The rear yard of Old Cauldron Workshop was not an open garden. It was a narrow, upright chimney cleft trapped between two sheer faces of black dark rock, twenty paces long and barely five paces wide.
High above, three hundred feet overhead, the lip of the gorge was shrouded in the unending grey-violet fog that gave the valley its name. That chemical vapor prevented true sunlight from ever reaching the damp earth. Instead, the only light came from glowing yellow moss clinging to the wet rock fissures and two animal fat lamps hanging from iron brackets hammered into the cliffside.
Here stood the workshop’s herb-drying racks. Nine upright tiers of split-bamboo lattices holding one hundred and twenty shallow wicker baskets.
The air in the cleft smelled of rot, wet sulfur, and the choking sweetness of fermenting botanical juices. Because the ravine was always damp, herbs couldn’t simply be left to dry in the wind. They had to be constantly turned, aired. Then they treated with powdered burning lime powder to prevent mold from devouring their active spiritual oils.
Pei Jing walked the length of the lowest tier.
His linen trousers were tied off at the ankles with hemp cords to keep swamp ticks and leeches from crawling into his sandals. He carried a pair of horn tongs in his left hand and a shallow pine tray under his right arm.
