Turn 6 of 7

Wait on the landing and listen to what Sull asks Rell

You press your back against the stairwell wall and hold still. The Canyon Span's old construction works in your favor — thin plank walls that carry sound like pipes, built for ventilation in the canyon heat and never properly insulated. Rell's voice comes through clear enough, and Sull's, lower and more deliberate, follows beneath it. You hear Sull ask about the morning's deliveries, routine phrasing, the kind of question that sounds like inventory. Rell answers in clipped sentences: fourth bell, canal door, satchel in the alcove as usual. She's giving the facts and nothing else, the way she's always done.

Then Sull's tone shifts. "How long has the broker used this arrangement?" The question lands differently — not routine, not inventory. Rell pauses before answering, and you can almost see her weighing the cost of each word.

"Years," she says. "Five or six. Maybe longer. I don't track his clients, Warden-Advocate. I receive, I hold, I pass along. That's the arrangement." Sull lets the silence sit for a moment, and you hear paper rustle — something being examined, maybe a ledger, maybe the runner's log Rell keeps for tax purposes.

"Did you inspect the satchel's contents before passing it up?" Sull asks, and Rell's answer is immediate this time, almost sharp.

"I don't open other people's escrow, Warden. That's broker's privilege, not a provisioner's." Good. That's consistent, and it's true — Rell has never opened your satchel in all the years you've used her shop. But Sull's next question tightens something in your chest.

"Were there any irregularities in the delivery itself? A different seal, a different weight, a different mark on the drop slip?"

Rell doesn't answer right away. You hear her shift behind the counter, the scrape of a stool, and when she speaks, her voice is careful.

"There was a slip I didn't recognize. A mark I hadn't seen before. A bird with a broken wing. I noted it and passed the satchel along regardless, because the arrangement doesn't give me authority to hold deliveries on my own judgment." She's protecting herself, you realize — not lying, but framing her actions in the most defensible light. Smart. Sull asks if Rell still has the slip, and Rell says no, she gave it to the broker when he came down. That's you. That's the slip in your hand right now.

Sull asks one more question, and it's the one that tells you how much trouble you're in.

"When the broker came down, did he examine the slip before or after you told him the Warden-Advocate's office had made inquiries?" Rell's answer is honest and damning: before. You saw the slip, you knew it was irregular, and you left knowing Sull was already asking questions. From Sull's perspective, that's not a broker conducting due diligence. That's a broker who knew what he was holding and ran. You hear Sull thank Rell, calm and courteous, and then footsteps moving toward the canal door. You fold the drop slip and tuck it into your coat beside Ferris's letter, and the stairwell is quiet again.