Idrin brought the draft to the table in his own hand, and Tallow noticed that the hand was steadier than it had been the month before.
It was a small thing to notice. A clerk noticed small things. He had spent his life learning to see the difference between a pen that hesitated and a pen that had made up its mind, and he could tell from the first stroke of a page whether the man who wrote it had slept. Idrin had not slept well since the card came from Sallowmere. Tallow had seen the marks under his eyes. But the letters on the draft were firm and even, with no blots, and the lines ran straight across the sheet without the slight downward drift that had marked the Warden’s last three drafts, and Tallow thought that whatever else the Warden had lost that autumn, he had at least found his ruler again.
The draft was short. It sat on the Chamber table in front of Tallow with its three clauses in a neat column, and each clause began with the word shall.
The chapel bell of Ormhold shall be given to the iron of the Hold.
The Hold shall keep no bell that it cannot ring for itself.
