The seven-pound shovel was not merely an instrument of iron and ash wood. It was an eye that saw through darkness.
Through the shakes sent along the straight-grained ash shaft into the calloused pads of Qiao Ming’s fingers, the underwater history of the floor revealed its texture. Soft river silt gave a long, whispering slide. Packed magnetic iron sand grated with the harsh, dry scrape of broken pottery. And underwater star-iron returned a sharp, metal ring that bounced the blade away like a striking serpent.
Qiao Ming was digging in the deep sump of Entry hall 165. There, the settled mud had piled up to a depth of four arm-lengths against the bedrock doorstep.
The hour was the second watch of the night. His animal fat lanterns had burned down to their brass sockets, their yellow flames flickering in the damp draft that blew off the intake weir. His back ached with a dull, steady fire, but his strokes remained even, measured to the sixty-cycle pulse of his heartbeat.
He had cleared sixteen barrows since midnight. Around him, the floor of Entry hall 165 was emerging from the muck like an ancient continent rising from the sea. The pale limestone flags were cold and slick, holding pools of clear green salt water that reflected the lantern light like dark mirrors.
