Market-day arrived with elbows.
Stalls flowered along the Grand Square like arguments—bright, insistent, convinced of their own necessity. Canopies flared; ropes stretched; awnings claimed sky. Perfume unfurled from three corners at once—citrus on the north wind, resin from the east, an ambitious violet fighting to be remembered. A troupe hammered flats against the theater wall and stapled a poster of a prince who had never done a day's labor in his painted life. The bell sent its three-note chord across barrows of pears, baskets of nails, and bins of paper-eared pins; the third tone held a beat longer as if to say, walk, don't shove.
On the north terrace, notices from the week stood like a forest: Tools Non-Collateral with teeth; No Inheritance in Remedy in letters big enough to shame a ship; Advertising Is Not Fee with a new subclause stenciled beneath in fresh paint:
SCENT IS INVITATIONPRICE ON BOTTLE, NOT AIR
Halvern met Team Two halfway down the Academy stairs with a bundle of cards bound in twine and a pen that had declared itself married to his cuff. "Docket," he said, delighted and horrified. "Three perfumers attempting 'breath fee' in alleys. Theater wants to charge 'viewing tax' to look at the prince painting. And the Shade Guild—" he grimaced—"a syndicate of canopy owners—have invented cooling rights."
Rowan brightened as men do when offered a fight that requires wit instead of wrists. "A crime I can nap under."
"Elane wants a Market Protocol," Mikel said, already thinking in numbered paragraphs. "Public ways versus private stalls; shade and queue etiquette; music and noise; ad vs product."
Serren leaned his staff to the jamb, punctuation heavy enough to be law. "And the hawk cousin," he reminded them. "Verrin won't waste market-day."
Celina tied her ribbon; the gold beneath green glowed the way a hearth does when a house wakes. Ernest set both palms on the sill and let the stone warm—table, not pulpit.
"Square first," he said. "Then the alleys. Then the theater."
The Shade Guild had chosen to wear black as if color could make a noun into a crown. Their canopies arced over the central lane like tarred wings. A painted placard swung from the lead pole, letters thick with entitlement:
COOLING RIGHTS – ONE COPPER PER HEAD(REFUNDED WITH PURCHASE AT PARTICIPATING STALLS)
Two boys under the awning held out bowls with practiced hands. A grandmother in line for radishes clutched her coin with insulted fingers and refused to move. A baker's runner squinted under the black cloth and decided to deliver bread by sun rather than participate in someone else's shade.
Magistra Elane stood beneath the placard and did not look smaller for being in shadow. "By Concord," she said, voice pitched for accuracy, not theatrics, "no fees for public listening, standing, or breathing. By City Covenant: no ribs counted. Shade over public way is commons. Price belongs on product."
One of the Shade Guild men—a tidy jaw, a too-new coat, confidence purchased with someone else's patience—tapped the placard. "Inventory," he said. "We maintain cloth, poles, ropes. We keep heat off the poor. We charge those who can pay. Refund at participating stalls."
"'Participating' means 'bullied,'" Countess Gold said, appearing with the sun behind her so the Guild could enjoy an honest silhouette. "Who signs your writ?"
The man smiled with Verrin's manners and none of his skill. "Civic convenience."
Elane lifted a hand. "Badge," she said, and the wooden ear on his collar answered before he could: warmed, bled paint, wrote coin along its rim like a guilty whisper.
"Take it off," Rowan told him, pleasant as winter. "Keep your shirt."
He hesitated. Serren set his staff on the cobble with a sound that turned ambition into arithmetic. The man removed the ear.
"Shade," Ernest said, palm on the pole. "Name."
The cloth warmed. Air under it cooled without arrogance. Letters crawled along the hem where pitch had smeared last year: cover, comfort, invite.
"Not charge," Celina added. The ribbon on her wrist beat once; the cloth quivered, then settled like a dog told to heel.
"Protocol," Elane said to Halvern.
He wrote, the ink dry before sense:
MARKET PROTOCOL — PUBLIC WAYSSHADE OVER PUBLIC LANE IS COMMONS.PRICE ON PRODUCT, NOT SKY.SEATING FEE ONLY WITH PURCHASE AND POSTED.QUEUE IS COMMONS; NO RENT.MUSIC IS INVITATION; PRICE ON PERFORMANCE, NOT AIR.WITNESSES: COBBLE, POLE, ROPE, RIBS.
