You can row right into it at high tide. And when you lift the slab at the other
end, you’re in the temple itself.’
Hort’s coda had drawn from his listener all the awed pleasure that a story well
told could bring. The local man stood up, strengthened by the respect of a
strong man. ‘May your gods lead you well, sir,’ Hort said, squeezing the
Cirdonian’s hand in leave-taking. ‘I look forward to hearing your story.’
The youth strode out of the cantina with a flourish and a nod to the other
patrons. Samlor shook his head. In a world that seemed filled with sharks and
stonefish, Hort’s bright courage was as admirable as it was rare.
To say that Samlor felt like an idiot was to understate matters. It was the only
choice he could come up with at short notice, however, and which did not involve
others. At this juncture, the Cirdonian was not willing to involve others.
He had rented a mule cart. It had provided a less noticeable method of scouting
the cove than a horse would have done. The cart had also transported the punt he
had bought to the nearest launching place to the headland that he could find.
The roadstead on which Sanctuary was built was edged mostly by swamps, but the
less-sheltered shore to the west had been carved away by storms. The limestone
corniche rose ten to fifty feet above the sea, either sheer or with an outward
batter. A lookout on the upper rim could often not see a vessel inshore but
beneath him. That was to Samlor’s advantage; but the punt, the only craft the
Cirdonian felt competent to navigate, was utterly unsuited to the ocean.