Tallow called the division with the formal words, because the Charter-law required them and because he had always loved a formal word that did exactly what it said.
“The Chamber of Hands is called to vote on the Charter of the Bells,” he said. He said it into the quiet of the Great Hall at the candle-clock, with the nine seats filled and the copies lying on the table before each Hand, and he heard his voice go out over the benches and come back off the high windows, precise and level, the voice of a clerk who had counted every chair and found each one occupied. “The Charter is a Full Charter. It requires the assent of every awake Hand, in the seats. The Chamber has nine seats. Nine voices are required. No abstention is permitted. Any Hand absent from the table when its name is read is counted as not voting, and therefore as a no.”
He wrote the count in the margin before he began, in the small clear strokes he used for sums. Nine seats. Nine yes required. No abstention. He underlined the last line. He did not glance at the goats’ side of the table as he wrote it. He had already seen Tamsin’s face when she came in, and it had been the face of a woman who has not slept and has decided she will not be told when to sleep.
