Turn 2 of 7

Ask Clerk Sund what happens if you can raise partial payment before the twelfth bell

You take the writ from her hands. The paper is heavy, stamped with the Harbour Court's seal — a ship's anchor wrapped in chain — and the number eleven hundred sits in the middle of it in clerk's ink, precise and unfeeling. You scan the line items: fuel debt from the sixth tier, four hundred marks. Mooring fees accumulated over three weeks, two hundred and sixty. A customs judgment, four hundred and forty. Your eyes snag on that last one. A customs judgment is not a bill — it is a ruling, which means someone contested something and lost. Vos signed the acceptance line with a hand that looks, even on paper, like it was in a hurry.

"Clerk Sund," you say, and you are careful to use her title, because the Harbour Court is the kind of institution that notices. "If I can raise partial payment before the twelfth bell — what happens then?"

She glances over her shoulder at the wardens, then back to you. Her mouth works for a moment, like she is choosing between two versions of herself. The official version wins, but only on points.

"The writ is for the full amount or the ship," she says. "Partial payment does not stay execution. That is the Court's position." She pauses, folds her hands.

"The Court's position. Not necessarily mine. I am telling you what the rule says, not what the rule cannot be persuaded to say, if someone were to present a compelling argument for reconsideration before the bench." She meets your eyes.

"The bench sits at the tenth bell. I process the paperwork. The magistrates hear appeals."

Below your feet, Grieve's boots cross the deck planking in a rhythm that suggests she is pacing. A pipe clangs against a bulkhead. You can feel the engine's idle through the soles of your boots, a low persistent hum that says the *Lamplighter's Daughter* is awake and does not care for the company she is keeping. On the quay, the nearer warden pulls out a small notebook and begins writing — measurements, line condition, the kind of inventory that precedes a sale.

You think about what Anneke just told you and turn it over. The bench sits at the tenth bell — two hours from now. An appeal is not payment, but it is time, and time is what you do not have enough of. If you could find a legal argument, a procedural flaw, even a delay, you might buy the hours you need to chase down Vos, or find money on the upper tiers, or both. But an appeal needs grounds. You look down at the writ again, at the customs judgment, at Vos's hurried signature. Something about that line item does not sit right. Four hundred and forty marks is a specific number for a specific violation, and you do not yet know what the violation was.