The groove that Prit had scored across the river slate ran straight as an iron rule, dividing the white lines of hunger and valley secrets from the blank stone below. In the core’s blue light, the chalk dust in the trench looked like crushed bone.
“Now,” Noll said, gathering resonance into the foundation arch above the goblin’s head. “The condition that makes the house safe. Write clause three.”
Prit held the chalk poised, yellow eyes narrowed. “I am waiting for the latch. You promised a lock, showman. Make sure the tumblers catch before you drop the bolt.”
“Clause three,” Noll dictated, pacing words to the slow drip from the cistern pipe. “It answers only to a true host who keeps his room, and cannot cross a threshold while one true host remains.”
The chalk moved across the slate with deliberate care, digging into shale with quiet friction. When finished, the goblin tapped the word cannot twice with his bone claw. The sound was like a dried beetle falling onto a pine floor.
“A true host,” Prit said. “Who granted the title? Did you receive an engraved patent from the King’s Chamberlain? Is there a wax seal affixed to your navel that I missed while scraping mortar?”
