The mud was warm.
In a realm where every drop of water was chilled to four degrees by the deep-sea currents, the faint, sickening warmth beneath his boot sole was an ontological impossibility. Qiao Ming stepped back, his cleats sucking out of the black silt with a wet, squelching gasp.
The knee-deep water was quiet now, its surface smooth as a mirror of dark olive glass, broken only by the gentle ripples created by his shins. The air in the drained basin was heavy with the smell of wet lime, old zinc, and the lingering sulfur of the Boiling Salt Bore. Overhead, sixty feet in the gloom, water was dripping from the raised bronze drop-gate, each droplet striking the pool with a sharp, crystal-clear click that echoed off the granite walls. He relit his animal fat lamp with three strikes of flint, holding the flickering orange flame low above the dark settled mud.
He knelt upon the dark rock paving stones.
He extended the flat edge of his bone chisel, cutting a cautious trench through the buildup of black river-mud, crushed oyster shells, and shredded kelp fibers. The blade parted the silt smoothly until the tip struck a barrier of woven fabric.
