Turn 4 of 9

Go up to the sixth level east quay and find Ferran

You take the stairs two at a time, climbing past the fifth level where the cranes still swing and the air tastes of coal dust. Your legs burn by the time you reach the sixth level, and the canyon wind hits you harder here — the upper quays catch the updraft raw, unbroken by the lower tiers. The east quay stretches ahead of you, a long promenade of stone fronted by offices with brass plates and frosted glass doors. Brokers, insurers, debt factors. The kind of places where ships are bought and sold on paper before anyone bothers to tell the crew.

You pass a sign that reads *Hallek & Sons, Cargo Futures* and another advertising *Vennar Insurance Underwriting, Est. 1142*. Most of the offices are lit, clerks visible through the glass at their desks. The ninth bell has just finished tolling, and the quay is busy with the mid-morning traffic of agents and runners carrying leather cases. You scan the promenade for Ferran's dark coat and dispatch case, and you find her — but not where you expected.

She is standing at the far end of the quay, near the railing, in conversation with a tall man in a grey coat. His back is to you, but you can see Ferran's face. She looks the way she looked the day she signed your quartermaster's papers — calm, decisive, a little dangerous. She is not smiling. The man in the grey coat has his hands in his pockets, and his posture is relaxed in the way that suggests he holds the better hand. You catch fragments as you approach — "...the bond was filed in good faith, Captain, and you know it."

Ferran sees you coming. Something passes across her face — surprise, then a quick calculation — and she holds up one finger to the man in the grey coat. She steps toward you, lowering her voice.

"Quartermaster. I told you to stay with the ship." Her tone is even, but there is a tightness behind it. She glances back at the man in grey, who is watching you with mild, professional interest.

"The wardens are measuring the mooring lines," you say. "We have three hours. Anneke Sund is standing on the gangplank with a writ, and Grieve is below decks doing something with a hammer. I need to know what you're doing up here, Captain."

Ferran studies you for a long moment. The wind pulls at her hair. Behind her, the man in the grey coat waits with the patience of someone who is being paid by the hour.