On the tenth morning, the fire was not lit.
The central workshop lay in cold, grey shadow, smelling of stale charcoal dust and the bitter, metal tang of copper washings. On the long pine workbench, forty small glazed clay pot saucers were arranged in two parallel rows of twenty.
Each saucer held a small mound of finely ground powder or crushed botanical resin. Some were dull yellow, some slate grey, some brick red, and others black as coal.
Old Monster Gui stood behind the workbench, his hickory cane planted firmly between his feet. In his left hand, he held a strip of heavy black silk three inches wide. The cloth was stiff, treated with powdered lead and crushed soul-repelling ash—the standard material used by rogue merchants to shield their storage bags from spiritual sense probes.
“In the sects,” Gui rasped, his voice cutting through the damp chill, “an apprentice spends three years sweeping the courtyard before he’s allowed to touch a single dried leaf. They say it cultivates patience. I say it’s a waste of rice.”
Gui held up the black silk band.
“My lungs don’t have three years. They may not have three months. Today we settle whether you’re a potion-maker’s apprentice or merely an insolent clerk who knows how to weigh river mud. If you fail, pack your bedroll and take your whetstone back to the ditch.”
