At the center of the Ferry Museum gallery, raised on a sturdy oak staging platform that gave him a clear view of all three river stations through the wide casements, stood Eren Tal. His leather work apron was tied firm, his four-pound ash framing mallet held loosely in his right hand, its polished face resting against the lip of the great bronze stop bell.
He didn’t hold a copper wire. He didn’t look at exact charts or audit ledgers. His task was far more vital: he was the human conscience of the operation. His sharp, weathered eyes scanned the flags flying from the basin tower. The smoke rose from Merrow’s chimneys. The faces of Pella and Kel as they held their terminals.
“I’m watching the people, Pella,” Eren said quietly, his voice like the steady thud of an oak mallet on dry hickory. “You scholars watch the water. You watch your needles and your numbers. But my eyes are on your wrists. If I see your skin go gray. Or your knees begin to buckle, this mallet falls on this bronze bell, and this entire shift ends. We don’t save this city by killing our children.” Pella looked up at the old wheelwright, feeling an overwhelming, grounding thanks. With Eren on the bell, no apprentice would ever be sacrificed to a royal dream.
