Clang.
The first stroke of the midday bell rolled out from the St. Jude bridge tower across the slate roofs and cobbled lanes of Harth—deep, clear, and wholly uncracked.
Jon heard the pure bronze note vibrate through the soles of his boots and up the limestone shaft of the market cross. In the seventh life, when he had stood by the bridge with Sister Oda waiting for the noon bell to split down its side at the sixth stroke as proof of the repeating days, the cracked clapper had sounded like a broken iron pot hammered in a ditch. This morning, while the guild masters were still counting their silver in the taproom before dawn, Alden Bram had sent his senior journeyman up the belfry ladder with two cured oak wedges and an iron wrench to tighten the loose crown-bolt in the bell headstock before the metal could fatigue.
Even the noon bell did not have to break when a mason knew where the crack started and climbed the ladder in time.
Clang.
At the second stroke, Jon took a small iron tack-hammer and four broad-headed wrought nails from Alden Bram’s tool-bag. While Lady Signe Lorr held the certified fair copy of the town compact flat against the cured oak proclamation post mounted on the south face of the market cross, Jon drove a nail cleanly into each of the four corners.
