Samuel wasn't sure he had ever slept so well.

Certainly never before as an inspector for the Orderlies. There was a pain, just above his teeth and behind his eyes, that he had lived with for so long he had given up believing life was lived without it.

Until this morning, his second morning spent unemployed, waking up in a bed much softer than his own and watching sunlight crawl along the wall. The pain behind his eyes was gone, the bruises from his last and worst case were fading, and the only aches he felt this morning were well earned.

He rolled over as gently as he could, trying to avoid shifting the bed as he turned to look at the Angela.

Still asleep. Her breathing was deep and slow, an effect of the army's conditioning training that she hadn't given up. Her jaw twitched every dozen seconds. And every few minutes, she would kick out gently, before settling back down to rest.

Samuel idly wondered to himself when, or even if he would tell Angela that.

A smart rap on the door jerked Samuel out of his idle reprieve and brought him back into the moment with vigour. He slid out of bed, pulled on his pants, and sprinted for the door with his shirt in his hand. He managed a single sleeve before he reached the door and peeked through the small hole.

A young man, dressed smartly in the military's field uniform, was waiting as still as a statue. His eyes appeared to be staring directly at the numbers on the door, he carried a small satchel in one hand, and over his left bicep was a white band.

Samuel put his other arm through the sleeve and pushed the door open.

"Samuel Battleborn Fraser?" The young man asked.

"I am," Samuel said, opening the door wider, unsure if he should invite the young man in. "But this isn't my residence. How did you find me?"

"Captain Raeth said you'd be here," the young man said with a shrug.

"But how..."

"The Captain asks that, at your convenience, you visit him at the Riverwash Hospice. He wishes to debrief you about the Northwatch Granary Incident," the messenger explained. "Details are in the provided letter."

"Do I smell coffee?" Angela asked, from around the corner. She poked her head around the corner, hiding most of her body from view. All Samuel could see of her was covered by a white, collared shirt a fair bit too large for her.

His shirt. Samuel looked at what he was holding and realised it was neither his. The arm he had managed to push into one of the holes had almost ripped the sleeve.

"You do," the messenger said as he held up the paper bag. "Courtesy of Commander Aranhall, as an apology for dragging you on an errand. His instructions were to set the bag in a clean oil funnel, and pour two pints of boiling water through into a small pot. Ideally a teapot."

"Do I look like a mechanic? Why in the abyss would I have an oil funnel?" Angela asked.

At this news, the messenger's lips burst into a grin. "I was sent with one, just in case."

"Then thank you very much," Samuel said, relieving the young messenger of his burden. As the bag billowed slightly in his hand, the smell was almost unnaturally pleasant. The messenger saluted and turned away, and Samuel shut the door behind him.

Samuel fidgeted impatiently with the letter, the coffee and the funnel, ass he bolted the door and made his way to the kitchen. "Ang, are you boiling water?" he called out.

"Of course!"

Sam stepped into the kitchen, set the coffee down, and took a seat at the table. He broke the seal on the letter and opened it just as a kettle began to sing.

Samuel recognised the script from the days he spent reading Captain Raeth's messages, but was surprised to find the letter was written in ink. Knowing that the captain hadn't crafted to compose the letter, and used a courier, left Samuel deeply unsettled.

"What does it say?" Angela asked as she poured hot water into the funnel. Samuel turned his attention to the letter.

Samuel,

Apologies for interrupting what should be a well-deserved bit of idleness. I hope unemployment has given you a new appreciation for being as far away from politics as possible.

Mathias expressed an interest in debriefing you over your exemplary conduct during the Granary Incident a fortnight ago. I share that sentiment, and have my own questions about not only Silas Miller but your impressions of the cult of the Quashed Redeemer.

At your earliest convenience, we would be grateful if you made yourself available at the Riverwash Hospice, the Deadra Keates Ward. The guards will know you, and should give you no trouble.

Burn Brightly,

Captain Gerald Raeth

PS apologies Inspector, for interrupting your weekend.

"Well, guess I can kiss breakfast goodbye," Angela said from his shoulder. She set a cup down in front of him and sat down. "At least he had the decency to apologise."

Samuel smiled and took a sip of coffee. "He said at my earliest convenience. And it's inconvenient to leave without breakfast."

"Always love the way you think, Sam," Angela said, raising her cup to him.

******

Riverwash Hospice was as beautiful as Samuel remembered it.

The greens were unnaturally rich, the reds and yellows of flowers unnervingly vibrant. Birds filled the air with music, light from both the sun and the Spire glimmered off the late morning dew, and etched long streams through the mist-filled air.

