The blue silt of Entry hall 288 did not settle like the river mud of the mortal world.
When the tide pulled back through the drainage deck drains, it left behind a soft, powdery settled mud that coated the flat stone slabs three inches deep. Under the yellow flame of Qiao Ming’s oil lantern, the floor looked as though it had been dusted with powdered lapis lazuli mixed with crushed turquoise. The silt was cold, slick as wet grease between his bare toes. Then it gave off the faint, aromatic scent of dry ozone and cold copper.
Qiao Ming stood in the center of the nave, his legs bare to mid-thigh where he had rolled his hemp trousers. The air here was thin and cold, drifting through the high arches in long, languid currents that carried the distinct taste of deep-sea pressure.
He knelt in the blue dust, the cold striking through the calluses of his knees into his kneecaps. From the horn cup at his belt, he scooped a lump of fresh sheep fat, warming the fat with the palm of his hand until it turned semi-clear and pliable. He pressed the grease into the cone-shaped animal fat cup at the base of his twelve-pound lead weight, smoothing it down until the animal fat was level with the brass rim.
