Ghostly, she moves into the welcoming gleam beneath the entombing gloom of a door, heavily hinged and ajar.

The Hub of Father’s Wheel…

Umin squints at the gourd-yellow placard pendant above the portal, mouthing to himself the meaning of silver-fretted curlicues, bathed in the honey-hued radiance from copper wind-lamp and windowpane. 

The Inn of the Sallow Ragman.

With his well accustomed sense for menace, he picks out dark sentries in their deep robes, quietly watchful, all about the turns of the square.

The occasional rustle and soft silken shift the only indication that the muted figures are anything more than languishing sculpture.

Pyna stretches, balanced on bloodless tip-toe in order to murmur words inaudible to Umin’s ear, unto a masked watchman, a head taller, under the turgid lintel.

The watchman bends in order to peer, a faceless susurration of silk and muted leather, towards where Umin is secreted.