Turn 2 of 7

Tell the messenger you have nothing to discuss and send them away

You cross to the door in four strides and open it just enough to frame your face in the gap. The messenger is young, wiry, dressed in the grey-and-silver livery that Ferris Oleander's household favors — a pretension borrowed from the old Tarrace noble families, though Ferris's blood is as common as canal water. He holds a sealed envelope in one hand and keeps the other resting on his belt, not quite near a weapon but not far from one either. His expression is professionally neutral, the kind of blankness that comes from being trained to deliver bad news without flinching.

"Tell Ferris I have nothing to discuss with him," you say. You keep your voice level, the same tone you use when refusing bad escrow terms.

"If he has business, he can file a proper request like every other broker in Threefall."

The messenger doesn't blink. "He anticipated you might say that, broker." He extends the sealed envelope, holding it between two fingers like a card dealer.

"His words were: the Warden-Advocate's office received an anonymous tip this morning regarding irregular tokens in circulation. He suggests you read this before deciding what you have and haven't to discuss."

You don't take the envelope. The messenger holds it there, patient as a stone, and after a moment he sets it on the threshold at your feet.

"Ferris Oleander's office, Bridgegate second floor, should you reconsider. He'll be there until evening." Then he turns and walks back down the corridor, his boots clicking on the old planking, and disappears around the corner without looking back.

You close the door and stand with your back against it, breathing slowly. The envelope sits on the threshold where he left it, pale against the dark wood, and you can see the edge of Ferris's seal pressed into the wax — a flowering oleander, because the man has never been subtle. The token in your palm has not cooled. Down in the canyon, the bridge-cables sing their constant low note, and the fish-vendor has moved on to haggling with someone, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of minor commerce.

The question isn't whether Ferris knows about the token. He clearly does, and he clearly knew before the messenger arrived, which means someone told him — someone who saw it come in, or someone who sent it knowing you'd be the one to receive it. The question is what he's offering. A warning, a threat, or a door he expects you to walk through. And beneath that, the larger question, the one that sits in your stomach like a swallowed stone: the Warden-Advocate's office has already heard something. Anonymous tip. That means the clock is already running, and you are standing at the starting line holding evidence of a crime you didn't commit.

You leave the envelope on the threshold for now. You have a few hours, maybe less, before the Warden-Advocate's interest turns from abstract to specific, and there are things you need to understand before you talk to anyone — Ferris, Sull, or whoever sent you this token. You need to examine it properly. You need to check your records for anything that might explain why it came to you. And you need to figure out who had access to your morning satchel before it reached your desk. The token sits heavy in your palm, and you set it down on the desk beside the open ledger, where it sits like a period at the end of a sentence you haven't written yet.