Ysra walked the Mason’s Yard with Sella and the copy’s record book on the thirty-ninth morning, and she counted the hours. She counted them as she counted everything, by the bell and the step and the number of times a thing could be done before it went wrong. The Yard was a square of trodden clay between the mason’s sheds and the outer wall, with a well in one corner and a long rack of tools along the shed-side, every blade hung on its own peg. The copy’s bench stood by the well under a lean-to of old tarpaulin. Its cold weight had not been moved from it since the Hosting term ended. Nobody had told it to stand up.
“Eight bells,” said Ysra. “That’s the rule. No Hand lends its time past eight bells in a day, and nobody watches the copy’s face in the Form’s hands for longer than the bell takes to ring. I’ll write it in the book, in my own hand, so it’s on the page before the lord’s clerks arrive to take the Form away.”
“The lord’s clerks will not like it,” said Sella, from the bench.
“The lord’s clerks will not be asked.”
