Korrin ordered the broth stopped in two imperatives, which was his limit in any room that held a Mouth.
“Stop the bucket,” he said. He said it to the Kitchen door, with his shoulder against the frame and his fists in the pockets of his leather jerkin, and he did not glance at the stove. “Feed the Lash.”
It was the evening of the same day the Measure had been chalked, and the Kitchen was loud with the sound of pans being hung up for the night. Pell did not turn round. She had the broth bucket on the table in front of her, a wooden pail banded with iron, and she was wrapping its handle in a clean rag as if it were a child’s hand that had been cut.
“The Lash can eat the bucket if he wants a face of his own,” she said. “There is plenty of wood in the bucket. Take a bite.”
“The Kitchen will obey the Chamber.”
“The Chamber has not voted.”
“Then I am giving the order myself,” said Korrin, “as the Hard Hands always have.”
Pell turned round at that, slowly, with the rag still in her hand. Her face had the flat, watchful look it wore when she was deciding whether a loaf was done. “The Hard Hands,” she said, “have never fed anybody in this Hold except themselves. I know. I was here for the marsh raid. I counted the men you brought back in sacks.”
