Sect Year 5 · eleventh month · night of day 28 · the fifty-second life: the Haskett bend on the river, his seventeenth year
Hob’s book was read out at the gate in the afternoon, and Emmer heard it from the barn before he saw the men. Hob stood on the cart step with the book held open at arm’s length, because his eyes were going, and his voice had no feeling in it at all. Pryce Haskett leaned on the gatepost with his arms folded and listened as if the figures were being read to somebody else.
“Week’s wage, withheld,” Hob read. “Month’s bread, withheld. Barn to be kept clean. Boy off the bend until the field is sown by the tally, or the beast is sold, whichever comes first.”
“Whichever comes first,” Pryce said. He looked past the gate at the bare grey field, and his mouth went thin under the moustache. “The butcher’s man can have the grey ox after the harvest, if there’s a harvest. Tell him so.”
“He’ll want it in writing.”
“Then write it.” Pryce turned away from the gate.
Emmer stood in the barn door with a bucket in each hand. Hob looked at him over the top of the book, and for a moment the tally-man seemed about to say something that was not in the figures. “It’s a poor year to be stubborn in, boy,” Hob said at last, quite low, so the gatepost would not hear.
