The room gave up its secrets reluctantly, but it gave them.

The pouch held only a modest handful of coins. Not enough to matter to Brass Lantern, but enough that a clerk who meant to flee would likely have taken it. [b]Havel[/b] watched [b]Elora[/b] check it with narrowed eyes, but said nothing when it was put back.

The basin proved fouler than it first looked. When [b]Marcus[/b] dipped his hand into the cloudy water, his fingers brushed the bottom and came up with pale grit clinging to the skin. Clay. The same color as the flakes on the floor. Beneath it, caught against the drain, was a small sliver of dark wax stamped with the edge of a broken seal.

Piero leaned closer. [color=00a651]“Not company wax.”[/color]

At the stove, [b]Elora[/b] recovered what remained of the burned paper. Most of it was ash, but a few words survived along the folded edge.

[i]...fourteen returned...
...mat disposed...
...Wick paid after...[/i]

[b]Gears[/b] let out a low whistle. [color=f26522]“That’s ugly.”[/color]

[b]Hwicce[/b]’s black thread, once held to the light, showed a faint sheen. Not wool. Finer. Torn from some expensive coat or veil, perhaps the same sort worn by people who paid extra to leave no name behind.

Then [b]Marcus[/b] worked charcoal over the indented form. Slowly, crookedly, the pressure marks surfaced.

[i]No questions. No clerk talk. South service route. Bell pays second half at Cinder Arch.[/i]

For the first time, Havel’s professional stillness cracked.

[color=ed145b]“Milo, you idiot,”[/color] he muttered.

Piero smiled without warmth. 

[color=00a651]“Cinder Arch,”[/color] he said. [color=00a651]“That is undertrack territory. Service roads, old race tunnels, private doors, bad lighting.”[/color]

Gears flexed her gauntlets.

[color=f26522]“Finally,”[/color] she said. [color=f26522]“A place with manners I understand.”[/color]