The only ground-floor window facing the street was a narrow slit be- side the iron-bound door. There was a grate-protected niche for a lantern on the other side of the door alcove; the stones were blackened by carbon from the flame, but the lamp within was cold and dark. It had not been lighted this night, and perhaps not for weeks past.
There was no sign of life through the slit intended to give a guard inside a look at whoever was calling.
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” said Khamwas uncertainly. “This should be the house of Setios, but I-I can’t be sure I’m right.”
He made as if to bend over his staff again, then straightened and said decisively, “No, I’m sure it must be the house-but perhaps he doesn’t live here anymore.” The Napatan stepped to the street-level door and raised his staff to rap on the panel.
“Ah . . .” said Samlor.
The caravan master held the long dagger he had taken from the man he killed in the Vulgar Unicorn. The weapon belonged in his hand when they prowled through the Maze, but it wasn’t normal practice to knock on a stranger’s door with steel bare in your hand.
On the other hand, this was Sanctuary; and anyway, the new knife didn’t fit in the sheath of the one Samlor had left in the corpse.
“Go ahead,” he said to Khamwas. The Napatan was poised, watching the caravan master and waiting for a suggestion to replace his own intent.
Khamwas nodded, Star mirroring his motion as if hypnotized by tired- ness. He rapped twice on the door panel. The sound of wood on wood was sharp and soulless.