Qiao Ming did not answer right away.
In the traditions of the deep land-mappers, an important question was like a heavy sounding lead cast into an unmapped channel. If one hauled the line too quickly, the cord would snarl upon underwater reefs, returning only broken fibers and false measurements.
He rose from his three-legged stool, his bare feet making no sound upon the smooth soapstone flags. He walked to the wooden bucket beside the cedar chest, dipped a small iron dipper into the clean well water, and splashed a handful across his face, washing away the salt dust of the morning check. He dried his skin with a coarse hemp towel hanging from a bronze peg, then turned back to face her.
“A tomb is a place where men lock away the dead so they don’t have to look upon them,” Qiao Ming said, his voice deep, ringing, and steady as the draft through the chimney pipes. “A myth is a story told by people who have forgotten how to measure stone. This place is neither.”
He unhooked his eight-sided lead line-weight from his cross-harness and held it out toward her, resting the soft grey metal upon his open palm.
