The snapped feed pawl sat on the center of the drafting table, lit up by the harsh white glare of an oil lantern.
Master Borin Bronze-Lung leaned over the broken piece of iron, squinting through a thick brass magnifying glass pressed against his right eye.
His brow was furrowed so deeply that his copper-braided eyebrows met above the bridge of his snout.
“Look at that crystal-clear grain,” Borin growled. He tapped the fracture with the tip of his knife. “The metal split along the cooling line.
I cooled it too fast in the salt water vat! A brittle casting, that’s what it’s!
If I had only heat-softened it for two more hours in the charcoal ash—”
“Borin, stop,” Giles Croft said calmly. He set a steaming mug of chicory on the edge of the desk.
Giles picked up his wooden-cased slide rule and laid it alongside the broken iron pawl.
