Tallow came down the slope to the Forge at first light with a folded paper in one hand and a sour look on his face, and Gaunt, who had been at the anvil since the bell, knew at once that somebody had asked for something he would have to object to.
“No,” said Gaunt, before the clerk reached the door.
“You have not heard the request.”
“I know what it is. It is the Oath. I have been hearing about the Oath since the thaw. The Oath is a sentence, Tallow, and a sentence does not belong in iron, and you are going to ask me to put it there anyway.” He brought the hammer down on the bar, twice, and watched the sparks go up across the dark of the Forge like a flock of small red birds. “What do you want, and how much iron do you want for it, and how long must I stand here objecting before you admit that I am right?”
“A plate,” said Tallow.
Gaunt stopped.
He did not turn round at once. He held the hammer over the bar and let the heat come up off the iron into his face, the way he always did when someone had asked him for a thing that would take more than a morning’s work. Then he set the hammer down on the bench and turned, slowly, with his bare arms folded and the scorched leather apron pulled tight at the waist.
