Mott sat at the receiving-hall table with her gloves off and her contract open before her, and across from her, very upright in the high chair, sat Casimir Vale with a cup of the Hold’s bitter tea going cold in his hands. The fire had been built up again since the morning. Velvet had been at the rail, at the table’s far end, all through the first half of the talk, with her back to the hearth and her hands folded. She had served the tea herself. She had not sat down. She had said nothing at all, and Mott had found the silence worse than any remark the Chamberlain might have made.
Before the price was named, Vale turned his cup slowly in his hands and looked at the broker across the table. “You are a Coldharbour woman, madam,” he said. “Tell me honestly. Does the Hold pay its debts in silver, or only in shares?”
“In shares,” said Mott. “Almost always. A Hold that has never had silver in its chests cannot be expected to know what to do with it.”
“And you think I am a fool to bring it.”
“I think you are a lord who counts,” said Mott, “and a man who counts is never a fool, my lord, only a slow one. The silver will be counted. The shares will be counted. The Form will not be counted at all, because it is not a sum. It is a person’s hands.”
