The dawn sunlight had finally touched the granite chimney of the ferry landing. That turned the river mist from dull pewter to pale gold. Inside the back kitchen, the air was warm with the smell of toasted bread and fresh chicory tea. Auditor Varo Nenn unrolled the sixth and final leaf of Dutch rag paper. His horn metal pen tapped against the inkpot rim.
“Article Six,” Nenn announced, his glasses catching the morning light. “The Primacy of the Stop Bell. In every code of guild practice and military city law in the valley, the power to command a halt is reserved to the senior officer on site. An apprentice who drops his tools without an order is guilty of insubordination. A journeyman who shuts down a kiln without permission is liable for the spoiled clay. How do we frame this so the judges don’t see it as an invitation to chaos?”
Pella Rook picked up her small bronze stop bell, holding it up by its red braided cotton cord. In the morning light, the bell gleamed with a warm, humble bronze luster. It was plain by runes, crests, or academy mottoes. It was simply a bell that rang when pulled.