"Refund those you charged," Lady Aldery said to the Guild, winter gentle as iron. "Publicly."
The Guild man looked at coins in his bowl he had not earned. He poured them back into palms with a face learning a cheaper theology than he'd hoped. The grandmother took her copper, kept her place in the radish line, and muttered good in a tone that made boys stand straighter.
Countess Gold tapped the placard. "Leave the cloth," she said. "Take down the fee. If you wish to be paid, sell awnings to stallholders. Do not tax the sky."
The man started to argue. Mikel lifted his chronometer and caught the second hand waiting to be fair. "We will be here all day," he said cheerfully. "Time has consented."
The placard came down with a sulk. The shade stayed, free and suddenly sweeter.
"Next," Elane said. "Perfume."
The first perfumer had erected a screen across the alley to bottle wind. The sign on the barrel at the entrance read:
BREATH-FEE 1 COPPER — DEDUCTED WITH VIAL
Inside, glass winked; a woman in clean linen wafted cards; a boy stood at the edge with two coins and the expression of someone who had come to scent his mother's shawl because a job at the dye vats had taken her salt.
"Invitation," Celina said. She stood in the opening, ribbon warm, and the resin on the air made a small, honest bow. "Scent is invitation."
Elane pinned the sub-clause to the screen with the cedar wand like a spine. "Price on bottle," she said. "Not lungs."
The perfumer's mouth tightened. "We stave off headaches," she said. "We keep lingerers from crowding customers."
"Post no obligation and a Sweep Jar," Countess Gold advised, pragmatic as sunshine. "Hire a girl to shoo and pay her coin. Do not launder management through piety."
The perfumer hesitated; then, with relief only the honest ever enjoy, she took down the barrel and set out a jar labeled BROOM. Coins made a kinder noise against glass.
Two alleys over, a rival had tried subtler fraud: a sign read TITHED AIR in a hand that hoped law was illiterate. Halvern laughed, wrote NO, and pinned SCENT IS INVITATION over it. A priest skulked three doors down with a bowl; Ernest looked at him and the bowl wrote obedience of its own accord. The priest blushed, removed himself, and returned five minutes later with a broom.
Rowan leaned to Mikel as they walked. "We're going to teach a city how to be petty without being cruel."
"We already are," Mikel said, pleased.
At the theater, a painted prince twenty feet tall frowned at a city that refused to pay to admire him. A little booth at the square's edge sported a sign:
VIEWING TAX — ONE COPPER(DEDUCTED WITH TICKET)
A line of children who had never seen velvet this close stood with mouths open and fists shut.
"Advertising is not fee," Elane said, pinning the card to the booth so hard the nail learned grammar. "Poster is invitation. Price on ticket."
The impresario tripped out in sleeves that had learned to applaud themselves. "We must protect art," he declared, daring grief.
"Protect it from accounting, then," Countess Gold said pleasantly. "Not from eyes."
"Musicians are paid by hat," he protested. "Why not painters by poster?"
"Because hats are jars," Mikel said. "And jars are not trays. And you cannot throw a poster on stage."
Celina stepped close to the canvas and inhaled. Paint warmed, embarrassed to be enlisted as a debt. The prince's frown softened a fraction, as if art had learned to listen.
Rowan leaned on the booth. "Set a jar," he advised. "Label it Poster Fund. Write no obligation so the jar behaves. Ask your donors to fund extra paint for children who can't afford it inside."
The impresario blinked—surprised to find generosity with teeth. He set a jar. It filled. He looked ashamed and then overjoyed; he would be unbearable by supper and useful in the morning.
"Protocol!" Halvern cried happily, writing:
MARKET PROTOCOL — ADVERTISINGPOSTERS, SCENT, TASTERS, SAMPLE SONGS = INVITATION.NO FEE FOR LOOKING, SMELLING, HEARING, TASTING.PRICE ON PRODUCT; DONATION JAR ALLOWED (NO OBLIGATION).WITNESSES: WALL, AIR, EAR, RIBS.
Elane posted it on the theater door. The painted prince declined to charge. The city breathed.
Back at the square, the Shade Guild had learned to behave. The crowd had learned to like itself. That was when Verrin arrived—with tailors.
