The litter would not make the turn.
They learned it with the injured supporter already on it, his bad arm padded against his chest and his face white under the service lamp. Bram had brought the route sketch. Eli had brought two carriers who had practiced the outer court’s approach. Neither preparation had made the broken inner passage wider.
Mira stood at the foot end, shoulder against cold stone. Above her the locally controlled door remained open under Bram’s colleague’s hand. Below her a section of floor had sunk, taking the lower wall with it. The litter’s forward handle struck a projecting block whenever they tried to bring its rear clear of the bend.
“Back a little,” Eli said.
“There’s no back,” the rear carrier answered.
There was a back, but it was the threshold they had to clear before the patrol returned. Someone approaching from inside would see bodies and a loaded litter trapped under the door, a gift their pursuers had not earned.
Eli knelt beside the sunk floor and ran a hand along the edge without putting weight on it. No use for inherited strength here. What they needed was an angle, enough ordinary hands, and the patience to find both while people behind them began shouting.
