Chapter 11: Forge Marks

The Tomb Library had a side door that was never watched, because nobody in the Hall believed there was anything inside worth stealing.

Yan Jingyi had his uncle's spare key, and a face like a boy about to be caught.

"My uncle will skin me," he whispered. "Be quick."

It was past midnight.

Pei had come out of the library at dusk, Yan said.

He had a ledger under his arm and a face drained of all color.

Then he had gone to the Hall and locked himself in.

"He left the sealed shelf open," Yan said. "I checked. I think he was in a hurry to read what he'd found."

"What's behind the shelf?" said Chuhe.

"I don't know. Nobody does."

The library was a long cold hall of black wooden shelves.

They were packed with bamboo slips, rolled paper, and fat bound books gone the color of tea.

Dust lay thick on everything but a single path, where Pei's boots had gone in and come out.

Chuhe carried a small lantern.

Hanjue walked beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed.

He had been quiet since the whetstone.

Now he was looking at the shelves with a strange, intent expression.

"These," he said suddenly, and touched the nearest spine.

Along it ran a row of small stamped marks, tiny squares and slashes and hooked lines.

Yan frowned. "Those are just the founder's shelf marks. Nobody can read them. They're older than the Hall's script."

"This one says folded nine times." Hanjue's finger moved along.

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