A small, bright red bead on the bottom of Caitlin's hand was fed from a tiny stream that trailed down from her knuckles. Slowly, imperceptibly, that steam would feed the droplet of blood until it was too heavy to cling to her skin, when it would fall into a small glass.

A small glass full of whiskey, which Caitlin probably wasn't going to drink anymore.

Probably.

"Not that I think she didn't get what's coming to her," the surly, balding man on the other side of the bar said, as he dried a glass. "But that's the second broken nose you've given out this evening."

The Barkeep of the Howling Minstrel had a grumpy, irritable disposition that didn't fully conceal his amusement. The edges of his mouth twitched as he threatened to smile, even as he tried to glower at her. As Caitlin watched another slow drop of blood fall from her hand, she reached with the other and took the small glass of whiskey and raised it to her lips.

"At some point, it will be the last," Caitlin remarked, as she took a sip. The drink tasted like iron and burned like molten metal as she swallowed, but it hurt less than leaving herself alone with her thoughts.

"Not yet, I suspect," the barkeep remarked drily, as he set another glass down on the back counter. "You seem like you're looking for a fight."

"Nah. I'm just medicating," Caitlin replied, the bitterness in her thoughts seeping into her words.

"I gathered," the barkeep said. "You have a look in your eyes I don't see that often. It's usually the shadows that stop by occasionally. Smart blokes, Oversight never lets their members drink alone. Their lottery tokens have to be spent in pairs."

"That's a stupid policy," Caitlin said.

"It helps them cope with their job. Murdering people, even when they deserve it, that's a brutal thing to ask of someone," the barkeep said, staring pointedly at Caitlin.

"What the burning hell would you know about it?" Caitlin asked.

In response, the barkeep reached into a pocket and drew out a small rock. It glistened like glass, was as black as an unlit cave, and seemed to shiver as it sat in the old bartender's hand.

Obsidian.

"You were a shadow," Caitlin said.

"Yeah. So when I see a young kid like you walk in with eyes like those, the old wounds in my side start to twitch and I begin to hate the City again. What in the blighted abyss did the City put you through?"

"I..." Caitlin sighed, and finished her whiskey. "Hear about the Cavilla Incident?"

"Spite of the ash," the bartender cursed. "You were there?"

"Yep. I lost friends, murdered poor fools doing their jobs, and lost the rest when I couldn't keep doing the job. I can't touch a burning Salamander anymore," Caitlin said, as she pushed her glass towards the bartender.

"And I made an abyss-touched promise to a woman my parents respect more than anyone in the City that I'll return with the Sixth. But I can't burning do that if touching a sword handle feels like trying to put the tip through my palm," Caitlin said, as the barkeep poured another glass for her.

"Oh, throw me in the Bore," Caitlin said.

She watched another drop fall from her hand, another drop of the blood she left on that field, with the three dozen people she killed on that morning.

She couldn't touch a sword or Salamander again, even to bash Cavilla's head in.

"How the burning hell am I supposed to look my parents in the eye again? How am I supposed to read my grandmother's name on the rolls, or look at my grandfather's likeness on the Fifth Tapestry?" Caitlin asked.

And absurdly enough, someone from behind her said, "I might be able to help with that."

Caitlin took a slow sip and clenched her other hand into a fist. "You're going to be the third broken nose I give tonight, and I might not stop there."

"I'd rather you didn't," the barkeep warned her. "He's a good friend."

"With lines like that?" Caitlin asked.

She looked to her left, to see a man take the empty stool next to her, and sit down.

Well dressed, although she had to admit, the man dressed with a certain careful simplicity, his neat clothes and well-polished shoes dignified rather than a status symbol. His hair was cut short, the greying beard neatly trimmed, and his clothes looked like he was impervious to wrinkles.

He was unnaturally neat. The kind of fussy orderliness that screamed of the old habits and hard-earned discipline of a soldier.

Caitlin couldn't help but recognise the type. It was everything she was raised to be.

"Would you get me a finger of scotch, Craig? The stuff you and Andrea keep in those contraband wooden barrels, please. No ice," the stranger asked. Impressively, he immediately set a lottery token on the bar.

Caitlin recognized the stamp on the token. The Bureau of Civil Development.

"Okay, old soldier. Who the burning hell are you?" Caitlin asked.

The man turned to her and smiled. Half a smile, slightly more than a grin, with a cheeky sort of twinkle in his eyes that reminded her, with a gut-wrenching suddenness, of a tall young recruit she once called a friend.

"I work for the Bureau of Civil Development," the stranger explained. "And I'm here to offer you a job."

"A job," Caitlin scoffed. She gestured with her wounded hand at her drink. "What, you flame-baked fool, makes you think I want a job?"

The stranger's smile didn't waver. "Not just a job. A job worthy of your rather unique circumstances."

Caitlin raised an eyebrow. "My unique circumstances?"

"I've read your entrance tests. Pre-qualified as an artillery or communications specialist, pending completion of basic. You have brains, you have courage, and most importantly for me, you have no real education," the stranger explained.

"You're about to choke on your nose," Caitlin warned.

"Right, sorry. Without the right context, that would make no sense. You see, I have a project that needs people who aren't afraid of their own ignorance. Who are comfortable second-guessing themselves constantly. Also, people who have a demonstrated track-record of putting the City first," the stranger said. He shook his head and shrugged.

"You wouldn't believe how hard that's been to find," the stranger added.

"No kidding," Caitlin said. "Sounds like you're looking for a snowball in a forge."

She stopped for a minute and shrugged. "Okay, I'll bite. What's the job?"

"A secret."

Caitlin sputtered, wasting half a shot of whiskey.

"Seriously? Go throw yourself into the Bore. I've had enough shady shit to last a lifetime."

"It's a secret because we can't have half the City wasting their time trying to imitate it," the stranger explained. "It will either work, or it won't. Either way, we find out. Just us."

"How many people do you have on this project?"

"Six engineers, counting you. One crafter, and her apprentice," the stranger said.

Caitlin laughed. "Eight people? That's it?"

"It's easier to keep secrets if fewer people know about it," the stranger said. "And I believe you already know the Crafter. She was the one who helped put the Cavilla Incident in order."

Caitlin couldn't keep her surprise to herself. That tall, red-headed woman left an impression the way a sledgehammer leaves a bruise.

And unless she read things wrong, Lamppost was now her apprentice. Caitlin wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"Okay, I guess I can trust Tabitha a'Loria to not be up to something shady. I'm in. Want to tell me what the project is?" Caitlin asked.

"Airships," the stranger said, so nonchalantly Caitlin wondered if she heard him.

"Are you burning serious?" Caitlin asked.

"Afraid so. Be at the Riverwash Dockyards in Lower Central by zero-seven hundred hours. And for your own sake, don't be late. Crafter a'Loria can be, uh, prickly to work with if you annoy her," the stranger said.

He chucked, just as the barkeep returned with his drink. "Thank you, Craig. Cut miss Dremora off, if you would. She has work tomorrow."

"Oh, I'm going to burning hate you..." Caitlin began, holding out her bloodied hand.

To her surprise, he shook it without any hesitation. "Maxwell Durgon."