in his hand as he might otherwise have done. He kept a careful watch, however,
for the casual footpads who might waylay him for his purse, or even for the wine
bottle whose neck projected from his scrip.
The chapel of Ils had once had a gate. It had been stolen for the weight of its
wrought iron. There was nothing pertaining to the cult in the sanctuary except a
niche in which the deity was painted. There might at one time have been a statue
in the niche instead; but if so, it had gone the way of the gate. Samlor slipped
through unobtrusively, though he was by no means sure that the drunk asleep in
the corner was only what he seemed.
The alley behind the chapel was black as a politician’s soul, but by now the
Cirdonian was close enough to operate by feel. A set of rickety stairs against
the left wall. A second staircase. The things that squelched and crunched
underfoot did not matter. There were other, stealthy sounds; but the guards
Samlor expected would not attack without orders, and they would fend away less
organized criminals as the Watch could not dream of doing.
A ladder was pinned against the wall. It had ten rungs, straight up into a trap
door in the overhanging story. Samlor climbed two rungs up and rapped on the
door. He was well aware of how extended his body was if he had misjudged the
guard’s instructions.
‘Yes?’ grunted a voice from above.
‘Tarragon,’ Samlor whispered. If the password had been changed, the next sound
would be steel grating through his ribs.
The door flopped open. A pair of men reached down and heaved Samlor inside with