Bitter Cold Truth: A Tale of the Everburning City

(9-1) What virtue is higher than being worthy of trust

"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.