Harrow counted. It was the thing he was for, and the third sitting was the first in which the names were heavy enough to need counting out loud.
He sat on the bench nearest the Roll with his count-cord across his knees and his hands resting on its knots, and he listened to the lectern, and when a name was read he said the number that went with it. One hundred and thirty-five. One hundred and thirty-six. He did not say it quickly. He waited, after each name, for the weight of the stone to settle in the Hall before he said the next figure, the way a mason waits for a block to take its bed before he lets go of it. A mason who let go too soon was a mason who would be picking the block out of the mortar by the end of the day.
The Great Hall was colder than it had been for the earlier sittings. The windows had been opened for the morning’s air and had not been shut again, and the grey light that came in across the flags was thin and sure of itself, the colour of the Caul in the early season when the rain has not yet decided. Harrow could smell the rain. He could smell the lime from the Mason’s Yard and the bread from Pell’s ovens and the cold stone of the dais. He did not say any of it. He counted.
