The hall of Entry hall 982 curved downward at a slope of seven degrees, paved with huge blocks of dense slate that had been grooved to channel runaway bilge into the lower drains.
The grooves were now filled to overflowing with curdled, violet froth. At every third step, Qiao Ming’s bare toes struck underwater bronze gratings whose cross-bars had bowed under the weight of piled up filth. The water reached above his knees, cold as an unlit winter hearth, pressing against the stiff skirts of his oilskin coat with an unbending, sluggish weight that pulled at his thighs like wet sand.
High above, the transverse arch-stones of the vault groaned under an invisible burden. The Primordial Ark was a huge organism of stone, timber, and forged bronze, built to endure the weight of drowning oceans. Yet the groan echoing through the darkness was the shrill, metal whine of stressed iron. It was the sound an anchor makes when its fluke snags upon a granite shelf while the gale drives the hull onward.
Yan Zhiqiu waded behind him, the water parting before her thighs in two dark, oily ridges. She held her lantern high, its amber beam cutting through the damp mist that hung between the vaulted ribs.
