Marrick pinned Flint's quarantine proclamations beneath the brass weights beside yesterday's raid reports.
Hajin slapped the seized drainage sketch down beside them and traced the same dry gullies crossing both sheets of paper. Across the table, Hans watched the prisoner twist against his bindings while the man barked yet another demand for release.
"Shut it, I'm reading," he snapped without looking up.
Marrick set the record log beside the proclamation rather than beneath it.
"Off-limits under emergency authority," he observed, running a finger toward the northern drain, "so nobody honest walks those gullies, and their patrols get an approach they can call illegal for everybody else."
"Cute trick, Flint closes the road and then his friends stroll down it."
The prisoner yanked at the cord binding his wrists to the chair.
"A trapper lost in fog, that's what you caught!" He jutted his battered chin toward the ceiling.
