I shivered, suddenly grateful for the warmth of Hadrian's coat despite the waste heat from the smelters. In enthusiasm I had forgotten all about the plague. Ortega turned away, voxing terse instructions. The Adeptus Arbites might be the mailed fist of the Lex Imperialis, but the Inquisition was the author of that Lex. It would not be possible maintain these covers for long, the manufactorum workers would talk, nothing short of a bullet would prevent it, and massacring several hundred workers would raise even more questions. It seemed likely that the dead mans associates would close down operations when they learned of his death, styming our investigation in its infancy. 

We returned to the manufactoria, now eerily devoid of the workers who had toiled there for uncounted generations. Machinery still clanked and stamped, though many lines had been shut down by emergency pulls and switches. The servitors appeared to have returned to their endless notation, though several were now attempting to do so with broken quills or shattered limbs that swelled grotesquely. 

"I'm sorry Hadrian," I whispered miserably, "It is my fault he is dead and cant be questioned."