the higher notes, and from the lower register came fear as deep and black as
that which had settled in Samlor’s belly hours before. Lust and mindless hatred
lilted, rippling and bubbling through the sanctuary. Samlor’s fist squeezed his
dagger hilt in frustration. He was only the thickness of the edge short of
running amok in this empty room. Then he caught himself, breathed deeply, and
sheathed the weapon until he had a use for it.
An archway in the far wall suggested a door. Samlor began walking towards it,
aware of the scrapes the basalt had given him and the groin muscle he had pulled
while wrestling with the figure in armour. I’m not as young as I was, he
thought. Then he smiled in a way that meshed all too well with the pattern of
the music: after all, he was likely through with the problems of ageing very
soon.
The sanctuary was strewn with pillows and thick brocades. There was more
substantial furniture also. Its patterns were unusual but their function was
obvious in context. Samlor had crossed enough of the world to have seen most
things, but his personal tastes remained simple. He thought of Samlane; fury
lashed him again. This time instead of gripping the knife, he touched the
medallion of Heqt. He kicked at a rack of switches. They clattered into a
construct of ebony with silken tie-downs. Its three hollow levels could be
adjusted towards one another by the pulleys and levers at one end of it.
Well, it wasn’t for her, Samlor thought savagely. It was for the house, the
honour of the Lords Kodrix of Cirdon. And perhaps -perhaps for Heqt. He’d never