The shoulder terrace of Entry hall 595 was a broad, flat expanse formed by the union of three huge world-roots that joined the trunk of the world-pillar like the roots of a royal watchtower.
Here, forty yards above the inclined cross-hall, the surface was paved with smooth, circular flags of stone-hard heartwood, each flag cut across the grain so that its nested annual rings were fully exposed. In the center of the terrace stood a low, circular survey altar of sea-bronze, its three legs anchored into the living timber with four-inch copper pins.
Qiao Ming set his black slate field ledger upon the altar. His bare feet gripped the cool, polished heartwood flags, his toes splaying comfortably across the smooth growth rings. The air here was thin, cool, and laden with the dry fragrance of powdered sandalwood and ancient resin.
Yan Zhiqiu knelt beside the altar, unfastening her courier pouch. She withdrew her finest badger-hair brushes, a flat stone ink-slab, and a cake of pine-soot ink wrapped in gold foil. She used three drops of sweet water from her vial. She began to grind the ink with slow, rhythmic circular motions, preparing to ink the master map points onto the field chart.
