On the dark rock coping of the southern low roof wall, the three clockwork chronometers arrived at the first hour of the ninth day.
Len Vey’s silver pocket watch gave a delicate, metal ting as its internal striker struck the tiny steel chime wire coiled inside the turnip case.
Doma Reel’s tin kitchen timer answered an eighth of a second later, its heavy brass internal ratchet tripping its final gear catch tooth with a flat, dry clink that shook through the cracked mica face.
And then, from inside the polished dark wood case of the Tram station control valve, the four-pound lead-filled swinging weight swung through the center of its swing, releasing the bronze hammer against the four-inch coiled spiral gong mounted to the backboard.
BONG.
The chime was deep, ringing, and solemn as an iron bell tolling across a frozen lake. It rolled across the granite flat stone slabs of the cooling court terrace, struck the upright quartz wall of the inner castle wall. Then it echoed away into the black void of the northern gorge, carried by the rising southern wind.
One o’clock in the morning.
In the outside world, three hundred miles to the north beyond the Sentinel Crags and the high plateau, that single chime was being repeated in a thousand ordinary towns. In the way-stations along the Great North Road, night couriers were blowing out their animal fat candles. They pulled their sheepskin mittens over their fingers. Then they stepped into stable yards where the…
