Desk Eleven was not ancient in its appearance. It bore none of the glass-fused crystal scales of Desk Six, none of the etched acid scars of Desk Seven, and none of the perennial frost of Desk Ten. The whale-bone desk looked as though it had been occupied barely a season ago. Upon its polished surface lay an ink-stone carved from black slate, its grinding well still carrying a dry, velvety crust of hardened pine soot that smelled faintly of mountain resin and dried musk.
Beside the ink-stone lay a writing brush made from mountain badger hair, set into a handle of mottled bamboo. The bristles were stiff with dried ink, shaped into a sharp, decisive point that rested against an open roll of thick, supple whale-thick parchment.
When Qiao Ming approached the desk, his bare feet stopped three paces away. His breath caught in his chest. A sudden, cold constriction seized his throat. The black slate ink-stone upon the desk was not merely similar to the one in his own satchel. It was matching. The same three chip marks scarred the lower left rim where a bronze chisel had slipped. The same faint character SURVEY was carved into the underside in rough clerical script.
