Entry hall 418 was a massive row of stone pillars forty arm-lengths wide and eighty arm-lengths long, flanked on both sides by sixteen huge fluted columns of dark purple red stone.
The columns were massive, each five arm-lengths in width, their deep fluting cut with sharp, crystal-clear edges that caught the faint green bioluminescence rising from the lower drainage gullies. Overhead, the ceiling arched into an amazing barrel vault whose stone coffers were carved with sharp-angled star-charts depicting star-patterns that had drowned when the first heavens collapsed.
The air here was cold, still, and scented with ancient limestone dust and bitter sea-salt. Between the columns, deep pools of velvet shadow clustered, providing ideal concealment for a marksman who knew how to blend with the stone.
Qiao Ming stood at the southern entrance of the row of stone pillars, his bare feet planted flat upon the cold hard speckled rock flags. He unslung his split-reed basket and set it upon the base molding of the first red stone column. From his pack he withdrew his main coil of sixty-fathom braided horsehair line, three forged bronze eye-bolts, and an eight-pound copper mallet.
“This is our chosen ground,” he said to Yan Zhiqiu, his voice quiet, flat, and devoid of tremor. “The avenue is narrow. The space between the columns is only three paces—too tight for two heavy hounds to run abreast. If they charge down this nave, they must string out in single file, with the second beast blinded by the dust…
