The first complaint reached Tavin before breakfast. A woman who sold cooked roots at the upper stop wanted to know why her cart had been turned away from the access gate. Tavin told her the gate had reopened. She told him that was not what the guard had said.
The second complaint came from the guard, who wanted to know why people kept trying to use a gate that had been ordered closed.
The third came from Iven’s stomach, which had expected breakfast and was now passing a cart full of cooked roots without any guarantee of receiving one.
Tavin listened to the guard, then the seller, then read the new notice tied to the gate. It repeated the heat board’s closure order and added a line in red: Until permanent support is installed.
“The temporary support was inspected yesterday,” Tavin said.
“The notice was posted this morning,” the guard replied.
Iven recognized her from the previous day. The older guard was absent; another stood farther down the walkway, directing people toward the west route. The young guard looked tired enough to have spent some of the night explaining the same distinction between an unsafe line and an inconvenient gate.
“Did the board send an inspector?” Iven asked.
“Not while I was here.”
“Who posted the notice?”
“A runner. He gave me this copy.”
Tavin read the copy. It bore the heat board’s seal and a reference to the cracked bracket. Unlike the earlier order, it named the defect. It did not say when a permanent support would be installed.
The root seller folded her arms. “My customers will be gone before anyone finishes reading.”
“We can carry the cart up the stairs,” Iven offered.
She looked at the cart, then at him. “It’s not the cart I worry about. It’s the pot.”
The pot was fixed into a metal cradle above a small heat box. Its lid trembled each time Mercy took a step. Iven had no intention of carrying it up six flights while full of boiling water.
“Then we’ll take it the other way,” he said.
“That’s what the guard said.”
“The service road, not the stairs.”
“The service road is blocked by a delivery wagon.”
Tavin frowned. “Whose?”
“Krail’s. They say they’re waiting for a crew to unload.”
The name did not prove anything. Krail Haulage had wagons throughout the district. A blocked road and a closure could be ordinary misfortune arriving from different directions. Iven had lived on Mercy long enough to know ordinary misfortune rarely needed a conspiracy to become inconvenient.
They went to see the wagon. It stood across the service road with one wheel on a raised stone and a load of timber strapped high above the bed. Two workers sat on the curb eating from paper packets. A third was beneath the wagon, studying the axle.
“What’s wrong?” Tavin asked.
“Bearing,” said the worker under the wagon. “We’ve sent for another.”
“How long?”
“Until it arrives.”
The root seller made a sound of disgust. Iven crouched beside the wheel. Its hub was warm. A streak of grease had run down the inside of the rim, carrying fine metal dust with it.
“Did it seize?” he asked.
“Started to.”
“Can you move it if we take the weight off that side?”
The worker rolled out from beneath the wagon. His face was streaked with grease, and he held a small wrench in one hand. “A few feet. Not up the road.”
“We only need the cart through.”
The worker looked at the load. “If we shift it wrong, those boards will come down.”
Neri appeared at the top of the slope with Dessa behind her. She took in the wagon, the root seller, and Iven crouched beside the wheel.
“You’ve made a friend,” she said.
“I’m collecting them.”
The worker introduced himself as Corren. He showed Neri the axle and the jack they had tried to use. One of the jack’s feet had sunk into a patch of soft paving. Neri sent Dessa for a wider plate while she checked the timber load. The straps were tight, but the upper boards leaned toward the downhill side.
“We unload the top first,” she said.
Corren shook his head. “We’re not authorized to break the seal.”
“The seal is on the wagon bed,” Neri said. “The upper boards aren’t inside it.”
He looked. The waxed cord ran across the lower stack and through the side rails. The top layer had been added after the seal was tied.
“That’s not how it was when we left the yard,” he said.
“Did someone add them?”
“One of the loaders did. Said they were going to the same stop.”
Neri did not ask which loader. She climbed onto the wheel step and checked the straps. “Dessa, support this side. Iven, take the end when I pass it.”
They removed the upper boards one at a time. The root seller took a position beside her cart, ready to move as soon as the road cleared. Tavin helped stack the boards against a wall where they would not obstruct the walkway. The two seated workers finished their food and joined in without being asked.
When the weight was reduced, they set the jack on a broad plate. Iven used his brace pattern to steady the wagon body for a moment while Corren tightened the jack, then released it and let the physical support carry the load. Corren removed the damaged wheel. The bearing had worn through its inner lining, and the axle showed a shallow score.
“Can you put it back long enough to move?” Iven asked.
“With packing. It won’t go far.”
“Far enough is all we need.”
Corren wrapped the axle with a strip of oiled cloth, refitted the wheel, and secured it. The workers pushed while Tavin guided from the front. The wagon rolled toward the wall with a reluctant grinding sound, but it moved. The road opened by a cart’s width.
The root seller passed through, then stopped beside Iven. “You’ve earned one.”
He accepted a paper cup of roots, hot enough that he had to hold it by the folded rim. She added a pinch of salt and a dark sauce that smelled of vinegar. He thanked her and ate standing by the road, watching Corren inspect the wheel again.
