After three weeks going south, the smells of coal smoke and frozen mud had gone. He’d paid five mid-grade spirit stones to Captain Yu for the last leg. The sloop passed between the limestone gates of the South Sea, and warm air lay heavy over the deck. Turquoise swells broke white over coral that rose from the shallows like pale antlers.
Pei Jing stood at the bow with his hands on the bleached teak rail. The Cloud-Splitter rode in its oiled cattle-hide sleeve. Inside his coat lay the sharkskin notebook. He’d written one entry on page eight as the ferry cleared the river mouth.
Great Yan Reform Year 314. Practice Year 63. Mist Peak Pass. Cheng Shan buried under the old pine. Slate and two bearded hatchets on the grave. A-Yun asked how long the wood would last.
He missed his friend. He also knew the old man had been ready to go. Pei Jing had come back to share wine, keep a promise, and bury him. The memory could go on with him, even if Cheng could go no farther.
At the outer channel of Black Reef Atoll, Pei Jing looked up. Usually the water beyond the harbor was busy with fishermen, pearl divers, and cutters. Today the nets flapped on empty platforms, and every little boat had stayed inside.
