A man who walks in water can’t hide his destination.
Qiao Ming stood at the portal of Entry hall 104. There, the Avenue of Saintly Mourners stretched two hundred paces between double rows of fluted dark rock pillars. The high tide was beginning its slow, four-hour slack. The water rested at three arm-lengths, still as polished slate, reflecting the pale emerald veins of the high vault.
Across the mirror surface of the pool, a line of ripples was fading.
They weren’t the gentle, rounded swells produced by the high-pressure drainage chimney pipes. They were sharp, three-sided wake-lines created by the rapid passage of a man wading with long, aggressive strides.
Qiao Ming did not hurry. He stepped into the water, his bare soles finding the underwater margin of the central stone temple steps.
He moved with the silent, smooth-flowing motion of a land-mapper. His balance point held low, his feet sliding along the stone without breaking the surface, disturbing the salt water so little that not a single bubble rose to mark his passage. His oilskin coat brushed against his shins with a quiet, greasy murmur, shedding the cold water with every stride.
In his left hand, he held his horn lantern, its shutter closed until only a narrow slit of yellow light lit up the water at his knees. In his right hand, he carried his seasoned wooden ruler, its brass-bound tip trailing lightly along the underwater floor.
