The Writ of Standing closed on the thirty-first day, at the second candle, with the minute-book open on the Chamber table and the Ink-lamp burning low beside it, and Tallow read the whole of the record aloud before anyone was allowed to leave the Hall.
He had decided that on the first night of the Writ. A record that was read aloud could be argued with. A record that was only written could be filed, and then forgotten, and then used against the people who had spoken into it. So he read it, in the order the testimonies had been given, and he gave each one its range, since the Writ had been a question of standing and a question of standing was always a matter of degree.
“Velvet, Chamberlain of the receiving-hall,” he read. “Testimony on the first sitting. The body keeps accounts, hosts guests, pours tea, and bows at the Turn. Sixty-one bows to the season, by my count. Range, nil. The duties are eleven. The eleventh is to flatter the prince, for which the witness has never been paid.” He paused, and the Hall, which had been quiet, made a small sound that was almost a laugh, and Velvet, at the receiving-hall’s door, bowed to the minute-book with enormous dignity. “Range, nought to one, as to the flattery, which the witness says is sincere when she means it.”