The sight made Samuel feel wistful, giddy, and nostalgic. The brilliance of the colours made the grey ash and black soot of the Billows painful to remember. It felt as if he were only just realising how unnatural the City was.

As it had to be, to endure the siege.

"Mister Fraser," Samuel heard from just behind him. He turned slowly, not at all surprised that he hadn't noticed the tall man with the badly frayed hat nearby. Mathias was crouched in front of a garden bed, with a knife in one hand, examining some of the small red flowers.

"This is one of the only places we can cultivate Opium safely," Mathias said, pointing to the flower he was holding. "Useful for pain treatment, but highly addictive. Another useful part of having Oversight run Hospice security is most of them don't know a thing about plants, so they have no idea how valuable this would be on the black market."

"Why are you telling me this?" Samuel asked.

"Because there are people who can't be trusted with secrets, and people who can. Do you know which group you belong to?" Mathias asked.

Samuel wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"You're not sure? You are not alone in that," Mathias said. He stood up and brushed the dirt off the blade.

Mathias did not put it away.

"Take your decision to spare that young man, Quentin Penbrooke. Or, as it turns out, Sarah Eirwald of the Northwatch District Council. He was close to a secret, and he knows it. Worse still, because that buffoon of a precinct captain valued connections and friendships so highly, Quentin has escaped."

Samuel gulped, and nodded. "I don't regret not killing him."

"You might, down the road. Also, your decision to go back into that tower potentially put the security of the City at risk, for the lives of a couple dozen cultists and about fifty other people who just had the misfortune to be at work two days ago," Mathias explained, occasionally pointing with the knife in his hand.

"You went into Research despite understanding the danger of knowing too much. You willingly opened the notes of Crafter Cassiopeia Saval, inventor of both Coldstone and that gun you still carry."

Samuel's hand instinctively patted the outside of his coat, resting his palm moment on the stock of the rifle.

"Not to say you aren't willing to make hard choices when the moment demands it. You have killed three rejects in the last few days," Mathias admitted. "In particular, Captain Raeth mentioned that you apologised to Drellan McIves before you shot him, and laboured beyond a pragmatic degree to save his life. And that you offered Silas Miller a last meal and an interview when you suspected someone else murdered his mother."

Mathias smiled, and fished a thick belt out of his coat pocket. Long, heavy, the belt had a sheathed dagger attached to it. Oddly, as Samuel looked at it, the scabbard was set with metal in an odd configuration, one that Samuel had seen before on an officer's sword.

Mathias sheathed the knife, and extended the belt towards Samuel, "And your judgment was proven sound, beyond argument, when you pointed that rife at Captain Raeth's back. Much like the poppies behind me, you can save lives in the right place, and ruin the City in the wrong job."

"What do you mean?" Samuel asked.

"It means that I belong to a council dedicated to keeping the worst secrets of the City from endangering us. And I am convinced you would be a poor fit," Mathias said. "That being said, we also have people who, by virtue of their work, know at least one of these dangerous secrets. But not every agency is allowed such people."

"I take it the Orderlies were not one of those agencies," Samuel said,

"They are, but someone got himself fired," Mathias said. He turned his head, glancing towards the Spire for a moment, and rubbed his cheek absentmindedly. "I'm glad it wasn't me this time. You hit better than the Captain."

"Wait, is this a job offer?"

"I hope your wits weren't lost with your badge," Mathias remarked dryly.

Samuel took the belt, and his fingers brushed the handle of the knife to find it icy cold to the touch. "A badge of office? Don't I need to go to shadow school first?"

"You have some remedial education to attend," Mathias admitted, clearly enjoying himself. "But once in a while, someone joins Oversight demanding that it changes. Someone who brings a skill and mindset that we eventually realise was badly needed. We have never needed to investigate to find a reject before. We have never needed a second opinion to do our jobs. That is the skillset you are going to teach us."

"I..."

"Your first day is tomorrow. But today, you have a war council to attend."

Bemused, Samuel followed the shadow, fumbling with his belt as he tried to loop it around his waist. He eventually managed and cinched it on just before they reached the doors.

Which were surprisingly well guarded. Four shadows stood at the doorway, dressed oddly formally with their boots polished and their clothes recently pressed. All of them nodded politely to Mathias as he passed through the door, and offered Samuel polite smiles.

Inside was similar. The receptionist, as well as some of the functionaries pushing food carts were all dressed formally, and carried themselves with unusual dignity.

"What's going on?" Samuel asked.

"Captain Raeth did something two days ago that has shocked my bureau rather profoundly. He executed Silas Miller," Mathias said, and even his tone had a measure of awe in it.

