The underground cave management office was chiseled directly into the eastern limestone wall, fifty feet below the market level.
To reach it, Pei Jing dropped a spiraling stairs carved out of slick black slate. The air grew steadily colder with every step, the sharp tang of surface sulfur giving way to the heavy, claustrophobic reek of damp mildew, stuffy wood fires, and the sour ammonia stench of communal drainage.
At the bottom of the shaft stood a heavy oak door plated with rusted iron bands. Above the top door beam, an oil lantern burned with a sputtering green flame, fueled by cheap swamp-viper fat that crackled and smoked against the soot-blackened ceiling.
Pei Jing pushed the door open.
Inside was a low-ceilinged vaulted chamber. Three iron fire bowls burned with low-grade hard coal, throwing dancing orange shadows across walls crusted with white saltpeter bloom.
Behind a massive stone desk carved from a single slab of grey slate sat a man in a greasy lambskin vest.
He was in his late forties, his skin the color of very thirsty clay. He was marked by the distinctive greyish-blue pallor of long-term underground confinement. His left ear was a shriveled wad of scar tissue, and when he looked up from a grease-stained register, his mouth pulled back into a thin grin that revealed three missing front teeth.
