In the Alcove of the Water-Clock, the leftovers of the Scholar’s intrusion remained scattered upon the soapstone flags.
Qiao Ming sat cross-legged upon his dry eelgrass mat, his back resting against the warm white chalk-stone hearth. The kettle was silent, its copper surface reflecting the dull orange glow of the embers. Outside the nook, the flood tide was at its peak: three arm-lengths of dark water covered the roofed porch below, its surface still as polished black glass.
Spread out across his knees were the items the Scholar had dropped during his hasty flight through the drainage chimney pipes.
There was a flat case of lacquered tortoise-shell, sealed with red wax that had broken during the scramble. Three scrolls of scorched spider-silk covered in wild, tiny handwriting. And a circular dial of pale starmetal etched with sky-high map points.
Qiao Ming picked up the first silk scroll.
The handwriting was uneven, written in dark red stone ink that had smeared where sweat and water had touched the silk. It wasn’t the formal, composed seal-script of a royal scroll-keeper. It was the wild, disordered journal of a man losing his mind to terror.
He read the entries by the light of his horn lantern:
