"This way, inspectors," a hard-faced, cheerless man in a red coat said as the train doors opened to Founding Station.

The man waiting for them was surprisingly lean for a crafter, slim-waisted with vein-forced hands and a lean, chiselled face beneath his beard. He had a scar, a burn scar, that ran in a crescent shape from the top of his head, over his eye, and just over the left side of his lip.

"Crafter Garland?" Bertram asked, startled.

"Larkin, right? Bert Larkin?" The crafter asked. "Vontusk's trainee. I was sorry to hear about his murder, I liked him."

"Sam, Angela, this is Ciego Garland. He was one of the crafters assigned to the Nanny Squads during the Sixth. He's credited with driving off the Lampad during Varnell's North Wall Blitz," Bertram introduced, with a quiet note of awe in the shadow's voice.

A crafter and a war hero. Samuel recognised the name, even if only through news reports. Having him meant there were clearly people who needed to be reassured of their safety.

"People are still nervous about their safety?" Samuel asked.

"Inevitably," Crafter Garland said with a shrug, as he lead them towards the Agora. "In the sort of way that everyone gets suspicious about food contamination or train safety if it happens once. They want some visible reassurance, which means red coats and airships."

"Fair enough," Samuel said. "Can you tell me anything about the murder?"

"Definitely done with the craft. No witnesses. They have an expert from the Undertaker's offices examining the body now. I suspect I'd rather not know much else for the moment, inspectors," Ciego said, sharing the information with a bland shrug.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"A little over an hour. There are so many brown couriers on the trains it's starting to look like the sewers," the Crafter said.

Angela chuckled at that. When Samuel looked at her, she actually blushed before she explained, "Army joke. Brown means 'bad shit happened'. It's part of our shorthand for the seriousness of a missive. Grey for 'not worth a speck of ash', red for 'someone's getting stabbed', blue for 'important person's tears', that sort of thing."

"And black?" Samuel asked. Black, he remembered, was the highest priority a message could be designated. A priority only the Lord Captain could assign.

"'Night is marching on the City'. Not a joke so much."

Samuel followed Crafter Garland through the now mostly empty courtyard in front of the Agora, and into one of the smaller side doors that Samuel hadn't noticed when he was here yesterday.

To Samuel's relief, the side doors lead to one of the various small hallways, away from the main auditorium. Samuel wasn't sure he could stomach seeing that theatre and hall so empty.

It was a short walk to a familiar entranceway, with a simple brick door held ajar by a morose-looking woman wearing black. Crafter Garland stepped aside to let them pass.

Samuel could hear a conversation happening inside.

"Ma'am, I have another way of resolving this. All I need is a good sketch and a couple of days on the Songbird. If I start at the points of interest those inspectors discovered, I could have this wrapped up before anyone else gets hurt," someone said from inside.

"Absolutely burning not. That's a Privy-worthy bit of news if you were discovered," a more familiar voice responded. Samuel recognised the gravelly, harsh tone with the barest hint of High Central inflection.

"Estoban is still inside, I take it?" Crafter Garland asked the shadow.

The shadow nodded.

"Ciego? If you have the inspectors, show them in," Oversight's Deputy Bureau Chief called. Garland gestured towards the door.

Samuel stepped inside and cringed even before he recognised the smell that stabbed at his nose.

Slightly metallic, like scorched iron. The pungent acidity of torched meat. Bitter notes of burned fabric.

And a body lying on the floor with a hole in her chest the size of a fist.

"Spit and simmering ash," Angela whispered.

Besides the two women Samuel had heard, a young man was kneeling beside the body, busily taking notes on a pad of paper with a small spark of flame at his fingertips.

"Step inside and shut the burning door," Agrias ordered. "Ciego, head back to the entranceway and make yourself visible, help keep them calm outside. Mister Adams, what can you tell me about that wound?"

"The craft was focused. Just larger than the average human heart, a clean punch through the chest. There's some residual tearing on the chest, and the burns are a bit wider on her back." Coroner Desmond Adams said, pointing at the site of the wound.

"She was struck from behind?" Samuel asked.

"I am reasonably certain," Desmond said. "A single craft struck her in the back and punched through her chest. The odd thing is the residual tearing on her chest. It suggests a degree of concussive force."

"Why is that odd?" Samuel asked.

"Because concussive force requires a rapid explosion. Which is a skill I've never even heard of a first year reject possessing," Desmond explained.

"He passed his first year," Samuel said. "We found a Memento in his parents' apartment."

"I didn't think you were that knowledgeable about the Guild's training regimen," Agrias said.

"It was explained to us by Captain Raeth, ma'am," Bertram interjected.

Samuel knelt down across from Desmond, in front of the fallen form of Rosemary Miller. He could see the woman's features, frozen in an expression of incomplete surprise as if she hadn't managed to live long enough to feel the emotion fully.

"How uncommon is concussive force in a craft?" Samuel asked Desmond.

"I've never heard of anyone who wasn't a Crafter knowing how to do it," Desmond said.

"While rare, it isn't unheard of among raging rejects," Agrias said. "And it isn't beyond the potential scope of their capabilities."

"Respectfully ma'am," Desmond interjected. "This is well beyond what most rejects could ever be capable of. Particularly one who was failed after their first year. Most rejects who make it through the first year are tossed from the hall because we're too weak to assume the duties of the coat."

"Are you saying this is the work of someone other than Silas Miller?" Agrias asked.

"Mister Adams, Deputy Chief. Put away your speculation. I won't have anyone accused simply because they have the power to do this," Samuel said, firmly.

Angela actually jumped at the tone Samuel put into his voice.

"Mind who you're speaking to," Agrias said, quietly.

There was a subtle shift in the air. Bertram's stance had shifted subtly, and the other shadows in the room drew their hands out of their pockets. Even Crafter Estoban drew a slow breath.

But something in Samuel was not about to be cowed. "I am. Your speculation is the kind of thing I would chew a uniformed orderly out over, in public. Even idly, you do not accuse anyone without more than conjecture. Means, motive and opportunity. Find me two before you give me any name."

Samuel expected Desmond's mute nod, but Agrias' grin shocked him so much he nearly bit his tongue. "Well said, inspector," she said to Samuel.

"Desmond," Angela said, pointing at the entry wound. "Could this have been fired from a Salamander?"

"Spit and burning ash," Desmond muttered, as he drew out a ruler and examined the wound again. "How did I miss that?"

"The danger of drawing assumptions," Samuel replied.

"No inspectors, you don't fully understand. The wound itself is too clean, and it lacks the residual powders and spray pattern to be a Salamander round," Desmond said. "But the wound itself is very consistent with what a Salamander shot would do. I'm not at all surprised that you might think that, inspector."

"So it was done by a craft, but a craft very similar to a Salamander shot. What does that suggest to you, Chief?" Samuel asked.

"Some rejects, particularly ones who work in manufacturing, can be familiar enough with Salamander shot to simulate it," Agrias said. "As would as any crafter who manufactures Salamander shot. As well as any Crafter who served on the walls during the Sixth."

"It's odd that security would let a reject in," Samuel said. "You don't get parliamentary postings for being incompetent."

"There are no other bodies and no gaps in the security detail. Whoever it was slipped inside," Agrias said.

"Ma'am," someone said from outside the door. There was no real need to ask who was being spoken to. "We have the victim's husband, Milano Miller. Shall we show him in?"

"Inspectors?" Agrias asked.

It was a powerful courtesy, to see the Deputy Bureau Chief of Oversight defer to them. Samuel nodded, gratefully. "Best to let Mister Miles work. I'll speak to him in the hall."

Samuel got up and stepped out the door. Angela followed and shut the door behind her just as a very well dressed man approached.

The man's eyes were bloodshot, his hands shook, and his sleeve had a damp spot on the inside, just above his wrist. He was mumbling to himself, mostly in nearly inaudible curses, and his back was hunched as he approached.

"Mister Milano Miller?" Samuel asked.

"Senior Architect of Civil Development, and Division Chief of Health and Safety. I'm here to see my wife. Is she in there?" The man said, with surprising authority. Samuel recognised it as a man used to being obeyed.

He was also grieving, Samuel reminded himself. This confrontational attitude will likely crack like an overheated sheet of metal dumped in the river.

"I'm afraid your wife has been killed, Mister Miller," Samuel said. "We believe it to be by a reject."

"Oh burn me," Milano Miller muttered, setting his hand against the wall. "Oh, why the burning hell did I let that idiot boy anywhere near her again."

"Silas?" Samuel asked.

"Yes, who else could it be? Threw on one of his costume wigs from his theatre troupe and posed as her secretary to come and see her today. Wanted to thank her for what she was about to do today. She probably got cold feet, and he lashed out at her for it." Milano explained.

"What was she going to do today?" Samuel asked.

"She had just finished drafting a bill demanding that Research reveal why rejects working for them are getting sick," Milano said.

Samuel took a slow, steady breath, trying to take in the implications what he just heard.

"So you think your wife was wavering in her commitment?" Angela asked.

"Good burning grief, yes. She cried herself to sleep on my shoulder last night," Milano said.

"Mister Miller, do you know the name Darrick Vorlan?"

Angela fixed Samuel with a confused expression, but to her credit, didn't interject.

"Is this really important, inspectors? Because if it isn't, get the burning hell out of my way," Milano said, the threat clear in both his tone and the change in his posture.

"Milano," Samuel said quietly, stepping forward until he was just inches from the man. "You have just confessed to harbouring a mass murderer, and conspiring to keep him safe. Because I'm doing this on behalf of Oversight, your rights are in a sort of judicial limbo right now. You won't be arrested if you decide to be anything less than cooperative with me. You will be dragged into a pit beneath Oversight, lined with Coldstone, with a single door twenty feet up."

Samuel raised his hand, and slowly prodded Milano in the chest with his finger. The jab was hard enough to make the man stumble. "Now, start treating my questions as the only path left to being able to attend your wife's cremation, before I stop holding my hand out to pull you off the tracks. And do it quickly, Milano. There's a train coming."

Milano took a slow, breath, hiccoughed once, and barely kept himself from sobbing. "The man sheltering Silas, giving him a bed. The price for his help was to make Darrick Vorlan homeless. I have no idea why. Please, inspector, just let me see my wife," Milano pleaded.

"Who is sheltering Silas Miller right now?" Samuel asked.

"I don't know his name. Silas said it was better that way. Silas only said he met the man at a bar. The Frosty Hearth," Milano admitted.

"When was this?" Samuel asked.

"Two nights ago," Milano admitted. His shoulders sagged as he confessed, and he cringed uncomfortably. "Two nights ago, a little before midnight."