Chapter 345 — The Gift Anvil

CHAPTER 345

The Gift Anvil

“Make way! Make way for the anvil!” Master Smith Kang shouted up the stair.

The shout rolled up the stone stair to Artificer Hall's gate, and every outer-court disciple within earshot came running. Master Smith Kang of Qingtong Town was climbing at the head of the line, red in the face, with his hat in his hand. Behind him, six apprentices in leather aprons staggered under a pole slung with a long red bundle.

Cui Hong, the gate supervisor, put away his notice board. Zheng Yu forgot to be afraid of anyone.

“Where's the young master who relit our furnaces?” Master Smith Kang bellowed. “Where's the lad who sent the Qiao house packing?”

“Here,” Shi Feng said, stepping out of the crowd.

“There you are!” Master Smith Kang cried, crushing his hat in both fists. “Sixty smiths! Eleven nights! The town's last vein of spirit iron, and every man in the forge struck one blow! We swore we'd make you the best anvil in the region, and by every hammer we own, we did! To send charcoal in the snow, as the saying goes, is the truest kindness!”

The apprentices lowered the pole. The red cloth fell away.

The anvil sat on the stone, black and gleaming, with a long curved horn and a face as smooth as water. Three hundred catties of spirit iron. A faint blue light ran along its edges. Even the outer-court disciples fell silent.

“Spirit iron!” a disciple whispered.

“A whole anvil of it!”

“Where would the sect find the stones to buy that?”

“He didn't buy it. They gave it to him.”

“…”

Lin Langtian arrived at a run, carrying a sweet potato. He circled the anvil eagerly, examining the blue gleam along its edges.

“Marvellous,” Lin Langtian said. “Junior Brother, what are the odds that it's heavier than it looks?”

“Test it!” Master Smith Kang cried. “Hear it ring! We want you to hear it ring!”

Shi Feng drew the Slag Weight from his sleeve and tapped the anvil's face once.

Tonk.

The note rang out, deep and golden. The smiths wept openly. An apprentice dropped to his knees. But Shi Feng listened to the very end of the sound, and on the third beat the pitch went sour. The change was faint, but a year of cutting test blocks had taught him to notice flaws like this.

He looked down. A hairline crack ran from the centre of the face to the root of the horn, and it was still lengthening.

Shi Feng thought, The Slag Weight cuts Grade Three blocks. I should have known better than to hit spirit iron with it.

He lifted his eyes. Sixty smiths' labour. Eleven nights. Master Smith Kang was weeping into his hat.

“It rings true,” Shi Feng said.

“It rings true!” Master Smith Kang howled. The gate rang with cheers.

Shi Feng let them cheer. A man could bow, thank them and take the anvil inside. Nobody needed to hear about the crack.

“Three hundred catties of cracked spirit iron,” Sima Lan said that evening.

She stood at hut nine’s door, dismayed by the crack despite the ledger in her hands. The anvil sat in the middle of the floor, and the crack ran bright from face to horn.

“It was perfect this morning,” Shi Feng said.

“That doesn’t help us now,” Sima Lan said, tapping the page. “You can't sell it. A cracked anvil sells for the price of scrap. You can't return it. You can't hang it on the wall, because Master Smith Kang visits every quarter. Which leaves—”

“I can eat it,” Shi Feng said.

She said nothing for a long time.

“The contract doesn't cover medical costs for stupid decisions,” Sima Lan finally said.

“I know,” Shi Feng said.

“I’ll be charging the room,” Sima Lan said. She looked from the huge anvil to his stomach, clearly expecting trouble.

“Charge the room,” Shi Feng said.

He sat on the floor beside the anvil, took the Sword from his back, and cut off the first piece. It fell into his palm, a chip as big as a rice bowl. He put it on his tongue. It melted at once, and a warm line of qi ran straight down into his belly.

Old Soot hissed from its basket. Sima Lan carried the basket to the far corner.

[Devoured: Qingtong spirit-iron anvil, first piece | Gain: a little steadiness in the bones | Note: stomach ache, seven days. Do not eat the horn.]

He spent the next six days curled around a stomach full of iron.

On the second morning, Lin Langtian visited with a bowl of soup and a lot of sympathy. “A true inspector eats the bribe. I always knew you’d be great. As they say, a great vessel is late to finish,” Lin Langtian said with deep sympathy. He left the soup on the floor, where Old Soot drank it.

The audit went on from the bed. Sima Lan brought the tribute books in armfuls. Zhu Liu sat at the foot of the bed with a tag brush and a row of thirty-one jars. Shi Feng lay on his back with the Qiao house's receipts on his knees, and, because there was no table close enough, the black walnut abacus rested on his stomach.

On the sixth day, Zhu Liu looked up from his tags with a worried frown.

“Senior Brother,” Zhu Liu said. “The abacus is going up and down.”

“It's breathing,” Shi Feng said.

“It’s the iron, isn’t it?” Zhu Liu asked, watching the abacus move.

“Yes,” Shi Feng replied, too uncomfortable to explain further.

“Should I write that down?” Zhu Liu asked uncertainly.

“Write: accounts rising,” Shi Feng said.