The long spruce assembly table on Track One was scrubbed clean of turnip grease, its surface lit up by two high-output copper lanterns fitted with polished tin curved reflectors. Around the boards stood twelve men and women, their breath plumed with cold. Their dark wool coats smelled of smoke and wet ballast.
Len Vey stood at the center of the table, his right hand steadying a fresh sheet of heavy linen-rag ledger paper against the wood. Beside him, Bram Ash dipped an iron dipping pen into a clay pot of lampblack ink. Meanwhile, Urel adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his thumb tracing the embossed contours of the solid silver oval that lay in the center of the table.
Urel held a small brass jeweler’s magnifying glass to his right eye, leaning close to the silver surface under the green flare of the copper flame. He drew a hardened steel scriber from his apron pocket and carefully checked the thickness of the metal at the rim. He tested the pushback of the casting.
“It’s authentic country silver,” Urel announced to the table. His voice carried the pedantic clarity of a star tower checker. “The alloy is ninety-two percent refined plate, eight percent copper stiffener. The hallmark on the upper bezel bears the three crossed hammers of the town mint, stamped during the first winter before the foundry was dismantled for boiler plate. The thickness is twenty-a tiny fraction of an inch at the crest. The weight is thirty-four ounces avoirdupois.”
