The second chamber of the Lapidary Gallery, chosen as Entry hall 402, was wider than the entrance nave. He opened out into an eight-sided hall whose vaulted ceiling was supported by eight massive piers of fluted green coarse grey rock.
Here, the air grew noticeably colder, carrying a crisp, crystal-clear quality that smelled of dry chalk and crushed flint. There was no moisture on the walls. The natural drainage of the sector channeled every drop of water drops into twin copper-lined floor gutters that ran parallel to the central processional walk. The sound of their own footsteps—the soft, leathery brush of Yan Zhiqiu’s footwear and the firm, flat slap of Qiao Ming’s bare soles—echoed back and forth between the coarse grey rock piers with the crisp clarity of a struck chime.
In the center of the eastern wall, framed between two huge pilasters carved with acanthus leaves and sharp-angled spirals, hung a massive stone relief twelve arm-lengths wide and eight arm-lengths high.
Qiao Ming set his reed basket on a low cut stone bench that ran along the stone temple steps. He unbuttoned his oilskin coat, rolling up the sleeves to the elbow to keep the greasy cuffs away from the carvings. From his pocket he drew a soft brush made of horsehair bristles bound in copper wire and a small scraper fashioned from ox-horn.
