Our Lady of Silver, Blessed Be, Holding Quarters For The Soon To Be Reformed was an ugly building, even in the bright morning sunlight. Referred to as Lockup by all except the extremely devout and government officials, there wasn’t a single window in the entire structure. It emerged from the road around it, a dun-coloured pustule among the glass and copper of the rest of the city. Two fences encircled the compounds, with an inner and an outer gate.

“Go straight through,” the guard at the outer gate told them. “Officer Ward will be waiting for you at the front.”

Jeremiah hadn’t been back to Lockup since the fire, and as they approached the front entrance his eyes scanned for any scars of that fateful night- collapsed sections, burnt walls, anything. The building, however, was scrubbed clean, and stood like new. Still, his heart hung low a second guard pulled back the door and ushered them inside.

It was humid as always, filled with the decrepit, stuffy scent that no one could ever name, just describe as ‘smelling like Lockup.’ The poorly ventilated breath of a thousand inmates, perhaps, mixed with cafeteria food and a vermin problem that had long been swept under the rug. Gliridae physically recoiled from it as it hit them, and Jeremiah had to wonder just how sensitive the tiny musician’s nose was.

“I’m glad to see you’re all here,” said Avery Ward, who had been stood to one side of the door waiting for them. Outside of her cramped office she seemed taller, commanding an outsize presence. Jeremiah could see why she’d been promoted: she carried an air of authority, and the Silver training he’d fought so hard to suppress told him to fall into line. “The receptionist has already checked you in; follow me, please. And no funny business.”

“This entire matter is funny business,” growled Bill, low enough that Avery Ward could pretend not to hear. Jeremiah glanced to his friend: his hands were clenched into such tight fists that his arms may as well have been military flails. His shoulders were tense, and his face was caught in a half-formed snarl. It was clear that he was even less happy to be here than Jeremiah was.

Not that Jeremiah could blame him. This was the first time Bill was here not in chains, and given the events of the day before it wasn’t certain that he would remain that way.

Avery Ward led them down endless tunnels, left, right, right, left, another left, Jeremiah keeping careful track in case they needed to run for it. He was certain the other two were doing the same. When he’d been a Silver, he’d needed to memorise the location of the prisoners he attended to, but knew nothing beyond that. At the time he’d not given it much thought. Now he had to wonder: why so much secrecy from their own officers?

The door numbers increased or decreased sequentially along a corridor, sometimes jumping randomly as they turned. He tried not to think of the implication of those numbers: almost every one had a soul on the other side, chained up, waiting for release; in some cases waiting for death. They passed door 1000. He felt nauseous.

Finally, Avery Ward stopped, gesturing to a door.

“Viola Crest is in lockup?” asked Gliridae, aghast. As the only one who’d never been to the building before- at least, as far as Jeremiah was aware- the implications didn’t seem to have hit him until then. “On what charges?”

“Stealing confidential information from the Foundry, for one,” said Avery Ward. Then she gave the tiny musician a thin-lipped smile. “But mainly for her own protection. Miss Crest has made some dangerous enemies.”

“I’m sure she sees it that way,” muttered Bill, again low enough that Avery Ward could pretend she hadn’t heard him; excepting a small flare of her nostrils, this was exactly what she did.

“See if you can find out who has the file; ideally we’d also like to know exactly how much she told the Mattheses, but the file is the number one priority. Knock four times when you’re finished and someone will let you out.” Pulling out a keyring filled with some four dozen keys, she easily grabbed the correct one and opened the door for them “Remember: you’re acting as Silvers.” This was said looking pointedly at Jeremiah, who swallowed hard.

It was an old Silver dog whistle, one which new recruits picked up on early, and which meant different things to different people. It was a promise to anyone outside of the organisation: “Don’t worry, we’re acting as Silvers.” “Everything will be okay, he’s acting as a Silver.” A promise of integrity, a promise that matters would be handled correctly and that justice would be served.

To Silvers, however, the implication of what was left unsaid was far more important. The Silver oath was adapted from the scriptures of the Lady of Silver; the opening verse contained the lines ‘We are disciples of the Lady of Silver, and we act in her name. We are the Silvers, and we are the law.’ 'Acting as a Silver' would be said to other Silvers as a reminder that there was an impunity in their role. Anything done could be excused by the mere fact that one was a Silver; Silver ends justified all means.

Avery Ward was giving them permission to do whatever they needed to get Viola Crest to talk.

