The receiver clicked dead in Zenia’s hand. The copper coil fell silent against the floorboards. Midnight was less than an hour away on the bells of the municipal hall, and summary disposition meant Havel would not even reach a cell before the ash grates were cleared. “The accounts,” Tazya said, her throat dry. She lunged for the battered leather briefcase Havel had left behind, digging through the documents. Zenia stayed pressed against the floorboards, pale and shaking, holding the headset tight. Tazya pulled out the thick folios, their columns ruled in Havel’s narrow, unforgiving ink. Proof. Proof of Vance’s corruption. But how to use it? “Civic Registry. District audit,” Tazya muttered, thinking aloud. “They’ll be lax after hours. Mid-shift change. Everyone trying to duck out.” Her gaze swept to the broken window, then the shattered doorframe. No time for stealth. She needed authority, undeniable and swift. Her records clerk tunic, patched at the elbows, would have to suffice. She pinned her tarnished clerk badge to the coarse wool of her lapel, forcing the bent clasp into the fabric. “Zenia, stay here. Bar the door. Don’t open for anyone,” Tazya commanded, her voice gaining a brittle strength. Zenia clutched the radio to her chest, a silent, terrified nod. Tazya snatched her overcoat and sprinted into the biting night. The icy wind lashed her face, but she barely felt it. Frost crunched beneath her boots along the alley, sharp air burning the back of her throat as she ran toward the municipal quarter. She knew the Registry building like the back of her hand, every back stair, every forgotten service tunnel, every blind spot in its antiquated security system. Havel’s bound folio was clamped under her arm against the wind. She arrived at the rear entrance of the Civic Registry, a low, unassuming door used by the sanitation teams. The lock was simple, a standard double-tumbler fitting. Tazya pulled a small, flattened wire from her coat sleeve, a tool she’d once used to retrieve dropped pencils from beneath her desk. It clicked, soft and swift. The corridor beyond was dark, smelling of stale paper and industrial cleanser. She moved like a phantom, her soft boots making no sound on the worn linoleum. The building was a maze, but she navigated it by instinct, her internal map of its bureaucratic arteries guiding her toward the deep, thrumming heart of the incinerators. The air grew steadily warmer, heavy with the metallic tang of burning refuse, then the acrid scent of coal. She reached the iron doors of the central disposal vault, where coal soot coated the threshold. Tonight, it was eerily quiet. A single, bare bulb swung overhead, casting long, dancing shadows. The draft inside the main flue rumbled behind iron doors, throwing orange light across the wet stone floor. And there, in the center of the vast, oppressive chamber, was Havel. He was bound to a metal stanchion, his head bowed, his face grimed with soot. Standing over him, a cruel smile twisting his features, was Vance. Two municipal guards flanked him, clubs resting in their palms. Vance held a heavy iron poker, its tip glowing with a malevolent heat from being plunged into the furnace. He was speaking, his voice low and guttural, but the roar of the fire swallowed his words. He raised the poker, holding the glowing iron level with Havel's chest. “Hold that iron!” Tazya yelled, slamming the heavy door against its jamb. The guards snapped around, stepping back from the railing. Vance turned, scowling through the smoke. “What are you doing down here?” Vance barked, stepping forward. Tazya walked toward the center of the vault, her clerk's badge catching the orange glow of the vents. “Supervisor Vance, by the authority of the Board's charter on emergency review, these registers require immediate seizure.” She dropped the black-bound folios flat onto an iron workbench with a heavy thud. “They list three years of diverted coupons, falsified coal receipts, and medical stores sold outside the district.” Vance glared at the pages. “You brought scrap paper. You are obstructing official board proceedings.” He stepped closer, lowering the iron rod toward her feet. “Every delivery sheet carries your personal seal,” Tazya said, keeping her chin raised. “Your coded vouchers for Lux-Grain to the private works, and every kickback from the coal yards. It is enough to hand you to the labor commissioner by dawn.” She pointed to a specific page. “Page 17. The 20-percent skim from the Voris-Krellin household’s first coal allotment. You thought no one would notice a single bag, did you? I noticed.” Vance lunged, a sudden, animalistic roar escaping his lips. The poker swung in a wide, lethal arc, aimed directly at Tazya’s head. But before it could connect, a blur of motion erupted from the stanchion. Havel wrenched his bound wrists down against the stanchion bolt, snapping the worn hemp cord, and drove his forearm into Vance's wrist. The poker clattered to the floor, sparking. Vance stumbled back, clutching his arm, his face contorted in pain and disbelief. Havel kicked the skittering rod into a slag gutter, seized Vance’s collar with both raw hands, and shoved him hard against the brickwork. The two guards raised their truncheons, but before they could strike, the outer latch gave way. A municipal auditor in gray wool stood in the entry, holding a clipboard against her chest, flanked by two armed harbor patrolmen. “Step away from each other,” the auditor commanded, stepping into the room. Her eyes moved from Vance pinned to the brickwork to Tazya and the volumes on the bench. “Drop the truncheons.” “Auditor, this clerk broke into an off-limits sector to disrupt an authorized disposal,” Vance said through his teeth, struggling to straighten his coat. “The district telegraph office received an authenticated report an hour ago,” the auditor said, pointing to the open folios. “The cross-referenced codes match Vance's personal requisition slips. Vance, you are relieved of your post and remanded into custody pending hearing for ration diversion.” She nodded to the patrolmen. “Secure him and escort him upstairs.” The patrolmen took Vance by both elbows, wrestling him toward the outer corridor while he cursed and dragged his boots across the gravel. The auditor watched until the iron doors shut behind them, then looked across the workbench at Tazya and Havel. “He diverted supplies, but your registry file is still under scrutiny. What explanation do you have for this falsified marriage allotment?”

The Furnace Room