Entry hall 410 was the end-post boundary of the Lapidary Gallery, a low, heavily fortified castle wall whose northern wall was formed by the raw, unquarried living rock of the Ark’s outer hull.
Here, the dark rock was one hundred and forty arm-lengths thick—a huge shield of dense, hard black rock standing between the inside galleries and forty leagues of freezing, lightless ocean water. The air was freezing, dropping to near freezing, and every surface was crusted with a delicate, sparkling filigree of white frost formed by the water drops of moisture against the frozen hull plates.
Qiao Ming stopped five paces from the northern wall.
He didn’t walk up to the rock right away. He stood perfectly still. His bare feet planted was wide upon the frosted flat stone slabs, his head tilted slightly to the right, his eyes half-closed in intense sound concentration.
Behind him, Yan Zhiqiu paused, lowering her lantern and watching him with quiet vigilance. Her hand rested on the horn grip of her unstrung bow, her fingers lightly tapping against the wood in time with her breath.
In the vast silence of the castle wall, a new sound was present.
It was distinct from the rhythmic, deep breath out of the stone lung, and equally separate from the hollow gurgle of the drainage drain tubes in the lower keel.
