The smell of roast mutton and wild marjoram drifted through the floor vent from Hobb’s kitchen, riding a wave of birch smoke and honest grease.
Deep in his socket in the limestone north wall, Noll Vey took in the scent through the mortar. He had no throat and no velvet-coated chest; his awareness was anchored in his uncollared blue stone. Yet after months of quiet labor, the mineral hummed with Agreement Warmth. Every bridge timber, every wagon Tomas hauled through the gate, and every copper paid into the road fund trickled into his core as heat. It was faint compared to the furnace of stolen credit he once commanded, but it carried no debt clock.
Beside the copper bell of the speaking tube sat a miniature walnut slide-rail that Tessa Dene had bolted into the wall. Fitted into the groove was a two-inch pointer of white filing chalk. Directing craft force through the lime seam, Noll could nudge the pointer along the rail or tap it against the stone ledge with a dry tock.
“Keep your elbow down, Hobb!” Prit’s dry voice rattled through the speaking tube. “If you spill grease across the ticket slate, Cale will spend three hours scraping wax.”
