The next day, Pei Jing took the private lift. The copper cage rose with a long groan. Through the round windows he watched the crowded assay floors give way to apothecary stalls, then to quiet halls with carpet on the floors.
He got out on the seventh tier. Cool air came through jade screens and smelled faintly of pine resin. The walls were padded with gray silk. An attendant in a pale blue sash bowed and checked the bronze token in Pei Jing’s hand.
“Box Thirty-Seven. Would the honored guest like tea? We can send someone to play the flute while you wait.”
“Leave the room clear,” Pei Jing said. “Just close the grille behind me.”
The attendant opened the sandalwood doors. Pei Jing went in, and the sound of the hall fell away.
The box hung over the auction floor. Its curved quartz window looked down on the stage sixty feet below. Snow-fox fur covered the couches. A silver serpent breathed lavender smoke out of its mouth. There were plates of fresh dragon-eye fruit on the tables.
Pei Jing took a plain footstool to the rear corner. From the shadow there, he could see the whole floor without sitting in the light from the window. He set his pack beside him and laid his hat across his knees.
