A dry laugh came from Box Five. Patriarch Wu leaned forward in his chair. His black mist curled around the rails.
“Iron is a fine thing, Lord Beitang. It won’t scrape chalk out of your father’s lungs. Three hundred high-grade spirit stones.”
People in the lower rows turned to look up at him. Three hundred high-grade stones came to thirty thousand mid-grade at the posted rate. Many of them had never seen one high-grade stone change hands.
“Three hundred and fifty,” Beitang said.
“Four hundred.”
“Four hundred and twenty,” Elder Gu called from Box Nine. He spoke quickly, as if someone might come up and take his tally away before he finished.
“Four hundred and fifty.” Beitang struck the rail with his fist.
Pei Jing rested the Black Mountain Whetstone on his lap. The bids came through the jade horn while he worked the scraper across its face. He let each number sit long enough to compare it with what he’d learned about the men making it.
