To map a curved world, one could not rely upon a flat plate.
Qiao Ming knelt before the sea-bronze altar of Entry hall 595. His bare feet were planted flat upon the polished cedar flags. His horn-hard soles took in the subtle, sixty-cycle thrum that passed through the heartwood foundation. Across his chest, the bridle-leather harness creaked softly as he leaned forward, his hands steady and patient as they rested on the rim of the bronze instrument.
The Folded brass star-compass was an heirloom of the Royal Hydrographic Bureau, cast from sea-darkened gunmetal bronze that had endured three hundred years of salt fog and deep-water soundings. But beneath its outer casing of fine-scale scales and degree plates lay a gearwork that few living land-mappers had ever witnessed. A secret building tradition preserved only among the High Sounders of the Drowned Dao.
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out his green rust bone-awl. He turned the tool in his palm. He lined up its sharp copper point with a tiny release pin set into the central silver hub of the star compass.
With a gentle, tuned pressure of his thumb, he depressed the pin.
A sharp, musical clack echoed through the bronze altar.
