The students below moved with the care of experienced poachers.
Qiao Ming lay flat upon the bronze narrow high walkway seventy arm-lengths above, his chin resting against the cool punched holes in decking, watching every movement of their hands. His bare toes gripped the bronze mesh behind him, anchoring his body in total stillness. Not a thread of his oilskin coat rustled. His breathing had slowed to four long, silent cycles per minute, harmonizing with the natural draft that blew through the high window row vents.
The two intruders spoke in low, clipped murmurs that were distorted by the quartz plates of their masks.
“Hurry with the net, Brother Hu,” the shorter student whispered, his voice sounding like dry peas rattled in an iron pot. “The tide has begun to turn in the lower channels. If the water-level rises before we fill the third canister, the suction valves will back-fire.”
“The vapor from this flutist is dense,” the taller student answered, adjusting the bronze frame of the moon-silk net. “Look at the soft glow—it carries at least four layers of uncorrupted pre-flood deep ring. The Master will pay twenty ounces of refined spirit-liquid silver for each vial of this breath.”