The hawk cousin wore gray so polite it disappeared. At his shoulder, four men in new coats carried a banner between them:
CIVIC ORDER PATROL(BY HOUSE SUBSCRIPTION)
Their pins were ears with laurel scrolls—fine metal, embossed, expensive. They glinted like authority and smelled like forgery.
"Inspection of queues," Verrin announced, register smooth. "Avoiding disorder. A copper to register your place. Deducted with purchase."
A hiss traveled the square like a fuse being lit. Children looked for adults to throw at the problem.
Elane didn't move. She simply breathed, which in this city had become a public act. "By Concord," she said, "queue is commons. No rent."
The Patrol's leader smiled in apology to the middle distance. "Voluntary donation then," he said, lowering the sign by a hair. "To keep lines honest."
"Name your appetite," Ernest told the laurel ear on his lapel.
The pin wrote leverage in luster that didn't wash off.
"Take it off," Rowan said. "Keep your shirt."
"Your badge maker?" Verrin said softly to Countess Gold. "He works quickly."
"He works honestly," she said. "The harder trick."
Lady Aldery stood a pace behind Elane, winter in her mouth and pride she refused to show in her hands. "Leave the square," she told Verrin. "You have paid your fine for this morning. Do not audition to pay another."
"Public minutes," Halvern reminded him merrily, shaking the card bound for the notice board: QUEUE RENT—ATTEMPTED. REFUSED. NAME: VERRIN.
Verrin gave a bow so shallow it counted as an insult in polite countries. "We withdraw," he said. "We will return with subscription."
"Return with permission," Elane answered.
He left. The Patrol in fine coats went with him, laurel ears dulled, pockets as light as their writ.
"Draft an oath for queue stewards," Mikel said, practical. "Let citizens volunteer to keep order, not rent it."
Ernest nodded and gave the square a sentence to memorize:
We stand where lines forget.We hold the place and not the purse.We speak price on product, not on feet.We leave when asked and write what we saw.Witness: rope and ribs.
Pins lifted. Two grandmothers took sashes, not power. The line for radishes straightened like spelling corrected into kindness.
By noon, the square had learned the Market Protocol well enough to teach itself. Perfume jars labeled BROOM glinted. Theater jars labeled POSTER FUND filled with coins and a paper fish from West Wharf. Shade stayed, free, improved by honesty. The only shouting came from hawkers who now knew the difference between invitation and demand and enjoyed performing it.
In the lull that follows a lesson, the old priest climbed the chapel steps with winter in his lashes and something uncertain in his mouth. He stood under the arch and began to sing—not as an order, not as a lure, but as an act of listening the city could share.
The hymn named nouns in a tune the square recognized from childhood patience: door, pole, rope, bowl, bench, bell, bread. No verbs bent ribs. The notes pressed lightly into stone and stayed there, making room for breath instead of taxing it. Children shut up without being shushed. Dogs sat. A hawker cried apples! and it sounded like a courtesy.
The theater poster's prince seemed to frown less. The perfumer dabbed resin on her wrist and did not charge herself. The Shade Guild man—stripped of fee—stood in his own shadow and did not feel cheated. The bell answered the hymn's last line with its third note—mediator, faithful—and the square applauded without being asked.
"Approved," Celina said to the priest, and the ribbon on her wrist beat once.
He smiled like a man given work he had wanted all his life.
Afternoon brought enforcement, not argument. Elane's little room turned into a jaw. Clerks stacked Market Protocol cards. Queue stewards bound white cloth around sleeves. Perfumers brought jars to be labeled BROOM in a standard hand. The badge maker arrived with a satchel of ugly ears and a stencil for QUEUE IS COMMONS and left with paint on his fingers and legitimacy in his bones.
Countess Gold posted FINES PAID in her careful script: a Shade Guild tally (returned), a perfumer's barrel (replaced with jar), a theater viewing tax (removed), a laurel-ear Patrol (dismissed). Beside it, Lady Aldery posted HOUSE ACCOUNTS FOR SWEEPING from Blue Lane—names of kitchen boys who had scuffed and apologized and the coins attached to the act of not being a brute.
