The stillness inside the four brick walls of the forge shop was dense, cold, and total.
Outside in the rail cut, the roar of venting steam chimney pipes continued its uneven, churning rhythm, and from the northern switchbacks came the distant, metal clatter of Chancellor Morn’s Star tower court guards shifting their positions along the high iron narrow high walkways. But here, on the dry stonework floor behind the chimney pipes, the air seemed drained of motion, as though an exhaust valve had drawn the heat and pressure out of the room and left only cold melted rock waste behind.
Bram Ash stood with his head bowed, his boots anchored in the damp coal dust that coated the flat stone slabs. His uninjured left hand rested heavily upon the worn checkered walnut grip of his service revolver, still buttoned inside its stiff leather holster. His right shoulder, swollen where the depot guard’s carbine ball had gouged through the shoulder muscle three days before, throbbed with a slow, sickening heat. The linen binding under his wool tunic was yellowed with stale drainage and smelled faintly of vinegar and fever. That sharp rot caught in the back of his throat whenever he took a breath.
