the corpse.
The Cirdonian sighed and turned to the right, stepping through the hangings of
brass beads into the sanctuary of Heqt. The figure he expected was waiting for
him.
Soft, grey dawnlight crept through hidden slits in the dome. Mirrors had been
designed to light the grinning, gilded toad-face of Heqt at the top of the dome
beneath the spire. Instead, the light was directed downwards onto the figure on
the floral mosaic in the centre of the great room. The hair of the waiting man
glowed like burning wire. ‘Did the night keep you well, friend?’ Samlor called
as he stepped forwards.
‘Well,’ agreed the other with a nod. There was no sign of the regular priests
and acolytes of Heqt. The room brightened as if the light fed on the beauty of
the waiting man. ‘As I see she kept you, Champion of Heqt.’ –
‘No champion,’ Samlor said, taking another step as casual as the long knife
dangling from his right hand. ‘Just a man looking for the demon who caused his
sister’s death. I didn’t have to look any farther than the bench across the
street last night, did I?’
The other’s voice was a rich tenor. It had a vibrancy that had been missing when
he and Samlor had talked of Heqt and Dyareela the night before. ‘Heqt keeps
sending her champions, and I … I deal with them. You met the first of them,
the priest?’
‘I came looking for a demon,’ the Cirdonian said, walking very slowly, ‘and all
it was was a poor madman who had convinced himself that he was a god.’
‘I am Dyareela.’
‘You’re a man who saw an old carving down below that looked like him,’ Samlor