Turn 3 of 7

Retrieve and read Ferris's sealed envelope

You look at the envelope on the threshold. The seal stares back — oleander blossoms in red wax, Ferris's little joke about his own name, the kind of vanity that marks a man who thinks he's clever. You've been staring at it for thirty seconds, which is thirty seconds longer than you should have. The token sits on your desk behind you, warm and wrong, and the Warden-Advocate's office has already received an anonymous tip. Pride is a luxury. You step forward and pick it up.

The paper is good stock, Tarrace-made, the kind that costs more than a courier's daily wage. Ferris has never been one for economy when he's trying to impress. You break the seal at your desk, sliding your thumb under the wax, and unfold the single sheet inside. The handwriting is Ferris's own — not a clerk's, not a secretary's — which tells you he didn't want this message to pass through more hands than necessary. The ink is fresh, maybe two hours old, and the letter is brief.

*Broker — The tip to the Warden-Advocate was not mine. Someone wants attention on you and wants it quickly. I can tell you what I know, but not on paper and not by messenger. Bridgegate, second floor, before evening. Come alone or don't come at all. — F.O.*

*P.S. — The sender of your morning satchel used a dead drop at Rell's Provisions. I have the drop slip. It was signed with a mark I recognize.*

You read it twice. The second time, you slow down on the postscript. A dead drop at Rell's Provisions, which is a supply shop on the Canyon Span's ground level — two floors below you, close enough that you could walk there in three minutes. Your morning satchel comes via Rell's by arrangement; Rell takes deliveries before dawn and passes them to a runner who brings them up. You've used the arrangement for years. It's reliable because it's simple, and it's simple because nobody thought to compromise it. Someone apparently did.

The token sits beside your ledger, warm and silent. Ferris has a drop slip, which means he's been watching Rell's, or watching you, or both. The mark he recognizes — he's holding that back, the same way he held back the oleander seal, a flourish to remind you that he knows more than you do. That's Ferris. He never gives you the whole thing at once. He hands you enough to need him and keeps the rest as leverage.

You fold the letter and tuck it into your coat. The Warden-Advocate's anonymous tip, Ferris's timely warning, the dead drop, the unmarked token — they're connected, and the connections lead in directions you don't like. If Ferris didn't send the tip, someone else did, and they did it knowing the token would be in your hands when the attention arrived. That's not a coincidence. That's a frame. The question is whether it's a frame built around the token or around you, and the difference matters more than anything Ferris is likely to tell you. The light through your window has shifted, the morning greys giving way to something brighter, and the bridge traffic outside has thickened with the start of the day's commerce. You have hours before evening. Ferris is at Bridgegate. Rell's Provisions is two floors down. And the Warden-Advocate's office is somewhere across the span, receiving anonymous tips and deciding whether they're worth investigating. The token hasn't cooled. You doubt it will.