In truth, Qin Tiexin had woken before dawn that day. More precisely, he had barely slept at all lately.
Beside his pillow lay a clean towel prepared the night before, along with a dark blue set of short working clothes-the fabric was good, but after more than a decade in storage, its color had faded somewhat. Supposedly, Old Qin had worn it when he was young, and it had cost quite a bit of silver when he bought it.
When Qin Tiexin brought the old man his dinner last night, he had told him to wear those clothes sometime in the next two days.
The steam from the medicine simmering in the clay pot mingled with the white vapor from the porridge on the stove, gradually clouding Qin Tiexin's eyes. He rubbed his face, and memories of the old man rose little by little with the morning mist.
According to Old Qin, Qin Tiexin was his biological grandson. His parents had died just after he was born, and the old man had raised him alone. In front of others, Qin Tiexin called him "Grandpa"; behind closed doors, he called him "Master." Those forms of address held both blood ties and a legacy-the body-tempering method, and the craft practiced in this smithy.
Old Qin's real name was Qin Feng. Sixteen years ago, when he brought the still-swaddled Qin Tiexin to Ink City, he had been forty-two. Back then, he stood eight feet tall, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, his powerful muscles stretching his cloth shirt tight. When he worked the forge each day, the sight of his bare chest always made the tofu beauty at the alley entrance blush. Shopkeeper Wang, who sold wine, called him "the handsomest fellow in Soot Alley."
A man who had retired from the martial world had savings to his name. Add to that his consummate smithing skill-a genuine ability to forge hundred-refined steel, one that made martial school instructors scramble to pay deposits-and life had been comfortable indeed.
Qin Tiexin remembered clearly how, when he was five or six, the old man had eaten out every few days. The Drunken Immortal Pavilion on East Street, the mutton stall in the West Market-he knew exactly which places served good food. His wine had to be warm, his meat tender, and sometimes, when he drank too much, he would hum a few lines of some little tune he had picked up somewhere. Several sets of satin clothes hung in his wardrobe. Though he seldom wore them, he took them out to air every year.
"Your grandpa spent the first half of his life fighting and killing. He ought to spend the second half eating and drinking." The old man often said this as he placed the largest pieces of meat in Qin Tiexin's bowl.
That life of "eating and drinking" had gradually changed in flavor the year Qin Tiexin turned seven.
First, he had sent him to a private school. Tuition was expensive, and brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones burned through money even faster. The old man had not so much as blinked. "We of the Qin Household must know our letters and understand what's right."
Then there was his appetite. Whether because of the body-tempering method or because he was growing, by the time he was just over ten, he could eat three large bowls of rice and a jin of meat in one sitting. Looking at the empty bowls and plates, the old man first stared, then burst into laughter. "Good lad! A hearty appetite is a blessing! Your master... no, your grandpa can afford to feed you!"
And he truly could. In those years, the Qin family smithy had a resounding reputation in Ink City. Long and short weapons for martial schools, regulation sabers for the government office, even fine-iron daggers commissioned by the guards of wealthy households-orders came in one after another. The old man had his rules: he accepted only three jobs a day, no more, and every weapon had to be forged by his own hands. Even so, silver came pouring in.
The longtime neighbors in the alley all enjoyed dealing with the old man. His tongue was unruly, and he loved telling jokes both clean and dirty, but he had never failed to deliver on a promise. Whenever someone's ironware broke, they could bring it over and he would fix it in passing, often without charging. When Widow Wang's roof leaked, he shouldered a ladder and went to patch it. With so much goodwill, business naturally remained steady.
The change had begun a year ago.
The storefront opposite, which had stood empty for a long time, suddenly hung up a sign reading "Heavenly Craft Workshop." On opening day, firecrackers went off for a full hour. Three "automated furnaces," each twice a man's height, stood facing the street. Firelight shone through the glass windows with a cold regularity. The forging machines clanged in an even rhythm, like tireless iron beasts.
The blades they sold cost only sixty percent of what the Qin Household smithy charged, yet they delivered three times as fast. They gleamed, with flowing-water patterns machine-stamped into their blades.
At first, Old Qin had been scornful. "Machine-stamped rubbish, all for show! Pretty to look at, useless in practice!"
But orders from the martial schools still dwindled. A steward from the government office came once too, rubbing his hands as he said apologetically, "Elder Qin, orders from above. From now on, equipment for official use... has to be purchased centrally."
