If a report was missing, for whatever reason, a Bureau could easily leave a reporter hanging for weeks on news. She didn't have weeks, or any trust that the Army wouldn't snatch her up as soon as they had a legal pretext, so her only other option was to find the authors of the missing report. That had her stepping off an underground cargo train in the upper mines, in what was politely termed the 'Undercity'.

Much of the City had a romantic, almost scandalous impression of what the Undercity was; a den on thieves and cutthroats where romance and drama abounded and the denizens were free to live the way men and women lived before the Gloam.

The truth was less glamorous, dirtier, and somehow both more dangerous and duller.

Law and order was maintained by a wary truce between the most successful gangs, so long as they managed to supply enough of what the Bureau of Resources demanded to keep them happy. How those gangs managed to get their district quotas met was not asked about, so long as they succeeded.

But that lawlessness made it difficult to provide a constant supply of what the rest of the City took for granted, especially deeper into the Undercity. Running water was scarce except in the mines themselves, food was rationed out by the Gangs irregularly, sewage was simply burned, and medical services were rare.

Thankfully, she reflected as she walked through the crowded street to her destination, she wasn't going very deep. She was only here, after all, to find The Derelect Inspector, a bar frequented by the Undertakers.

The Undertakers were a branch of the Orderlies, the City's police force, that dealt with dead bodies. They dealt primarily with identification, storage, disposal, and investigation for any potentially suspicious deaths,

Undertakers, despite being a very analytical occupation, were not well liked in the upper echelons of society, and its members were frequently found in dives and the seedier bars of the lower City. They were reclusive, kept to themselves, and cultivated an internal culture of being victims of quiet persecution. That some of its membership was made of rejected Crafter candidates lent a lot of credibility to that presumption.

Oddly enough, Oversight didn't seem particularly concerned about the rejects in the Undertakers. When she entered the 'Derelect Inspector', a distinctly unwashed little drink hole near the highest levels of the Undercity, the only evaluator in the room was sitting and drinking with the Undertakers she was supposed to be watching over.

For the first time in years, Natalina glanced at her white shirt and worried it was too clean. The few dozen people nursing drinks inside all looked to be miners and labourers of various trades, all bearing the faint but distinct dusting of dirt and ash that came from doing real work. Men and women who did hard manual labour for a living tended to resent those who didn't have to.

There was a civil war here that would never happen. She had written about it once, had even published a watered-down version. An uprising from the people who actually held the City up, that wouldn't happen so long as the Gloam besieged the City.

She immediately went to the bar, and offered the barkeep two small tokens. "I'd like two pitchers of whatever they're drinking," she said, gesturing to the undertakers sitting at the round table behind her.

The barkeep, a surly looking man with meaty arms and a sour disposition, looked at the tokens she set on the table and his eyes widened slightly. "I don't see lottery tokens issued directly from Distribution much down here. And I'm not much inclined to take stolen tokens," he said in a quiet rasp of voice.

He glanced down at them again, and looked back at her. "Or forgeries."

The next thing she set down on the bar was her press credential, a small slip of hardened steel with her name, occupation, and the paper she worked for on it. "If it's a forgery, I've been fooled. My paper is issued these for work-related issues, and I'm paying entirely too much for what I'm asking for. You can use the rest to make up for the freebies you hand out to keep fights from breaking out."

That got a small grin from him. Bars, particularly ones in rougher parts of the City, used small bribes like free alcohol to keep the patrons from fighting in the bar. A mug of ale 'on the house' was cheaper than the tankard it was served in.

Or the window it was often put through.

The barkeep didn't say anything in thanks, but set an extra cup down for her along with the pitchers. She took it and wandered over to where the group was sitting, and tried on her most disarming smile.

It worked a lot better when she was fifteen years younger, and less motherly. The whole group went quiet as she approached, and the shadow made a point of resting her hand on the pommel-stone of her dagger.

"The madam wants something from us," one of the undertakers said, eyeing her carefully and not bothering to cover his suspicion.

"Looks like a bribe," another one said. She was smiling, though, as she eyed the pitchers.

