The Chamber sat in the Great Hall with all nine of its seats filled, which had not happened often since the Articles were signed, and Idrin, standing before the dais with the Full Writ in his hands, could feel the nine of them as a man feels the weight of a coat on his shoulders. They were all there. Harrow on the bench nearest the Roll, with his cord across his knees and his mouth set. Tallow at the minutes, with the Ink-pot squared at his elbow. Pell on the bottom step, floured to the wrists, and Korrin on the wall with his arms folded, and Gaunt on the bench with his crooked arm strapped and his good fist on his thigh. Tamsin in her chair by the door, with her hands in her lap. Ysra at the back, where she could see every exit. Tobin on the bone-keeper’s stool, with his coat hanging open and his small hands folded on his knee. And Mourner at the far end of the ring, with her Form turned up toward the lamps, very still, as a grave is still before the first spade goes in.
Nine. The Chamber had not counted nine since the Charter of Forms, and before that it had not counted nine since the Articles, and Idrin, who had counted every one of them, had not once been able to stop counting them since he came into the Hold.
