The spiraling stairs carved from black slate was twenty paces from the surface when the shadows shifted.
At the bend where the upper shaft narrowed between two wet limestone stone props, the air grew suddenly stale. The oily drizzle from the surface ceased to reach this depth, replaced by the heavy, sweetish stench of rancid bear grease, stale tobacco, and unwashed wool.
Pei Jing didn’t break his stride.
His straw sandals met the wet slate with the light, steady beat of an unrushed clerk carrying a bag of salt. His shoulders were slightly rounded, his head tilted forward as though shielding his eyes from stone dust. His arms were tucked loosely within the sleeves of his dark linen tunic.
Three paces ahead, the hall was blocked.
Leaning against the left limestone stone support prop stood Scarface Wei.
The guard was dressed in a long, mud-splattered coat of stiffened wolf-hide, held together by iron rings. His right hand rested casually on the wire-wrapped handle of a heavy, single-edged broadsword sheathed at his hip. The burn scar across the left side of his face—puckered, hairless, and dull purple—twitched as his thin lips pulled back into a dry smirk.
From behind a natural rock pillar to the right, a second figure stepped out.
