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hand had a callus on each fingertip, the middle finger a thick rusty oval. His palms, though, were as pink as baby Henchin’s cheeks.
    “Sweet Jesus.” Gutenberg looked up, lips coy. “The last time I saw skin this soft—” He rolled his eyes. The old smith sniggered; Konrad, the big redhead, laughed and lumbered toward the press. Peter glanced at Keffer and caught his eye. By dint of twitches and squints, the journeyman conveyed the message that this master was as rabid as he seemed. With butcher’s skill, the man probed forcefully at the thick joints of Peter’s thumbs, then dropped them without warning. “You’d better know right now. I haven’t got much use for fancy hands.”
    Keffer was the only one to show the slightest friendliness. He made a point of shaking Peter’s hand as they were suiting up to face the flames. Thank God, he seemed to hold no grudge for what the scribe had said the day before.
    “The last face I had thought to see,” the goldsmith said and grinned. Back at Jakob’s shop he’d been a frisky lad without the slightest whisper of ambition. Half the time they’d played at divination with the drops of lead that landed in the water pot. Now he was huge, surmounted by a yellow beard and curls, his neck and shoulders thick and muscled as an ox.
    “And me.”
    “I thought you’d up and gone.”
    “Not far enough to slip the Fusts.”
    There was a flicker of surprise in Keffer’s light blue eyes. “At least you saw the world,” he said, and pulled the scarf above his lips and nose.
    “And you have made the grade.” The journeyman just nodded and handed Peter his own scarf. It must have been six years since they had toiled together. Strange, that after his four years apprenticing Keffer had done his wander years right here, and not gone out to seek his fortune. But maybe he had found a girl. He’d always been quite the magnet, with those honey-colored curls.
    Their master stood apart, bent over something at his desk. “Best watch your back,” said Keffer underneath his breath. Peter nodded, warmed; he could do worse for allies. The journeyman was just sweeping the jumbled letters from the workbench on a tray and moving it to the side to make a space for casting when Gutenberg whirled suddenly, a metal letter in his hand.
    “Look at this shit.” He moved toward them with alarming speed. “You know it, damn you, Hans. What smell has shit?”
    “It stinks, just like your mouth.” The old gnome wagged his head.
    The master’s laugh was a hard bark. “Damn right. Now move your sad bones over here.” Hans gave a loud sigh, peeling off his gloves with exaggerated care. The master waited, eyes hooded, revolving the hunk of metal between his fingers.
    When Hans arrived, he thrust it in their faces. Each man could see that it had buckled under pressure: the shank was twisted and the base had splayed. “Unadulterated, stinking shit. How can any smith call sludge like this a metal? No bloody wonder it won’t print.”
    He stood there for a moment, almost daring them.
    Hans took the twisted hunk and held it right up to his eyes. “I’ll be damned.”
    “Not soon enough.” Gutenberg looked balefully around at his small crew. Keffer shifted nervously. “What in God’s name did you put into it?” The master thrust his mug right up to Keffer’s.
    “Lead, tin, and copper,” Keffer answered without flinching.
    “Body of God,” the master muttered. “Weeks and weeks, and this is all you have to show for it.” He thrust his lips out, pulling at them; his eyes went inward as he stood there thinking. Hans scratched his flaking pate; the others waited.
    “Saint Jude, grant me patience,” Gutenberg said at last disgustedly, and raked his hair back with his hand. Impassively, he dropped his arm and coolly, in one long, unbroken motion, swept the heavy tray of letters to the ground. Keffer leapt back, wincing, a hair too slow to dodge the mass of lead. “Try again. I don’t care