"Call it consolation, for the inconvenience of talking to a reporter," Natalina told them, keeping the smile and setting the pitchers on the table. "Natalina Casper, I'm with the Tributary."

"Talking does make people thirsty," the shadow said, leaning back and letting the coat fall over her knife again. "Kind of you to think of that."

With that, one of the others pulled over a chair, which she took and sat down in the group. She poured herself a mug, and took a delicate sip. Drinking on the job wasn't encouraged, but was viewed as an occasional hazard of the job. Vance would forgive a pint, but being arrested for public intoxication might get her fired.

"I take it you all thought I was some bureaucrat here to try and bribe you?" Natalina asked, trying to break the ice.

"A little. No one wears shoes like yours in the Undercity,"  shadow admitted. "The Tributary is a newspaper, right?"

Natalina smiled, and took another small sip. "It is. I drew the short stick this morning, and got stuck covering a death."

"You're badgering the right group of people," one of them said, a surprisingly young man with the faint hint of a high-central accent. Natalina wanted to enquire further, but decided to leave it alone. "Death is our solemn duty."

"Desmond, your only solemn duty is working in the ice box," the shadow said, with a laugh. She turned to Natalina, and explained, "He'a a failed Crafter. Pretty sure he just annoyed his training master, because he's actually pretty bright. He can do preliminary autopsies without taking bodies out of the cold, so we put up with him."

"I thought it was my wits and charm!" Desmond said, putting a hand to his chest and sighing dramatically.

"If it weren't for your wits and charm, you'd be division chief," one of the other undertakers said, which caused everyone at the table to cheer and laugh, slapping their mugs on the table and finishing their drinks.

As Natalina poured another round, she continued with her story. "So I was hoping to read the autopsy that was done for the person I'm doing an obituary for." She explained.

At this, one of the Undertakers frowned. "How do you know we did an autopsy?"

"It's Colonel Carla Darrower," Natalina admitted. "A Colonel's death is always ruled suspicious, even if she killed herself in the middle of a secession of Parliament."

At this, a few of the older members of their little party glanced at each other, and the general merriment died off a little. "The report is with the Army. They should've released it to you, if you asked."

"And you asked already," the shadow said. Natalia nodded, impressed.

Natalina took a hard swig, slammed the mug on the table, and cursed ruefully. "They don't have it," she commiserated. "Some Colonel is playing 'screw with the press', blocking access because of the Lord Captain's passing. So my only other option is to find the original, or its authors."

"It's a little irregular," one of the older members of their group said, as she helped herself to more of Natalina's offering. "Not illegal, but normally public access is done through the agency that receives the report."

"So nothing's stopping you from helping out a reporter who's way behind on her deadlines?" Natalina asked.

"Well, it is 'highly' irregular," the shadow noted. "Which does mean that there could be repercussions for us. You know, blowback from a spiteful colonel."

Natalina grinned, and set a small stack of tokens on the table. "Well, I wouldn't want you to think badly of me."

That got everyone's attention. One of them even whistled.

Natalina rested a finger on the stack of metal tokens. "But only if someone takes me to see the report now."

"Desmond, take the nice lady up to the office and show her the report," the shadow said to the young reject, who looked back indignantly.

"Why me?" Desmond asked.

"It's the privilege of young men to have unpleasant tasks dumped on them by the disadvantaged segments of society," the shadow said, as she poured herself another drink.

"Really? You're a disadvantaged segment of society?"

"Yes. I'm a woman, and your elder."

"When is being a woman a disadvantage?"

"When it suits us."

"Aren't you my evaluator? You're supposed to be monitoring me, keeping the City safe."

"Are you going to get in trouble while you're gone?"

"Obviously not."

"Then I'm succeeding at my job. Get the nice reporter lady her report so her boss doesn't flay her alive, while we drink the rewards of your hard work," the shadow said, and everyone raised their mugs to the young man.

The young reject stood, and picked up his coat. It was surprisingly heavy looking thing, with thick lining, horribly inappropriate for the weather. It took a moment for Natalina to remember that even a reject Crafter could ignore an incredible range of temperatures.

Natalina stood, chuckling to herself. "Sooner we're done, kid, the sooner you can claim your share."