Gaunt was called to speak on the statute, and he began, as he had always begun, by objecting.
He objected to the statute first. He objected to its binding, which was grey calf stamped with a Lessaran crown in gold that had flaked off at one corner, so that the crown looked as if it were slowly being eaten. He objected to the Chancery’s clerk, who had brought the statute to the witness bench in both hands, as a priest carries a relic, and who had set it down so carefully that Gaunt could hear the spine creak. He objected to the Chancery’s ink, which was blue-black and smelled faintly of cloves, and to the Chancery’s buttons, which had six petals and which he thought were too small to be honestly stamped. He had been objecting for some time before he had properly sat down, and he had not yet heard the question.
“Master Gaunt,” said the magistrate, patiently, “the Chancery’s clerk will read you the clause.”
“I have heard the clause. I have heard every clause in this Hold for two years, at the top of my lungs, from people who could not name the first line of the Charter of Shares. Read it. I will object to it afterward.”