“Do you work for Krail?” Iven asked.
“I drive for whoever pays the wagon’s owner. Today it’s Krail.”
“Did you know the upper boards were added?”
“I knew the load felt wrong. I didn’t see them put on.”
Neri stood beside them. “The axle needs a new lining before you take it farther.”
“I know. My replacement is coming.”
“Where?”
“From the company yard.”
“How long ago did you send?”
Corren checked the shadow cast by the wall. “An hour.”
Iven looked at the narrow road. A wagon with a damaged bearing could block it again if moved too soon. “We can help you change it when it arrives.”
Corren’s expression tightened. “I don’t have money to pay for extra hands.”
“Neither do I,” Tavin said. “I’m offering because my passengers need the road.”
They waited. The root seller’s cart disappeared around the bend. Several people followed it, choosing the service route now that it was open. Iven finished the roots and kept the paper cup; the clean side might be useful for wrapping a small part.
A boy arrived from the yard carrying a bearing in a cloth sack. Corren opened it, then stared at the part.
“That’s too small.”
The boy shrugged. “That’s what they gave me.”
Iven checked it against the axle. Corren was right. The bearing would not fit the wagon’s hub. A number had been painted on its side, and the first two digits matched the worn marking on the old part. The third did not.
“Can you take it back?” Corren asked.
“The yard’s closed for the heat adjustment.”
“Then why did they send you?”
The boy looked offended. “I don’t know. I carry what I’m given.”
Neri examined the old bearing. “The lining is damaged, but the outer ring might be sound.”
Corren nodded reluctantly. “If we have the right lining.”
Dessa pointed toward her yard. “We have scrap bronze. We can make one.”
That meant more work. It also meant the road could stay open and Corren would not be ordered to drive a damaged wagon. He accepted before someone had time to tell him not to.
They carried the old bearing to the yard. Iven cleaned it while Neri measured the hub. Jem cut a strip of bronze to the required width. The lining had to curve evenly inside the ring without leaving a raised seam. Their first attempt buckled. The second fitted but left too little clearance for the axle.
Corren watched with his hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to do this.”
“We know,” Neri said.
He took one hand out and held the ring steady while Iven filed the lining. It was a small gesture, but it changed the work. The three of them could now check the fit without repeatedly setting the part down and picking it up again.
When the lining seated properly, they carried it back to the wagon and installed it. Corren greased the axle, turned the wheel by hand, and listened. It moved without grinding.
“Take it slowly,” Neri said.
“I intend to.”
He offered to pay them from his own pocket. Neri refused the money and asked him to tell the company yard which wrong bearing had been sent. Corren looked at the small part still lying in its sack.
“They’ll say I gave the boy the wrong number.”
“Then give them the number in writing.”
He borrowed Iven’s pencil and wrote the old and new markings on the back of the delivery slip. The boy signed that he had carried the part he was given. Corren folded the paper carefully and put it inside his coat.
By the time the wagon rolled away, the sun had shifted beyond the upper buildings. The heat adjustment began with a deep hum through the shared pipes. Iven went back to the access gate with Tavin and found the temporary hanger still holding.
The young guard had been relieved. Her replacement pointed at the notice when Tavin asked to use the gate.
“We’ve been around this already,” Tavin said.
“Then you know the order.”
Iven looked at the support line. The temporary hanger had not moved. The broken lip remained missing, and the new chain was taking the load exactly as Neri intended. Yet the order called for permanent support, and none had been installed.
“We need to talk to the board,” he said.
Tavin gave him a long look. “You say that like it’s a short trip.”
“It’s shorter than pushing a patient cart up the service road every day.”
“Only if the board listens.”
Neri joined them. “I can take the measurements and a proposal for the permanent bracket. If they authorize the material, my crew can install it tomorrow.”
“Will they authorize your crew?” Tavin asked.
“They might prefer Krail.”
“And if Krail’s busy?”
“Then perhaps they’ll prefer a closed gate.”
The guard shifted his weight. “I can’t let you through.”
“No one asked you to,” Neri said. “We’re going to the board.”
They left him with the gate and the notice. On the way, Iven passed the root seller coming down the service road with her pot empty. She had sold almost everything despite the delay. She raised a hand when she saw him, then pointed toward the wagon’s former place.
“Someone else is parked there now,” she called.
Tavin stopped walking. “Another wagon?”
“No. A cart with a broken wheel. The man says it won’t move.”
Iven looked at Neri. She looked at him.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were going to offer to fix it.”
“I was going to ask whether the man had eaten.”
Tavin sighed and turned toward the road. “Come on. If we clear the route first, we’ll have less to complain about when we reach the board.”
They found the cart where the seller had said, its wheel tilted under the load. The man beside it was older than Tavin and carrying a sack of flour on each shoulder. He lowered both sacks when he saw them approach.
“I can move it myself,” he said.
“We know,” Tavin replied. “We’ll help you do it sooner.”