The stairs went sixty paces below the pagoda. Water dripped through cracks in the limestone. The smell of myrrh and old embalming liquor grew stronger with every step.
Nine bronze bowls burned green around a tomb. In the middle stood an open coffin of deep-green jade. Someone had dressed the body inside in a robe of imperial silk. The dragon on it had faded to the color of mustard.
The body was still breathing. Silver tubes ran from it to twelve porcelain jars. Dark liquid moved through them in time with the breath. Pei Jing had seen the face on old coins, when its cheeks had still been full.
Emperor Yan Wu, founder of Great Yan. The history books said he had ascended seven hundred and fifty years ago, thirty years after taking the throne. He had stayed here instead, where he could keep sending orders under the seal of the court.
“The tribute,” Yan Wu said. His lips scarcely moved. “Did they send the fourth pellet from my last allotment? They cut me off after the third. The blood in the jars has gone sour.”
Pei Jing found a three-legged stool by the wall. He dusted the seat and sat where the emperor could see him. He ate a handful of salted barley crackers, drank from his clay canteen and drew the qi from ten high-grade spirit stones.