Samuel waiter for Mathias, who looked back after a moment. He saw Samuel's confusion and explained, "Silas was condemned to death. No one in Oversight would have done more than shrug if Captain Raeth had brought the poor boy over to one of us to do the deed."

"But he didn't."

"No. Instead, Captain Raeth told a condemned man a story of the Midnight Songbird's first flight, and let Silas Miller die the way he wished, by a sword. And he spared an evaluator the weight of that duty. The last Crafter to have ever carried our burdens for us was his master."

Mathias was smiling. Not a sardonic grin, but a sad and sympathetic smile. "Officially, of course, we are displeased that he appropriated the authority to do this. But he may as well have taken a knife for one of us."

Mathias lead them up a flight of stairs, into the Deadra Keates ward. The first door was closed, and a shadow was standing directly in front of it.

"Sorry sir," the shadow said. He glanced for a long moment at Samuel and asked, "I have to ask. Is he cleared?"

"He is," Mathias replied.

The shadow nodded, and stood aside.

Samuel followed Mathias through the door, which was shut firmly behind them. Ahead, a simply dressed man, elderly but powerful looking and dressed in the army's usual black coat, was speaking to another man sitting on a bed.

The man on the bed, dressed in the white linens of a patient, was Gerald Raeth.

"Lord Captain-" Gerald began to say, but the other man cut him off with just a scowl.

Samuel's jaw might very well have dropped, he was too stunned to notice. Lord Captain Benden Tammerlane, master of the walls, supreme commander of the City's armies and airships, and first among the City's defenders. He was, almost certainly, the most powerful man in the City.

"That was reckless and stupid. I won't even go into how the council views this as a deliberate move on your part to cement support for that coup Lionel Adams believes you're trying to incite," the man Gerald had addressed as Lord Captain said, pointing with one hand while his left rested on the hilt of his sword. "But what I've been told about making Coldstone is it erodes your burning willpower. Makes you more susceptible to the madness of the Craft. And when I can cut off a finger and still count all of the City's airships on one hand, I can't afford to lose a captain."

"Sir, I'll be fine in a few days," Gerald replied. "This bargain with Theo should have no lasting effects."

"An opinion most of the Council shares. But you are not to do this again, for any burning reason. A few dozen people are not worth the risk."

"They weren't worth it?" Gerald asked.

"No," the Lord Captain said. "I can replace a hundred workers. I can replace a million, without impairing the City's defences. But you? If another Dragon flew over the Last Wall right now, how well could we honestly defend the City without you? Right now, as far as I'm burning concerned, you are more critical to the City than the ash-bitten Foundry."

Gerald only nodded, and took a short moment before he responded. "Aye, sir."

"So if you want to go bleed and die for some idiot bout of nobility, make yourself expendable. Or by the abyss, fall in line," Benden said before he turned on his heel and marched for the door.

Benden passed them without a word, and the door clicked once behind them. Mathias stepped inside and sat down on a nearby chair. "Benden seems a mite upset."

Gerald laughed, which brought on a fit of coughing. The captain snatched a small metal bucket from the bedside table, and hacked into it for a long, disturbing moment.

Disturbing for Samuel, because the captain was coughing up blood.

"Captain," Samuel said, sitting down on another table. "Was this the bargain with Crafter Ratterson? You spent yesterday making Coldstone?"

"He did," someone else said. Samuel looked up to see Amanda Destir standing in a corner of the room. "He took over the entire production line for a whole workday. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see him do it. It was..."

"Excruciating," Gerald finished. "I feel as if someone's taken a surgeon's scalpel and cut most of my body to ribbons. Worse still, my usual method for coping with the pain is crafting, which can make even an amputation feel like someone else's papercut. Knowing that instant relief is just a thought away is maddening."

"Another part of why our life expectancy is so short," Amanda said.

"True. I hadn't considered this," Gerald said, and the depth of the man's grief shook Samuel. "It makes what I have to do all the more horrible. But please, this is a happy day. The two of you have just started a new job."

"The two of us?" Samuel asked.

"Mathias, in a move that is sure to baffle pretty much everyone, has decided that Amanda is going to be joining Oversight. As a consultant. She'll be working for you, I believe," Gerald said, sitting up straighter. "But part of why I wanted to see you, was to see if we can call upon you, if we find a way to end the Gloam."

Samuel sat, open-mouthed, unable to reassemble his broken thoughts. "You?"

"I'm gathering a crew. To look beyond the walls, and find whatever is creating the Gloam. And I need a crew I can trust for that. Are you willing?"

"I..." Samuel swallowed, and said, "Yes, Captain. I am."