The letter came up the causeway on the ninth morning, under the stay, carried by a Lessaran rider who did not dismount and did not glance at the Hold’s arch. He handed it to the Dovereach picket at the causeway’s foot, and the picket handed it to Quill’s clerk, and Quill’s clerk, who had been told by his magistrate to be precise, carried it up the Hall’s steps with both hands and gave it to Tallow with a small formal bow, as if the letter had been a summons.
Tallow took it to the Gatehouse. He did not open it at once. He sat under the cold lamp with the envelope on the table in front of him and his hands folded beside it, and he looked at the wax.
“The Magistrate asks whether it is a summons,” said Quill’s clerk, from the doorway, very precisely. “She would like to know before the Bench does.”
“Tell her it is a request dressed as a summons,” said Tallow, without looking up. “She will know the difference. She reads both.”
The wax was Chancery wax. It was a dark crimson, almost brown at its edges, and it had been pressed with the Lessary crown and wheat, and the crown was too heavy in the centre and the wheat was tied too tight at the band. He knew that die. He had seen its impression once already this week, under the stitch of a book, wet with the Hold’s rain. He had also…
