Broken Bell Street lay like a match someone had forgotten in the rain. At its end stood the Old Ledger Hall: mottled stone walls, a bronze bell with a split mouth hanging over the lintel, its clapper skewed as if it had just done something wrong.
19:07. Archibald raised his wrist to check the time. "We're eight minutes early. Good. Neutral institutions favor punctuality."
Piers didn't go in. He stayed at the mouth of the street, watching the passing shadows. Before leaving, he pressed the little badge engraved with E.M.
into Elias's palm. "Young master, when you make your choice, don't forget your surname." Then he set the umbrella tip into a crack between the cobbles and stood guard without a sound.
Inside the Old Ledger Hall it was bright, but there was no smell of fire. Light fell from a skylight, circling the round platform at the center in pale gold. That was the oath dais. Gray-wood benches were set about it, part courtroom, part bank.
Behind the dais sat a tall, gaunt registrar in black with a white collar, his gaze like two sharpened quills. "Name of the contracting party?"
"Elias Morton." Elias stepped forward, his heartbeat as steady as the old pendulum clock beneath the dais.
The registrar nodded and wrote a line in the ledger. "Contracting party: Night-Oath Ledger Office. Observers: none." He glanced at Archibald. "Your guarantor?"
"Archibald Greenwell."
"Very good." The registrar capped his pen and tapped a brass stud. "Activate the dais. Proceed to the Three Questions of Settlement."
The platform gave a faint tremor. Thin light rose from the seams of the stone, weaving into an invisible net that settled over Elias's shoulders like a cooling mantle.
First, the name. The light drew tight; heat bloomed in his chest. The scarlet-gold oath seal he had pressed twelve years ago surfaced of its own accord, as if lifting from deep water. The registrar looked once. "Seal valid. Unaltered."
Second, the price. "To enter covenant you must pledge one of: blood, time, or name. First signing, minimum quota." He pushed over a silver tray. On it lay a fine needle, an hourglass, and a thin blank chit.
"For a first signing, a single drop of blood suffices," Archibald murmured. "If you choose the Gear Pact, additionally pledge one night's sleep as trial-calculation cost."
Elias nodded. He set his fingertip to the needle; a bead of blood welled and fell into the silver tray. The hourglass was turned; only three marks' worth of sand slipped down. The chit stayed blank, as if waiting for him to speak.
Third, the path. Three dim sigils surfaced on the dais: gear, aether, frostsong. They were like three half-open doors, wind whispering behind them.
Just then the cracked bell shivered. Not the hour—more like that small tooth-on-tooth bite that makes your molars ache.
Elias cocked his head. He heard it—not bell, but teeth. Someone had meddled with a gear inside the bell; one tooth had been chamfered.
When that notch came round it would catch; at the catch, the light-net of the dais would slacken by a thread. Slacken by a thread, and it was enough for someone outside to slip in a finger.
At the door seam, a dusky oak-shadow moth clung to the wall, a needle on its belly fine to invisibility. It was aligned to that one loosened line of the net, poised to stab in.
"Black Oak Society," Archibald said, voice gone cold.
"No conflict in a neutral zone," the registrar looked up, his voice harder than the bell.
"They won't fight, only steal," Elias said. He turned the badge in his palm; his fingertips chilled—the tooth-song grew ever clearer, like someone drawing circles beside his ear. Suddenly he knew what to do.
"I choose—the Gear Pact." He lifted his head, every word precise.
"Reason?" asked the registrar.
"Because I can already hear it." Elias went to the edge of the dais, eyes on the cracked bell. "If I don't put it back into the proper rhythm at once, today's contract will record a note written by someone else."
Archibald smiled faintly and offered him a short, slender metal pen. "A temporary contract-tool. Borrow it once."
"Thank you." Elias didn't take it from him. He clipped his old badge onto the tail of the metal pen and tightened it; then scraped the pen barrel once along the rim of the silver tray, teasing out the finest whine.
The whine was like an invisible filament, crawling through the air into the bell's cavity. He closed his eyes, followed that line, and gave it the slightest push.
