Also still there, visible by the light of their one shuttered lamp, was an old round diagram traced on the floor in something black-bitumen, to judge by the scrape marks where curious feet had kicked at it through a year’s time. Curious signs and letters and numbers in old languages were scribed smudgily there, and there was a brownish mark in the middle on the white marble, as if blood had been shed.
Harran put the lamp down, being sure its shutter was open no more than a hairsbreadth, and turned away from the street. “I wish the doors were still here,” he said.
Siveni sniffed, putting down the bag she had been carrying. “Late for that now,” she said. “Let’s be about our business; it will take a while as is.”
Mriga stepped up behind them and put down another bag, quietly beginning to son through its contents. “The wine was something of a problem,” she said. “Siveni, you owe me two in silver.”
“What?”
“I thought we were splitting this expense three ways.” Siveni somehow managed to look indignant, even when there was no light to do it in. “You goose, we don’t need money where we’re going! I’ll make you a whole house out of silver when we get there.”
“Deadbeat.”
Harran began to laugh softly. “Stop it. What kind did you get?”
“Wizardwall red,” she said. “A half-bottle each of wine of our age. Enough?”
“Plenty. The wineseller say anything?”
“I told him it was for a birthday party. What about the bread?”
“It rose. You needn’t have worried about the yeast. The worst part was grinding the wretched stuff. I think it’s going to have pebbles in it from the flints.”