Through the boundary token wedged beneath Fen’s medicine shelf, Noll Vey listened to the paper crackle as the healer flattened it against the wet pine table.
Eighty-five hours remained on the Last Guest’s clock. Up in the Hall of Witness, Prit had returned to his slate, chalking down the fresh temporal deduction with short, dry strokes while Noll leaned his basalt shoulders against the third granite pier. Down at the river, rain drummed against the heavy canvas roof of the neutral aid station, filling the pauses between words with the steady, hollow drumming of water falling on stretched cloth.
“Look at the seal,” Soldier Joss said, his breath hitching. “The green wax is the March Ledger’s third registry mark. That’s the one they use for court-martial findings and estate escheats.”
Fen picked up the sheepskin parchment by its dry edge. The fort healer smelled of elderberry tincture, boiled vinegar, and wet wool. His thumbs were grey with lime paste from dressing blistered feet all morning, but his hands did not tremble.
“The heading reads Inquest of the Shaft Collapse at Drift Nine,” Fen said aloud, reading slowly so the token could catch every syllable. “‘Filed under warrant of Lord Auditor Orin Vane, Commissioner of the March. Casualties confirmed: Private Hald, Corporal Vess, Private Toren, all of the Second Border Foot. Cause of structural failure: criminal delay in the deployment of auxiliary shoring teams and refusal to secure the winch house against civilian insurrection.’”
