Idrin laid out what the Courier had said, one clause at a time, as the Hall had heard it, because a Warden who could not say his own name must at least be able to say the Crown’s.
He did it the next morning, at the head of the casks, with the Hall’s shutters open and the grey light falling across the table in long bars. The Chamber sat in its usual half-circle. Tallow had the minute-book open at the page of the night before and a second sheet beside it, blank, for the Warden’s own copy. Velvet sat at the right hand with her shawl folded and her face composed. Gaunt sat with his arms folded and his jaw set, as though the Crown’s clauses were a bad joint of meat he had been asked to carve and had already decided not to like. Korrin had come in late from the causeway and stood against the east wall with his fists in his pockets, listening, and Pell had sent up the bread with a sharp word and no explanation.
“The purse is real,” said Idrin. “Tallow has the bond-form in the minute. A silver seat for each awake Hand, paid to its owner and held in a Lessary bank. The clause says the seat is forfeit if the body is ever counted as one.”