From the way Bill’s eyes tightened, he’d picked up on it too. However, he didn’t reply- just stalked through the open door into the dark cell. Jeremiah followed, and as he passed Avery Ward handed him a lantern. Gliridae came in last, and then the door shut behind them with a resolute click.

It was dark in the cell, one small oil lamp in the top corner casting a dim glow that didn’t reach more than half the room. Jeremiah lit the lantern, bathing the table and chair in a sudden light. Viola Crest flinched back.

She was seated in- chained to- an old wooden chair, behind a rough-hewn table. Her short hair was greasy and matted, her skin wan, and bruise-coloured bags hung so deeply under her eyes they seemed to encircle them. Half healed scabs ran down her arms, one oozing something nasty, and there were partially healed scratches on her neck too. Why had a medic not tended to them? Her hands were cuffed together with a thick chain, which was in turn attached to another chain around her middle, binding her to the chair.

Jeremiah recognised those chains: class 2, the second lowest level. For prisoners that weren’t expected to make any escape attempts on their own, but who may have someone try to bust them out. There were five tiers in total, and every promotion you got as a Silver earned you keys to a subsequent class. Bill had been class 5. Jeremiah had to force himself not to think about the implications of that.

Viola Crest looked like hell, but once she’d recovered from the light she stared them down, raising a single dark eyebrow.

“I’ve already told you people everything you want, so I don’t know why you’re here.”

Her voice was soft and calm, with a sing-song Lowtown accent which reminded Jeremiah of the farmlands surrounding the city. He looked to Bill and Gliridae, uncertain how to begin.

Gliridae, of course, stepped forward.

“We’re not Silvers,” he said, hands up as though to show their emptiness. “Look at us: you really think we’d be recruited?” Viola’s eyes flicked from him to Bill, and she shook her head, frowning in confusion.

Everyone knew the Silvers didn’t hire wildings.

“We were hired by Braum Wellington after you went missing,” Gliridae continued. “The man was beside himself, thought that the Silvers weren’t doing enough. He was worried that they only cared about the file and didn’t care about making sure that you were safe. The Silvers weren’t even planning on telling him that you’d been found, let alone where they’d stuck you.”

“Oh,” said Viola, and then more quietly “oh.” She leaned back in her chair and her frown deepened: whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

Honestly, this wasn’t what Jeremiah had been expecting either- he’d half thought the mouse-man was going to weave some elaborate yarn involving multiple chase scenes and a dying bride. Not… well, tell the truth.

“Truthfully, I’m surprised; I didn’t realise he cared.”

“Not everyone is good at verbally expressing those things; sometimes it involves paying several thousand clips to a trio of private investigators to show how much someone means to you,” Gliridae said with a shrug. Viola’s eyebrows shot up.

“Several thousand! I… wow.”

Gliridae nodded and hopped up to sit on the edge of the table, letting his legs dangle several inches above the floor.

“The Silvers wanted nothing to do with us and we were stuck. Honestly, the trail should have gone cold. But now Scapper is dead and Braum Wellington has gone missing too. Since we’re the last ones who saw Wellington before he disappeared, they- reluctantly- decided to enlist our help. Which answers your question of why we’re here. So, do you think you could answer some questions of ours?” Viola looked at him in dismay, then down at her chained hands.

Stolen novel; please report.

“I- I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to, truly, but if I told you…” She trailed off, and Gliridae leaned down so that she was forced to meet his gaze.

“We know that you were passing on information from your project to the Mattheses. No, don’t worry- we haven’t told the Silvers that. We just want to help you, and to help Braum. We spoke to Julie Matthes last night, and she told us about the past few months. You were going to give the folder to her, but something happened, right?” Viola nodded. “Someone jumped you on your way to Cantankerous- was it the Props?” Another nod, and Jeremiah internally cheered- that was one obstacle covered.

“They’re not normally in the Fog District,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t expecting them, that’s Mattheses territory.”

“They’d heard what was going on; they knew you were going to have the file that night.” Jeremiah fought to keep his face neutral, unsure if Gliridae was fibbing or not. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch: there was plenty of money in being a mole if you didn’t mind risking your life. “How much had you told the Mattheses up until that point? Do you think they would have kidnapped Wellington to get the information?”

Viola sat back, eyes tightening at the corners, and at that moment Jeremiah realised they’d lost her. Gliridae had pushed too fast, too hard. Her expression reset to neutral, voice cold.

“Perhaps you should ask Julie Matthes about that, since the three of you are apparently so close with her.” Gliridae hesitated and slid from the table, wrongfooted by her sudden change in demeanour. “Have the Silvers told you the contents of that file, Mr Mouse? Or are you just running around doing their dirty work without a thought to what you might be enabling.”

