It took forty-two minutes to get down from the Upper Terrace. Pei Jing left the cable baskets to the travelers who could afford to have their tokens recorded. He took the winding drainage stairs in the crater wall.
With each turn the air smelled less of the mountain and more of sulfur and frying oil. On a dark landing halfway down, he put down his pack. Bone Cleansing let him change the way he carried his weight. He rounded his back and settled his right leg into a stiff angle. A soot-stained tunic and some stone dust dulled the shine on his face. He took out the oak crutch and put it under his arm.
Lame Li. He had used the name for weeks while he watched the lower markets. Dockers knew him as a miner whose spirit veins had failed.
Clack. Scrape.
Ten minutes after leaving the landing, he joined the crowd in the Alley of Wounded Hunters. Fifty cultivators stood behind an iron cordon. Pei Jing stayed in the back and leaned on the crutch.
His spiritual sense took in the ruined shop. A ram had driven the storefront inward. Shelves had fallen across the floor. Hundreds of drawers lay open in the mud, spilling licorice root, ginseng, dried gallbladders, and broken jars. Fresh blood ran into the gutter.
