At the second watch of the night, Qiao Ming opened the service wicket and stepped into Entry hall 350.
His bare calloused feet splashed through six inches of receding black salt water that swirled toward the floor drains. The air was cold and astringent, carrying the sharp, healing scent of wet lime plaster and sea-water that had washed away the foul odors of the scholar’s spiritual fire.
He held his horn check lantern high, inspecting the damage along the row of stone pillars. Scattered across the flat stone slabs were the shattered fragments of the hired blades’ void-iron armor. Chestplates split down their centerlines by the sound blast wave, gauntlets crushed flat, and helmets snapped from their collars like broken clay pots.
Beside the stone stand of Statue #3240 lay Zhu Heling’s golden surveying staff, its gold-plated head snapped off at the metal ring, its measuring graduations worn smooth by thirty seasons of dishonest use.
Qiao Ming picked up the broken staff, weighed it in his palm, and tossed it into his salvage bucket. The gold would be scraped away and melted into waterproof solder for sealing the seams of the star compass cases. The hickory shaft would be carved into wedges for the water gate balance weights.
