The afternoon slipped by and a grey wind swirled about Shrinegate. The beggars stationed nearby abandoned any hope of enrichment from the moon-women and scuffed away. Tyr’s priest had been engaged in an intense exchange with two red-robed figures by the gate and now returned.
“Right,” he said, then mounted and took them on a westerly course along a street that curved around the wall of the Shrine Court and below the vast, impassive bulk of the Shrine itself. Lights appeared among its stones, and far above the incalculable mass of Na-veshtrazhdak’s tower challenged the sky with the confidence of centuries. He could just see Arna’s golden image, glowing weakly in the dusk.
The curving street ended in a small square with a few shops built onto the wall, a high block of houses opposite, and
