The refuge inside Entry hall 314 smelled of damp wool, cold sweat, and the sharp, chalky odor of drifting stone-dust.
Three thousand mortals from the outer sunken rings were gathered across the stepped terraces of the Low Cisterns. They sat in tight clusters upon worn hemp mats and bundles of dried kelp, wrapped in coarse homespun cloaks that were grey with the fallout drifting from the high ceiling angled slats. Children coughed into their sleeves, their small faces streaked where tears had turned the grey dark rock powder into muddy tracks. Meanwhile, the old men sat staring into the dark drainage channels where the low ebb was sluggishly sliding away.
Every few minutes, a fresh cloud of fine grey flour would puff through the iron air-flow grates ninety arm-lengths overhead, floating downward like cold snow in an unheated tomb.
Qiao Ming walked down the central marble stairway that divided the upper and lower terraces. His soles were bare, calloused and wide, making a muffled, rhythmic slap against the damp flags. The oilskin coat he wore was dark with salt and streaks of machine grease from the battle at the Promise wall, his sixty-fathom braided horsehair line coiled securely across his left shoulder.
