The avenue in Entry hall 294 stretched so far into the mist that the lantern light died long before reaching the opposite wall.
On either side of the wide dark rock stone floor stood forty-eight huge statues of the First Epoch, twenty-four to the east and twenty-four to the west, rising forty arm-lengths into the shadows of the groined ceiling. Unlike the seated figures of the earlier halls, these sovereigns were standing. They stood with their stone shoulders squared, their bare feet planted upon massive stone bases of dark hard speckled rock, their arms raised before their chests in matching postures of stern, unbending admonition.
Each figure held a double-headed scepter of dark, glass-fused bronze, held horizontally between two clenched stone fists at the level of the solar nerve web.
Qiao Ming walked down the center of the avenue, his bare feet splashing through the shallow, inch-deep wash of leftover seawater. His oilskin coat rustled softly with each stride, the hem dark with dried salt. The air here was heavy with the stone scent of lead and cold dark rock. He carried a sound tension so dense that his ears felt plugged, as though he were diving deep into a sunken water tank without an air hose.
