Entering the southern outskirts of Tianjing, the iron-rimmed wheels of the mule cart ground over cracked granite flat stone slabs.
Ahead, through a shroud of sickly yellow smog, the southern curtain wall of Imperial Capital Tianjing rose against the bruised autumn sky.
It was fifty feet of solid, black dark rock stonework, heavy at thirty-pace intervals by square castle walls and iron-sheeted watchtowers.
Tattered royal dragon banners hung limp from the low roof walls, their stitched golden coils crusted with grease and soot.
The air didn’t smell of a thriving dynastic capital.
It smelled of cloying sandalwood incense, burned bitter and sharp, layered over the greasy stench of boiled embalming resin and decomposing marrow.
The royal dragon vein beneath the city was dying. The court was burning thousands of bushels of aromatic sap daily to disguise the rot.
Lu Chen pulled the wolf-skin collar higher around his throat, his stance relaxed on the driver’s bench.
