A small grammarian part of him noted the confusion of tenses and moods in the
conversation.
The sole traffic on the Avenue of Temples was a night breeze, cold and sibilant.
Stars, as icy to behold, looked down on its broad emptiness, on darkened
buildings and weather-worn idols and rustling gardens. Here and there flames
cast restless light, from porticoes or gables or ledges, out of glass lanterns
or iron pots or pierced stone jars. At the foot of the grand staircase leading
to the fane of Ils and Shipri, fire formed haloes on the enormous figures, male
and female in robes of antiquity, that flanked it.
Beyond, the god-house itself loomed, porticoed front, great bronze doors,
granite walls rising sheer above to a gilt dome from which light also gleamed;
the highest point in Sanctuary.
Cappen started up. ‘Halt’ said Jamie, and plucked at his cloak. ‘We can’t walk
straight in. They keep guards in the vestibule, you know.’
‘I want a close view of those sikkintairs,’ the bard explained.
‘Um, well, maybe not a bad idea, but let’s be quick. If a squad of the watch
comes by, we’re in trouble.’ They could not claim they simply wished to perform
their devotions, for a civilian was not allowed to bear more arms in this
district than a knife. Cappen and Jamie each had that, but no illuminant like
honest men. In addition, Cappen carried his rapier, Jamie a claymore, a visored
conical helmet, and a knee-length byrnie. He had, moreover, furnished spears for
both.
Cappen nodded and bounded aloft. Half-way, he stopped and gazed. The statue was