Another tremor followed the first. Pei Jing could have run, but the sound of a man splashing through thigh-deep peat would carry for hundreds of paces. The deepest pool at the foot of the knoll offered a quieter way out of sight.
It was eleven paces across, with dead reeds bobbing on a film of copper scum. Six feet of black silt lay beneath it. Pei Jing checked the herb tubes in his storage pouch and pulled the oilcloth tight around his pack.
The cold reached his waist, then his ribs. The mud clung to his tunic. He found clay at the bottom, settled onto his knees, and let out enough air to sink. Gray bubbles broke through the scum. Then his head went under.
All light vanished. Pressure closed around his ears and eyes. Pei Jing let his body settle and began Turtle Breathing.
He let his pulse drop until it beat four times a minute. Warmth withdrew from his skin into his marrow. The five currents kept going in a closed circle, giving his brain what little oxygen it needed. At the bottom of the pool, his skin felt as cold as the mud.
Three minutes passed. Then something heavy moved across the water above him.
