Before the survey of the rows of stone pillars could begin, the tools of the craft had to be understood.
Qiao Ming sat upon the floor flags with his legs crossed, holding the coiled weight of his sixty-fathom knotted horsehair line in his lap. Beside him sat his eight-sided lead line-weight, fresh animal fat packed into its cone-shaped base, its soft metal facets glistening faintly with a thin coating of mutton grease.
Yan Zhiqiu knelt across from him, her hands resting flat upon her knees, watching his fingers inspect the braided cord inch by inch.
“An scroll-keeper records with ink and brush,” Qiao Ming said, his voice deep and measured. “A land-mapper records with knots and lead. If you are to walk the lower terraces with me, you must learn to read the line through your skin.”
He lifted a section of the line and held it out to her.
The cord was cool, supple, and surprisingly dense. It was hand-braided from the tail-hair of black Manchurian stallions twisted together with filaments of boiled sea-silk. The strong, golden byssus threads spun by giant pen-shells to anchor themselves against ocean waterfalls. The braid was fully smooth, impervious to the fraying action of salt crystals, holding an oily, waxy suppleness that repelled moisture.
