Turn 5 of 7

Excuse yourself and leave before Sull can press you for answers

Sull takes a step into the shop, and the canal light behind them narrows to a thin frame around their silhouette. You don't wait for the second step. You turn to Rell, incline your head the way you do when closing a transaction, and say, "Rell, thank you for your time. We'll settle the supply account at week's end as usual." It's loud enough, formal enough, and boring enough to sound like the end of a routine visit. Rell blinks — she's sharp enough to read the cue, though her knuckles are still white on the counter's edge.

"Broker," Sull says, and there's an edge of amusement in it, the kind that comes from watching someone try to leave a room you're standing in. You're already moving toward the stairwell entrance, not the canal door, because the canal door means passing Sull and the stairwell means putting a wall between you.

"I haven't asked my question yet."

"And I'm sure you'll have many," you say over your shoulder, not breaking stride. "File a request with my office. I respond to all Warden-Advocate inquiries within two business days, same as every licensed broker in Threefall." The words come out steady, practiced — you've cited the regulation before, though never while retreating. The stairwell door is ten feet away. Eight. Your hand finds the latch.

Sull doesn't follow. That's the part that worries you. A Warden-Advocate who chases you into the stairwell is someone working on instinct; a Warden-Advocate who lets you go is someone who already has enough to work with. You hear them speak to Rell behind you, low and unhurried, and then the stairwell door closes and their words are swallowed by the Canyon Span's thick walls. You climb, one flight, then two, your boots loud on the planking, the drop slip with the broken-wing bird still in your hand.

You stop on the second-floor landing, out of sight, and breathe. The stairwell smells of hemp rope and old rain. Through the wall, you can hear the muffled sounds of Rell's voice answering Sull's questions — steady, careful, the voice of a woman who has survived decades in the Canyon Span by saying exactly enough and nothing more. You hope that's true. You look down at the drop slip again, at the broken-wing bird, and you think about Ferris waiting at Bridgegate with whatever he knows. You think about the token in your safe, warm and heavy and unmarked. And you think about Sull, standing calmly in Rell's shop, not chasing you, assembling something you can't see from pieces you don't know you've given them.