The stench of sea-salt water and scorched silk seeped through the speaking horn of the Great Iron Arch.
Qiao Ming stood on the inner dais of Entry hall 349, his bare calloused feet resting lightly on the cold dark rock flat stone slabs. He held his eight-foot ash sounding stave in his right hand, the lead plummet hanging motionless an inch above the floor. His oilskin coat was buttoned tight against the rising underground draft. The yellow flame of his check lantern cast a warm, steady circle across the dark stone door post.
Through the sound valve in the six-foot wall came the ragged, wheezing breath of Scholar Zhu Heling. The man was leaning against the outside grating of the wicket, his fingers clutching the bronze bars with the trembling grip of a drowning sailor.
‘Qiao Ming,’ Zhu Heling croaked, his voice cracking on the syllables like dry parchment tearing. ‘Listen to reason. Look at the tracking data on your star compass. The outer heavens are black. The Great Withering has burned up forty worlds. The Jade Court is gone. There is no Emperor, no Ministry of Rites, no sky trial to reward your obstinacy.’
Qiao Ming did not raise his voice. He kept his lips two inches from the flared sound horn, speaking with the calm, steady pace of a checker auditing a construction ledger.