“I didn’t mean-“ Gliridae began to back track, but she cut him off.

“You have very nice words, but it doesn’t matter how much Mr Wellington cares for me: he’s complicit in all this, as is everyone else in the Foundry, and this glorified gang we call a criminal justice system. You’re playing right into their game.”

“And you were passing along Foundry secrets out of the good of your heart?” shot back Gliridae. “I’m sure there was no monetary aspect involved. Why steal the file- why not just read it yourself and give them the summary?”

“You call yourselves private investigators? Then try doing some investigating, rather than just hanging around at the Silvers’ beck and call. But no: pot, meet kettle. The only reason you’re here is because you’re paid to be. How much have the Silvers offered you? What do you think has gotten them so scared.”

“You’ve as good as confirmed it yourself,” said Jeremiah. He stepped forward, old instincts kicking in: interrogating hostile inmates was something he’d been good at. “The Mattheses took Wellington when you didn’t come through. You didn’t even try to deny it. Douglas Scapper was killed in his home, tied up and unable to fight back. Was Julie Matthes behind that too? You worked with him, didn’t you? So in a way, his death is on your hands-”

“Go to hell!” Viola yelled, cutting him off. She was flushed with anger, straining forward against her chains as though she’d have liked to leap across the table and fight Jeremiah herself. “I hope you die, and this godforsaken building burns to the fucking ground!” He slammed his fists against the table.

“Too late, little girl, it already did! Can’t you tell?” He turned his face so that she could get a good, up close, look at his scars.

“Then it’s too bad it didn’t finish the job,” she hissed. Before he could react, she drew back and spat right on the burn.

“That’s enough!” roared Bill. Stepping past the table, he drew back his fist and served Viola Crest a right hook that resonated through the small cell with a sickening crack. Blood gushed down from her nose. “Just answer our damn questions! How much information had you told the Mattheses beforehand?”

“I’m not telling you anything.” Her voice was thick, and as she spoke more blood began to leak from her mouth. Jeremiah suddenly felt sick. “Do what you want: you’ll never make me talk.” Bill made a sudden move towards her and she flinched, but her face remained resolute. He dropped his fist and swore, before turning to look at Jeremiah.

“Well, we got half of it,” the larger man said. “Any other thoughts?”

Jeremiah wiped the spittle from his face and glanced around; it took a moment for him to find Gliridae, who was pressed back into the corner, sinking into the darkness besides the gleam of the oil lamp in his eyes. How was it possible that someone in a bright purple suit could fade into the background that easily?

The tiny musician gave a near imperceptible shake of his head. Jeremiah sighed, and turned back to Bill and Viola.

“I think that’s the end of useful time spent here.” He focused on Viola. “I’ll get them to send a medic in to patch you up- that wound on your arm could use some treatment too.” She spat a gob of blood at him and glared, but said nothing. This time it fell short, landing on the table between them. He could see it beginning to coagulate in the flickering lamplight, and fought down another wave of nausea. “Let’s go. Bill, I think it’s time to pay a visit to Mr Vandemeer.”

“Aw hell,” muttered Bill. Without a second look at Viola, the enormous man went to the door and rapped smartly against it four times. It swung open immediately and he stormed out, nearly flattening the low-ranking Silver on the other side. Jeremiah followed him, but paused at the doorway when he realised that Gliridae wasn’t moving.

“Silver or not… I should have realised you assholes are all the same,” Viola said to the tiny musician. He winced, eyes shut, and shook his head; he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“I’m so sorry. We never meant- I never expected anything like this to happen. Please let a medic fix you up.” She shrugged, and didn’t answer. “Please. And… is there anything you want? I can’t manage much, but I don’t know, better food or anything? I’ll do my best.” She sighed, causing another dribble of blood to slip from her nose, but her expression softened.

“I wouldn’t say no to some reading material. Time passes so dreadfully slowly in here; it would be nice to have something to do.”

“I’ll do my best to get some books sent to you; and a proper lamp, so that you can actually read them.”

“Hurry up!” barked the Silver outside, annoyed after his encounter with Bill. Gliridae gave Viola a small wave and a tight smile, and then scurried out. Jeremiah hesitated, wondering if he should apologise too, but then the Silver slammed the door shut.

They were led back a different way, to a side office where Avery Ward was waiting. Three cheques, each for 500 clips, were neatly written and laid out upon the table. Next to them were three Silver badges. Two were generic, but one read Jeremiah Brahms in flowing script. The last time he’d seen that badge, it had been lying in a trashcan after he handed in his resignation.

