Entry hall 422 extended the defensive stonework of the Sentry Crypt, opening into a grand transverse nave flanked by forty-eight huge iron giant statues arranged in four disciplined ranks of twelve.
The sheer mass of metal gathered in this single chamber was overwhelming. Over two hundred thousand pounds of forged star-fallen iron and glowing-bronze stood arrayed upon the dark hard black rock floor flags, absorbing what little heat remained in the air and streaming a biting, bone-deep chill that formed clouds of white vapor at every breath out.
Qiao Ming walked slowly down the third rank, his bare feet indifferent to the freezing stone.
In his left hand he carried his boxwood measuring rule. In his right, his bone-handled knife. At every third giant statue, he paused to scrape away a small sample of the crusted animal fat that sealed the clockwork articulation joints at the knees and hips.
The grease was ancient, pale grey, and hard as cured soap, smelling of mutton fat and bitter salt. When he dug the point of his knife into the joint, the animal fat chipped away in dry, chalky flakes, revealing the polished bronze ball-bearings beneath.
“The bearings are unmarred,” he observed, holding a flake of grease close to his lantern. “No rust has pierced the inner races. If a man had three barrels of boiling whale oil and a dozen copper fire bowl stoves, he could melt this lard in six hours and free the joints. But without heat, they are as…
