The kitchen table had been cleared of turnip peels and barley bowls, but the air remained charged with the scent of vinegar wash and old fear.
Noll Vey kept his voice low, channeling his sound through the mortar seam directly above the bread box. “You’re exaggerating, Prit. The ledger has its quirks, but it understands context. It knows the difference between a grand architectural claim and a bit of courtyard patter. On the road, a showman can tell the crowd his tent is woven from dragon silk, and nobody expects him to produce a fire-breathing lizard at the ticket booth.”
“The ledger has no understanding of context whatsoever,” Prit replied, standing on his stool so his skull was level with the flue. The bone steward had set his slate down on the pine table, but his three chalk stubs—white, grey, and red—stood upright in a neat, ominous row before him like three small gravestones. “The ledger is not an audience in a tavern, Master Vey. It is not an easily amused farmer who forgives a flourish because the jug of ale was cold. It is a legal instrument of absolute enforcement. It measures three things only: the claim declared, the witness belief registered, and the material state of reality required to balance the account.”
