Samlor began to climb the steps, ignoring the scrabbling slippers of the man
above him on the twisting staircase. The door at the top thudded, leaving
nothing of the hapless ambusher but splotches of his blood on the railing.
Should have stuck to his horses, Samlor thought. He laughed aloud, well aware
that the epitaph probably applied to himself as well. Still, he had a better
notion than that poor fool of a coachman of what he was getting into … though
the gods all knew how slight were his chances of getting out of it alive. If the
fellow he was looking for was a real magician, rather than someone like Samlor
himself who had learned a few spells while knocking around the world, it was
over for sure.
The door at the top of the stairs pivoted outward. Samlor tested it with a
fingertip, then paused to steady his heart and breathing. As he stood there, his
left hand sought the toad-faced medallion.
The dagger in his right hand pointed down, threatening nothing at the moment but
– ready.
He pushed the door open.
On the other side, the secret opening was only a wall panel. Its frescoes were
geometric and in no way different from those of the rest of the temple hallway.
To the left, the hall led to an outside door heavily banded with iron. From his
livery and the mutilation of his outflung left hand, the coachman could be
recognized where he lay. The rest of the retainer appeared to have been razored
into gobbets of flesh and bone, no other one of them as large as what remained
of the left hand. Under the circumstances, Samlor had no sympathy to waste on