The basin at the center of Entry hall 308 had become a pool of dry grey flour.
In the old charts preserved upon the sharkskin scrolls of the lower archive, this chamber was chosen as the Crypt of the Astrologer Kings. Twenty huge thrones of polished dark rock were arranged in an unbroken circle around a sunken high-pressure compass forty paces in width. Upon each throne sat a stone-hard king from the pre-flood epoch, his stone hands clasped across the handle of an underwater scepter, his stone eyes gazing eternally upward into the darkness of the high lantern-dome.
Normally, the incoming tide filled the basin twice every thirty-six hours, washing the kings’ feet with cold, clear salt water that carried eerie-glowing noctiluca and tiny silver needle-fish. When the tide withdrew, the dark rock shone like black glass beneath the vault moss, clean and enduring.
Today, there was no water in the basin. The drainage water gates were choked with fine grey dust that had piled up to the depth of a man’s shins.
Qiao Ming stepped onto the first tier of the surrounding gallery, his bare soles making a muffled, powdery crunch in the drift. The dust was warm, streaming an unnatural, chemical heat that pressed through the calloused skin of his feet like hot embers smothered under ashes. Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu paused, her hand hovering near the grip of her broken slate, her gaze fixed upon the central circle of thrones.
