Idrin proposed the Writ at the candle-clock, with the Chamber still smelling of the afternoon’s arguments and the wick of the table-lamp hissing in the draught from the door. He had written it out three times on the back of the Chancellor’s letter, and the third draft was the only one he could read without his voice going thin on the words. It was short. He had made it short on purpose. A Writ that could not be read aloud in one breath was a Writ that someone else would one day read aloud for you.
“It names one site,” he said. “The gatehouse. Its board, and its box, and the stone it stands on. It declares that no clerk, envoy or commissioner of any crown may take a leaf from the Register, or from the Census, out of that place, without the Hold’s leave. The Hold’s leave is to be given by the Chamber’s voices and not by any single hand. That is all.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Gaunt stood up.
“I object,” he said. “And the box.”
“The box is empty, Gaunt,” said Pell, from the Mouth. “Nobody has ever wanted anything out of it.”
