The air inside Entry hall 478 did not burn the lungs, but it seized the throat with a dry, stone purity that tasted of crushed quartz and winter frost. It was air that had been scrubbed of moisture by beds of activated charcoal and dried burning lime powder ten thousand years ago. It was sealed behind the whale-bone doors while the outside air was still rich with the oxygen of living forests. Breathing it felt like drinking cold well-water after a long march across salt flats.
Yan Zhiqiu stepped through the parted doors, her bare feet pressing into a layer of fine, red cedar dust that carpeted the floor. The dust had been spread across the flags to absorb stray humidity and deter silverfish. Beneath her soles, it felt soft and dry as sifted flour, cushioning her steps so that she moved through the vast room in complete silence.
She held her lantern high, turning in a slow circle as the amber circle of light swept across the chamber. Entry hall 478 was not a grand vaulted hall like the rows of stone pillars behind them. It was an utilitarian processing antechamber, eighty arm-lengths square, lined with rows of clip-on drying racks built from rot-resistant hardwood timber.