The old man smashed his teacup.
The argument came three months later. Zhao Ming, the young master of the Heavenly Craft Workshop, came in person, dressed in a brocade robe and waving a folding fan with ivory ribs.
"Old Master Qin, I come in all sincerity. Your shop has a good location, and its reputation is still there. Five hundred taels, for the land and the signboard together. As for you, you can enjoy your retirement and dote on your grandson. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"
The old man had already developed a slight cough by then, but he stood ramrod straight before the furnace, its firelight illuminating his face, which had begun to grow gaunt.
"Five hundred taels? To buy my shop?" He laughed, his laughter carrying the taste of rust. "Boy, do you know how the character 'Qin' was put on that signboard?"
"It was carved stroke by stroke, with hands that have forged iron all their lives." He spoke each word distinctly. "Not for sale."
Zhao Ming did not get angry. He closed his fan and tapped it lightly against his palm. "Old master, times have changed. That slow, hand-forging method of yours is going into a coffin sooner or later. Why put yourself through this?"
"Get out." That was all Old Qin said.
That night, the old man coughed for half the night. The next morning, Qin Tiexin saw streaks of blood in the phlegm he coughed up.
Illness struck like a collapsing mountain. Old injuries, anger, and the years together crushed the man who had once been able to bend an iron rod with one hand. A physician came, shook his head, and told Qin Tiexin privately, "He's long since been hollowed out inside. It's a miracle he's lasted this long. Prepare for his funeral. At most... a month."
Qin Tiexin said nothing. He carried the old man home on his back and began brewing medicine.
Three doses of medicine a day, along with carefully prepared minced-meat porridge and fish soup. The medicinal ingredients grew more and more expensive. He went to every medicine shop in Ink City, buying the best. The heavy money box at home emptied at a rate visible to the naked eye.
The old man spent longer and longer asleep, sometimes remaining muddled all day. But when Qin Tiexin fed him medicine, he drank; when he fed him porridge, he swallowed that too. Occasionally, when lucid, he would stare for a long time at Qin Tiexin bustling about, then close his eyes and let out a soft sigh.
There was too much in that sigh.
In the end, the Heavenly Craft Workshop still took nearly all their business. Qin Tiexin silently took over the smithy. He stopped forging swords and sabers-even if he made them, they would not sell. He began making billhooks, kitchen knives, and hoes, mending pots and basins for the neighbors in the alley. These jobs were small and fiddly, and paid little, but at least there were always some.
His craftsmanship was good. He had been able to forge a dagger on his own at ten, and now making farm tools was as easy as driving a familiar road. His billhooks curved just right, and his kitchen knives were light and thin without their edges rolling easily. Word spread among the neighbors, and gradually, people in and around Soot Alley learned that the young smith at the Qin Household shop did meticulous work at honest prices.
But compared to the money flowing away like water on medicine, this small income was still only a cup of water against a cartload of burning firewood.
Qin Tiexin began pawning things. First came the old man's seldom-worn satin clothes, then some unimportant ornaments. The pawnbroker knew him and always shook his head. "Young Master Qin, this price... I really can't offer any higher."
"It's all right," Qin Tiexin always said, taking the few pieces of silver and carefully tucking them away.
He kept holding on like that, one day, two days, one month, two months... and somehow held on past the "final deadline" the physician had pronounced, through autumn and into the bitter winter.
The old man wasted away to a bundle of bones, lying in bed as light as a dead leaf. He spent less and less time awake, and the amount he ate dwindled from a small bowl of porridge to a few mouthfuls, until he could only sip a little broth.
Last night, as Qin Tiexin fed him medicine, he had suddenly looked at Qin Tiexin with great clarity for a long time, then mumbled, "Tomorrow... wear that blue jacket of mine."
Qin Tiexin's hand trembled, and he nearly lost his grip on the medicine bowl.
"All right," he heard himself say, his voice so calm it sounded unfamiliar.
He knew the day had come.
Outside the window, the sky had brightened a little more. Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath of icy air and put on the dark blue working clothes. The medicine pot on the stove began to give off a faint bubbling sound. Another day's medicine was almost ready.
He stood and moved his somewhat stiff shoulders. Hunter Zhao was coming to collect his billhook today, Aunt Wang had said the bottom of her pot had cracked and needed mending, and there was...
He looked toward the tightly shut door of the inner room.
There was still one final lesson to attend.