The closing sitting of the run was thirty-six names, and Mourner sang every one of them as it was read.
She sat in the awake seats with her head bowed and her hands on her knees, and she kept her eyes down. The Hall had filled again for the last sitting before the Quiet names, and Mourner could feel the crowd of it on the back of her neck, like a funeral coming up the slope behind her. The Lowgate fishwives were there, and the reed-cutters and the lodgers, and Osk at the door with his pencil. Gaunt was at the back bench with his arm in its sling. Korrin had not come in. He had been drilling his men since the bell, and Mourner had heard the shouts of the Hard Hands across the yard as she came up the Hall’s steps, left and turn and stop, as steady as any psalm.
Tobin read the names. Mourner had asked him to. She had asked him on the Mound, three nights before, in the grave-grass with the wind coming up off the Caul, and the boy had said yes in the plain way he said everything, and had not asked why.