At the bottom, Halvern tacked MARKET PROTOCOL—TEETH:
FALSE FEE ON COMMONS: FINE + PUBLIC APOLOGY (ON SITE).QUEUE RENT: FINE + ONE DAY AS STEWARD (LISTEN ONLY).ADVERTISING TAX: FINE + POSTER FUND JAR (NO OBLIGATION).SCENT FEE: FINE + BROOM JAR (NO OBLIGATION).SHADE FEE: FINE + DONATION OF CLOTH TO STALL OF CITY'S CHOICE.FORGED LAUREL EAR: DELIVERY OF ALL TO OFFICE; MAKER TO SAND OFF LIES.
Serren thumped his staff; wood liked being vocabulary.
Jem came up from the Foundry with the foreman at his side and knots in his hands that could save brothers by name. The Riverkeeper boy stood beside him and did not move when a hawk cousin walked past. The cousin lowered his eyes first.
The terrace filled with a day possible only because everyone had been slightly better than yesterday. Complaint board: two entries, both solved. Market Protocol read aloud by a grandmother whose teeth whistled on the word commons and made it sound like a kiss.
Verrin did not return. His name on the board did the speaking.
The baker from Blue Lane delivered a jar labeled SWEEP half full of coins and half full of stories. "No obligation," he reported. "Plenty of apology." Lady Aldery turned to a kitchen boy in winter blue who had been named and was trying not to cry. "Two weeks of alley duty," she said. "Bring receipts." He nodded, contrition relieved of poetry.
The perfumer sent a girl with a broom to present it to the board as if to a saint. The board, being wood, did not smile and approved anyway.
Elane held up the last card of the day and read it, not as law but as a promise scratch-written into a city's margin:
MARKET PROTOCOL IN FORCECOMMONS HELD BY WITNESS.PRICE ON PRODUCT.NO LIEN IN SKY OR SCENT.PEOPLE PRACTICE.
The square applauded itself. It deserved to.
They ate in the dormitory window because tradition that costs no one's ribs is worth keeping until it becomes furniture. Rowan had shade under his eyes and no appetite for punching; he called that progress and chewed anyway. Mikel set his chronometer next to a Market Protocol card and enjoyed watching time share a sill with courtesy. Celina untied her ribbon; the warmth stayed, and outside, a canopy on the square sat content under moonlight, unpaid and beautiful.
Ernest laid the day on the stone: a strip of black cloth with the fee cut off, a perfumer's BROOM label smudged with resin, a laurel ear with the lie sanded away, a corner of a poster confessing NO VIEWING TAX in a freshly embarrassed hand. He opened his notebook and gave the city its arithmetic:
Shade Guild—cooling rights removed; Market Protocol—Public Ways posted; refunds made; cloth remains as commons.
Perfume—Scent is Invitation enforced; barrels to jars; priests repurposed to brooms; no obligation codified.
Theater—Advertising Is Not Fee enforced; Poster Fund jars allowed; impresario bearable by morning.
Queue—laurel-ear Patrol dismissed; Queue Steward Oath drafted; grandmothers sworn; rope is witness.
Old priest—hymn that listens approved; stone learns nouns.
House—Blue Lane sweep accounts posted; boys apologized; coins paid; Verrin's attempt recorded and refused.
Next: audit Shade Guild contracts; market-day protocol into law; watch laurel-ear forgeries; prepare "Noise as Invitation" clause before drummers wake the dead; begin Festival protocol (saint, stalls, no liens).
He closed the book and set both palms on the sill. The stone warmed—table, not pulpit—and seemed pleased to hold lists that did not hurt people.
Down in the yard, first-years found the chord and kept it; the bell answered contentedly.
Rowan tipped his chair back and, without opening his eyes, offered the ritual that had learned to be both lullaby and ledger.
"The forest bent," he said.
"The nobles bowed," Mikel replied, punctuation softened to affection.
"The beast knelt," Celina said, memory kept clean.
"The chain obeyed," Rowan finished. "The mirrors cracked. The heirs knelt. The priests hungered. Light bent. Silence held. Stone listened."
Ernest added, looking out at a square where shade was free and jars did not lie and a hymn had been taught to hear walls first, "And the market learned not to charge the sky."
Night agreed.The city slept with coins in jars and breath in ribs.Tomorrow would arrive with drums, paper, and a man in gray who believes parentheses can still win. The world would bring its clause; the pins would be ready.