The lease was old, and it had been kept well, and that was the first thing Idrin noticed about it when his brother finally drew it out of the case.
It was the Crown’s own copy. He knew that from the paper. It was the thick cream stock the Chancery had bought in bulk from the mills at the head of the Sallow, the kind that had been used for the Assembly’s rolls since before he was born, and it had not yellowed in its leather. The Crown’s seal was at the foot, in red wax gone dark at the edges like a bruise that has been left too long in the air. Beneath the seal the Chancery’s cramped and beautiful hand ran down the leaf in neat ruled columns, each line set with a clerk’s pale guide-lines so that nothing could drift. The ink had not run in the rain. Where the water had struck the surface it had beaded and rolled and left the letters clean, as if someone had polished every word after it was written.
Corvin held the corners down with two fingers each. His hands were shaking very slightly. Idrin saw that, and did not mention it, and his brother did not glance at his own hands at all.
