Steam rose from the clay bowls. It smelled of turnip greens, sesame oil, and hot wheat. The burnt-grain wine stood between them. Wind shook the rafters and loosened little pieces of dried lichen.
Cheng Shan stared at the man across the table. A tear gathered at the rim of one eye and ran into the deep fold beside his nose. His hands still gripped the handles of the axes.
“Uncle Cheng,” he repeated. “Nobody’s called me that since the old guard post broke up. The boys at Ironpass call me Old Dog Cheng. The wagon men call me the Crazy Axe-Man.”
He leaned forward. “You look about twenty-five. Skin like a judge’s daughter. No frostbite on your face. No gray in your hair. An old dog sits in the cold long enough, he starts seeing ghosts.”
Pei Jing picked up his chopsticks. He took four swallows of broth and set the bowl down. “That’s better than the goat sinew you gave me in the kiln. You called me a ledger man who thought like a trapper.”
Cheng stopped breathing for a moment. His hand slipped off an axe. The night he’d fed a half-frozen Pei boy in that kiln, there had been no one else to hear him.