He’d never wanted to see it again.

Jeremiah and Bill quickly went through what they’d found out, Gliridae oddly quiet to the side. Avery Ward frowned.

“We’d suspected that it was the Props, but it’s unpleasant to have it confirmed. Still, you have history with them: I’d imagine it could be easier for you than it could be for any of our guys.” She pushed the cheques towards them. “As promised, 500 clips up front. You’ll get the rest once you bring me that file- unopened. If I have any suspicion at all that you’ve taken so much as a single glance into it, all three of you will be spending the next eight years in Lockup. Do I make myself clear?”

We are Silvers and we are the law.

They nodded their assent. Avery Ward then slid them the badges.

“Keep these hidden on your person at all times. Use them to identify yourselves to any Silvers you encounter, but otherwise do not show them to anyone, mention them to anyone, or interact with them in any way- you are not Silvers, and I will not have you masquerading as such. Understood?” Again they nodded. “Then we’re done with that part. Gliridae, Bill: an agent will escort you off the premises. Jeremiah, a word please.”

“Now wait just a minute,” rumbled Bill. “We’re not leaving without him.” Avery Ward raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

“Fine. Then you can wait outside. However, I’d like to speak with Jeremiah privately.” Both looked to him, and Jeremiah motioned for them to leave. They got to their feet, but Gliridae paused.

“Miss Ward, before we go... I understand that this is a judicial system, and that there are rules and regulations in place which are your authority to enforce; but would it be possible to arrange for Viola Crest to be supplied with books or magazines, or something similar, for the duration of her confinement? And lighting with which to read it? Please?”

Bill snorted; both he and Jeremiah knew well enough that a large part of the threat of lockup was the absence of anything at all: no light, no time, no entertainment. The threat of that kept the populace cowed: even a few weeks turned formerly hardened criminals meek, at least upon their initial release. There was no way.

“I don’t see why not.” Avery Ward gave a wry smile, and Gliridae took his hat and held it tightly in his hands, giving her a small bow.

“Thank you so much, Miss Ward. Truly, I appreciate it.” This said, he left; Bill followed, staring after him in blatant disbelief. Jeremiah struggled to hide his own shock as he turned back to the Silver chief. Behind him, the door swung shut and Avery Ward laughed.

“I like your little mouse friend. I wonder if we can keep him around? He probably needs the money. We could put him in a Silver uniform and get him to do a funny dance - like a mascot. It would be good for morale, don’t you think?”

He met her smirk with a glare, fighting down the anger.

“No,” he said flatly.

Avery Ward’s smile dropped, and she sighed as she pulled out a small manilla envelope with his name on it

“Jeremiah, I was looking through your old records: training academy, case notes, the like. You were a great Silver: you were talented, you were efficient, according to your superiors you were a brilliant tactician. It says here that you were on track to become head of your department, once you finished your medical training.”

Jeremiah met her gaze but stayed silent, waiting to see where she was going with this.

“After the fire… Doctor Claude’s death was regrettable-“

“Preventable,” he snapped

“-but you shouldn’t throw your life away for a dead man. What would he think of this? Of you, running around playing PI with two wildings? Of you being friends with the Props member who cost him his life?”

“Bill had nothing to do with anything and you know it. You can’t blame a victim for the shortcomings of the Silvers.” It took all of Jeremiah’s self-control to keep his fury in check.

“Don’t play stupid, Jeremiah. Bill is no victim- we all know the things he’s done. Doctor Claude saved your life, and this is how you repay him?” She pushed the file towards him. He could see his academy reports, case notes, and further down he could see the corners of photos sticking out. Carefully, deliberately, Avery Ward slid one onto the table- it was a photo of him and Doc Claude at a bar with some other Silvers, just a few days before the fire. His heart dropped. Then he thought of the weeping wounds criss-crossing Viola’s arms, and he glared.

Manipulative bullshit.

“Doc Claude saved my life that day, in more ways than you could ever know.” He pushed himself to his feet and snatched his cheque and badge off the table. “And when I’m done with this case, I will never work with the Silvers again.” He moved to leave, then paused and plucked the photo of him with the doctor off the table. Avery Ward didn’t say anything, just leant back in her chair and crossed her arms as she watched him leave.

“What did she want?” asked Bill, as the agent led them back through the winding passages of Lockup. Jeremiah scowled at the grimy tiled floor.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing of value.”