The Bond forms lay in a row down the length of the Great Hall’s long table, one for each of the Hands who had a seat, with a grey ribbon tied round each and a silver tray at the far end where Ossane’s clerk stood guard over a heap of shares. Gaunt looked at the row and disliked it at once. It was too straight. Nothing that was meant to be useful had ever lain so straight on a table in the Hold, and he said so.
“That is the first thing wrong with it,” he said. “It has been laid out by a man who has never carried anything heavier than a pen.”
“It has been laid out by a man who counted the chairs first,” said the clerk, with a bow that was barely respectful. “There are nine, Master Smith. Each awake Hand has one.”
“I can count the chairs. I have been counting them since the second winter. I can count a chair from the bottom of the forge-stair with a bad lamp and my arm in a sling.” Gaunt flexed his left arm, which was whole and strong, and held it up to show the room. “I can count the Hold’s iron. I can count the coal. I know what a labour is, and I know what a Bond is, and I will tell you what it does not have in it.”
