At dusk the lamps in Forge Alley looked like bronze coins floating in smoke. Heat came up through the stone and warmed Pei Jing’s soles. In the open shops, apprentices in coal dust swung heavy sledges at iron blooms. Steam hissed out of the vents, and eighty anvils seemed to ring at once.
Broken tools from the deep mining shafts came through this alley. Most were spotted pig iron or castings that shattered under a hammer. An old bore head sometimes held a strip of alloy that had taken the weight of a mountain without bending.
Pei Jing ducked under the blackened eaves of Master Lu’s shop. The one-eyed smith looked up from an iron tray and laid down his oily rag.
“On time, Daoist.”
He tapped the tray. A hundred needle blanks lay on a piece of sheepskin rubbed with oil.
Pei Jing set his pack by the anvil and took off his right glove. The first needle felt cold and heavy for its size. Lu had worked the metal evenly along its length. Pei Jing held it to his ear and tapped it with his thumbnail. It rang for nearly three seconds without the dull buzz of a crack. He checked the balance and laid it back in its slot.
