The morning drizzle fell in greasy red streaks from the canyon lip. That turned the market thoroughfare into a churning trench of red clay and discarded cabbage leaves.
At the western boundary, Butcher Tu’s processing yard was already thick with the steam of boiling water and the sharp tang of fresh blood.
Pei Jing stood at the main iron-maple block, his sleeves rolled above his corded forearms. He wore his bloodstained leather apron. His hard was dark metal cleaver flashing in tight, rhythmic arcs as he broke down the carcass of a four-hundred-pound marsh boar.
Every cut was clean. Every tendon came away intact.
Beside the block, Butcher Tu was hauling an iron basket of cleaned entrails to the salt troughs.
Pei Jing paused his blade. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaned slightly over the chopping block. Then he spoke in a clear, carrying voice that traveled easily over the low hiss of the boiling kettles:
“Boss Tu, when I was dredging near the southern cliff yesterday... Beyond the reed beds where the old mine drainage dumps into the bog...”
Butcher Tu paused, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. “Aye? What about it, scholar? Still have mud in your ears?”
