"So, tell me, sir Ludwig," the blacksmith said, "What can I do for you?" he asked.
Andre's workshop had its own climate. Heat breathed from the forge in waves, and the air carried soot, oil, and the faint metallic tang that settled at the back of the throat. Every surface looked used, not dirty, used, marked by hands that did the same motions a thousand times until the motions became instinct.
Ludwig grabbed a small smith's hammer that was placed on one of the tables. "Teach me." He said.
The hammer was simple, scarred at the head, handle worn smooth where palms had polished it over years. Ludwig picked it up like a man picking up a tool he intended to own, not borrow. The single word made a few nearby workers glance over, then look away quickly as if not wanting to be caught listening.
"I beg your pardon?" Andre asked.
"I didn't stutter, teach me. Metallurgy."
Andre stared at the hammer in Ludwig's hand as though the nobleman had picked up a sacred relic.
