Urel worked with his broad thumbs pressed firmly against the inner seam of the packet, checking the yellowed edges for signs of steam tampering. For six years, during every upkeep check of the lower Star tower gallery, he had walked past the sealed quarantine lockers behind the third steam cooler bank, his lantern beam catching the gray lead tag that hung from the latch like a dead hornet.
“Every technician on the shift knew the locker was there,” Urel said. He kept his voice beneath the rumble of the boiler feed pumps two rooms away. “We knew Bale’s old office seal was slowly peeling away under the damp of the steam cooler chimney pipes. If Morn’s inspectors had noticed that curled corner, the entire sheaf would have been tossed into the heat reduction fire alongside the unredeemed citizen records from the fifth year.”
Len leaned his right shoulder against the edge of the timber bench. His face was gray beneath the film of coal dust and sweat, his eyes fixed on the dark grease marks that rimmed the paper. “Why didn’t you pull the packet out three years ago, Urel? When the outside war engine died?”
“Because three years ago, Chancellor Morn had four hundred armed guards on the Ridge Road and the doubles were patrolling the chimney pipes twice a night,” Urel answered, his voice devoid of defensive edge. “If I had walked through the gatehouse with nine leaves of technical drawings in my boot, I’d have ended up…