"Reso—nance," he murmured.
Some frequency within the bell chamber was struck. The snagging notch gave a quick shiver; the tooth slid aside as if nudged by a gentle finger and yielded past the misalignment.
A heartbeat later the bell returned to the exact hour—clear, even, like a paper-knife. The light-net over the dais snapped taut again. The oak-shadow moth hit the floor with a papery flutter and was sliced neatly in two.
The registrar tilted his head at him for a few seconds, then set his quill square. "Choice confirmed. Gear Pact, Initiate."
A fine slit opened at the center of the dais and a small, black-bound booklet rose up. Its spine was brass, its corners sheathed in cold gleam.
Archibald nodded. "Your first contract-tool—the Resonance Notebook. Record every frequency you can hear, and amplify or cancel them when needed. Remember, amplification has a cost."
The booklet settled into Elias's palm like a docile small beast. He flipped it open, and the first page wrote itself: E.M., Gear Pact, Initiate. A second line followed at once: Today's trial-calculation cost—one night's sleep.
"Acceptable," Elias said. He stifled a small, almost invisible yawn, then smiled. Good thing he didn't have school today.
The registrar slid the blank chit back to him. "Final step. Name and blood pledged; sign your self-clearing, self-settlement terms on the self-pay slip.
Violate any of the three, and the Ledger Office has the right to freeze your tools: one, incur no debt without provenance; two, do not, by gear, interfere with the will of the living; three, all traded power must have its cost recorded—no defaulting."
Elias considered for three seconds and set down the pen. "Agreed. But I need to add one clause: my name may not be used as guaranty for a third party." He capped the pen and looked up at the registrar. "I don't want anyone signing with my name again."
"Clause accepted." The registrar stamped the copper seal. The light-net drew in, becoming a thin ring that closed around his right index finger. Tiny numbers were etched inside the band: 00:41:23.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Cooldown until midnight. Once you leave here, you'll enter the contest-signing window," the registrar said lightly. "Until the hour, both you and the opposing side have the right, by lawful means, to vie for your name. You've signed with us—you hold the advantage."
Archibald tapped his cane lightly on the floor. "We go. To get the syllabus."
"The syllabus?" Elias arched a brow.
"The Academy of Pact-Law's," the old man said with gentle humor. "You passed entry with excellent field calculation; the Academy will be pleased to see you. The pre-admission assessment is in three days. Prepare."
They turned to go when the registrar suddenly called Elias back and handed him a small strip wrapped in wax paper. "A postscript. By regulation, a neutral hall may not disclose information privately.
But at an initial signing the dais grants the signatory one unpaid hint—the invoice for this lead has already been settled; it was merely unclaimed."
Elias unfolded the slip. On it were a string of coordinates and two lines: Sunken Bell Tower, cellar level; IOU proxy signatory—R.M.
R.M. The two letters burned a dark watermark into the paper. Elias's throat tightened, then eased. He folded the slip into quarters and tucked it into the inner pocket of the Resonance Notebook.
"Thank you," he said, inclining his head to the registrar.
Outside, night wind swept along Broken Bell Street and made the cracked bell ring even clearer. Piers came up with the umbrella, a momentary flash of relief in his eyes. "Signed?"
"Signed." Elias raised the booklet. "And I owe a night's sleep."
"Then I'll brew the coffee stronger tonight," Piers said, a rare joke.
From the shadow at the corner, that airy woman's voice sounded again. "Congratulations, Master Morton. The gears are turning. We'll see you at midnight—the Sunken Bell Tower isn't far."
Archibald didn't look over; he only drew the silver thread tighter. "Let them wait. We'll go to the Academy first and hang your name on the proper door."
Elias nodded. He pressed the ring inward and felt a faint chill beneath his skin. The digits inside the band ticked back by a second. He understood: from now on, every second counted.
They set off down the street. The lamps were like sheets of white paper, pushing the shadows to the margins. The booklet warmed in his palm, like a cat waking in his arms.