis said. "And since you're the best inspector in the Billows, well, I'd be willing to bet you were given the case."

"You're unusually curious, Mr Hanover. And very perceptive," Samuel said carefully.

"I imagine. Look, I know the people who come into my bar. Particularly the people who need to be looked after the most. Have you heard the name Francis Pilchmer?" Clovis asked.

Samuel carefully kept his face as neutral as he could, raising an eyebrow and shrugging slightly. He hoped he managed to keep the shock he felt from showing.

Clovis grinned a little, and Samuel knew he hadn't succeeded. "He was a reject, worked at Research until he died a few weeks ago. Killed by the pox. Admittedly, not that unusual," Clovis explained.

"Admittedly?" Samuel asked.

"Not unusual, except that rejects are almost immune to diseases. But Francis Pilchmer got sick. Just Francis."

"That does sound strange," Samuel said carefully.

"The rejects that join Research, well, it's hard to know how they do out there. I've seen it a hundred times over the years. They're always excited about joining, but after a few months they'll become reclusive, abandoning old friends and moving closer to the Foundry."

"That's odd, but not unexpected. Research is notoriously secretive," Samuel said.

"True," Clovis admitted. "But if Oversight is asking you to help track down a reject, it's because this reject doesn't want to be found. And why would that be, when an abridged lifetime of persecution doesn't drive them to bite the hand that whips them?"

Samuel nodded and leaned forward. "I suppose I should ask, how do you think I could help you?"

"I'd like to know why Oversight is so keen to hunt this reject," Clovis said.

"It's practically public knowledge by now," Samuel said.

"I'm not much for the official reports."

"Fourteen people were murdered," Samuel rasped, his voice beginning to quiver with rage. "And dozens were hurt. I still don't know the full number."

Samuel stood up, set his hands on the bar, and leaned forward. "Mr Hanover. Let me ask this just once. Is there anything you ought to tell me?"

Clovis shrank back without retreating. His shoulders hunched up and his body tensed as if he were expecting a blow. His gaze was fixed on the counter, and his hands twitched nervously.

"No, inspector," Clovis Hannover said eventually. "Just a nosy bartender hoping to be ahead of the coming storm."

"Alright," Samuel said, his voice carrying the threat he wasn't allowed to put words to. "Have a good night, Mr Hannover."

Samuel turned away, shifted his coat over his shoulders, and walked out into the twilight.