Ossane’s clerk came up the Lamentine road on the second morning after the drafting, carrying the Chancery’s copy of the Oath in a flat leather satchel, and he delivered it to the Gatehouse door with a bow so deep that Tallow, watching from the top of the stair, wondered whether the man had been practising it in the coach.
He was a young man, thin and quick, with a good grey coat and a face that wanted very badly to be liked. He gave his name as Corvey, and his master’s compliments, and he said that Lady Ossane had asked him to see the paper into the Regent’s own hand and to witness the Hold’s reception of it, so that the Chancery might report to Sallowmere that the Hold had received its Lessaran copy in good order.
“In good order,” said Tallow, from the stair.
“Yes, sir.”
“That is a Chancery phrase.”
“It is, sir. The Chancery does like its phrases.” Corvey beamed. “I was told you would be particular about the wording.”
“I am always particular about the wording,” said Tallow. “It is the only part of the Hold I have ever been asked to keep.”
He came down the stair, and took the satchel from the clerk’s hands, and opened it on the Gatehouse table with the care of a man who expects to be quoted against himself. Inside, wrapped in a sheet of grey Chancery paper, was the Oath.
