The forge hammer was three times taller than Iven and had been stopped with its head over a piece of work somebody still wanted.
The work was a steel ring, thick as a wagon wheel, held on a wheeled table beneath the raised hammer. Its outer edge glowed dull red. A crew had surrounded it with insulated screens, but heat came through the gaps and made the air above the table shimmer.
The hammer’s lifting chain ran to a drum above the forge floor. Its guide frame leaned toward the open bay, exactly as Iven had seen from the kitchen window. The lean was small enough that an official might call it ordinary movement and large enough that a person standing beneath it would not enjoy the distinction.
“Why hasn’t the ring been moved?” he asked.
“Because the hammer is on the same drive as the table,” Mara said. “Release the table without holding the head and it may come down.”
A woman in a leather apron approached with a slate in one hand. Her hair was bound beneath a cap, and one side of her face had the red sheen of an old burn.
“I’m Senna,” she said. “I run this shift. You repaired the exchanger.”
