Gaunt opened the Forge the way he opened it every morning, by objecting to the bellows. They were too stiff in the leather, and they were too loose at the nose, and somebody had let the goat-pen boy hang his coat on the left-hand handle, which was not a crime but was a habit that would become one.
He lit the first fire with a splinter and a curse and waited for the coals to show their colour. While he waited he looked at the wall, where the Measure hung on its iron pegs. It was a chalk line on a slate, a thousand and forty weights, and it had been a thousand and forty since the bell was eaten. Tallow had told him once that a line below six hundred meant the body could no longer keep its faces, and he had thought Tallow was exaggerating until the summer the Measure had gone down to the bone. He did not like to look at the bottom of the slate now. He looked at the top of it instead, where the chalk was new.
Korrin arrived before the coals were good.
“Bolts,” said Korrin.
“Good morning to you as well.”
