There was a way over the wall by the comer of the third stall down. Up theshingles, a one-handed grip on a drainpipe, a few moments scrambling to findfootholds on old bricks that stuck out just so. Then up to the wall's top, andthe hard drop down on the other side. Breathing hard, just before that drop,Harran paused, looking back the way he'd come-and just barely saw the vagueshape by the barracks door, standing motionless.

Harran froze. The night was moonless; the torches by the door were burned downto blue. There was nothing to see but the faint flash of eyes catching thatlight sidewise for a second as the shadow crouched and moved into deeper shadow,and was lost.

Harran jumped, held still only long enough to get his breath, and ran. If he gotto the temple in time to do what he intended, no number of pursuers wouldmatter; the whole Rankan Empire, and the Beysibs too, would flee before whatwould follow.

If he had time....

The Temple of Siveni Grey-Eyes was the second-to-last one at the shabby southernend of the Avenue of Temples. At least, it was shabby now. There had been a timewhen Siveni's temple had had respectable neighbors: on one side, the fane andpriests of Anen Wineface, the harvest-god, master of vine and corn; on theother, that of Anen's associate Dene Blackrobe, the somber mistress of sleep anddeath. Between them, Anen's polished sandstone and Dene's dark granite, Siveni'stemple had risen in its white and gold. There had been a certain rightness tothe way they stood together. Work and Wine and Sleep; and Siveni's temple, aswas appropriate for a craft-goddess, had looked out over that guilds' quarter.Businessmen made deals on its broad steps, paid a coin or two to buy luck and acake for Siveni's ravens, then went next door to Anen's to seal their deals withpoured libations. Small ones; Anen's wine was generally considered too good towaste on the floor.

Those days were all done now. Anen's temple was dark except for one red lightover the altar; his priests' annuity was reduced to almost nothing, and Anen'sold patrons, knowing Him out of favor, tended to do their libation-pouringelsewhere. As for Dene's temple, the Rankans, possibly considering Her toocontemplative (or too unimportant) to do anything about it, had demolished thebuilding... leaving the merchants and guildsmen to quarrel over the newlyavailable parcel of real estate.

And as for Siveni's temple... Harran stood across from it now, hiding himself inthe shallow doorway of a night-shuttered mercantile establishment. He could havewept. Those white columns all smeared with city grime, the white steps leadingup to the portico broken, littered, stained.... A slow cold wind swept down theAvenue of Temples toward Ils's fane, a dim shape no more clearly seen than themoon behind clouds. Near it reared up Savankala's upstart temple, and Vashanka'shard by it-both great ungainly piles, and as dark tonight as Ils's. No onewalked the street. It was far past the hour for devotions.

Harran held still in that doorway for a long time, unable to shake the feelingthat he had been followed. The gongs of Ils's temple rang the third hour aftermidnight. The sound wavered in the wind like Harran's heart, blowing away downthe avenue toward the Governor's Palace and the estates. Something flappednearby-a sound like a flag snapping in the wind. He jerked around, looked.Nothing but the shadowy shape of a bird on the right, flying heavily in thecrosswind, coming to perch on the high cupola of Siveni's temple, becominganother shadow that loomed there among the carvings. A black bird, bigger than acrow....

He unswallowed his courage, looked both ways, and hurried across the street. Thestrength of the wind, as Harran reached the middle of the avenue, was ominous.If ever there was a night to be home in bed, this was it....

He dashed up the stairs where he had lingered so many times before, tripping nowand again over some dislodged stone, some crack that hadn't been there when hewas young. On the portico he paused to get his breath and look back the way hehad come. Nothing coming, no one passing in the street....And there, the motion again, something dark; not in the street, but next door inthe cloddy, vacant lot that was all that remained of Dene's temple. Harran feltunder his cloak for the long knife....

Eyes caught the reflection of the pale stone of Siveni's stairs. Harran foundhimself looking at the largest rat he had ever seen, in Sanctuary or elsewhere.It was the size of a dog, at least. The thought of Tyr catching up with it madehim shudder. As if sensing Harran's fear, the rat turned about and waddled backinto the vacant lot, going about its nightly business. Other shadows, just aslarge, stirred about the pillars of the portico, unconcerned.

Harran swallowed and thought about business. If I feel I'm being followed, thething to do is start the spell-draw the outer circle. No one can get through itonce it's closed. He put down the box and the flask and fumbled about hisclothes for the lump of bitumen. Slowly he made his way around the great opensquare of pillars, all of which bore the sledgehammer marks of attempteddemolition. The marks were futile, of course-any temple built by the priests ofthe goddess who invented architecture might be expected to last-but they scarredHarran's heart just looking at them. Right around the portico, as he'd beentaught-four hundred eighty paces exactly-Harran went, bent over, his backaching. Dark shapes fled again and again at his passing. He refused to look atthem. By the time he came around to the middle of the stairs again and drew thediagram-knot that tied the circle closed, his back was one long creaking bar ofiron with smiths working on it; but he felt much safer. He picked up his boxagain and made his way inward.

The great doors within the portico were long since barred shut from inside, butthat would hardly stop anyone who had served Siveni past the novitiate. Harrantraced the door's carved raven-and-olive-tree motif just below eye level untilhe found the fourth raven past the second tree with no olives on it, and pushedin the raven's eye. The bird's whole head fell in after it, revealing the littlecatch and valve that opened the priests' door. The catch was stiff, but after acouple of tries the door swung open wide enough to admit Harran. He slipped inand swung it silently to behind him.

Harran lifted the dark lantern he had brought with him and unshuttered it. Andthen he did begin to weep; for the statue was gone-the image toward which Harranhad once bowed affectionately so many times a day, having eventually learned tosee and bow to the immortal beauty behind the mortal symbol. Siveni's greatstatue in her aspect as Defender, seated, armed and helmed, holding herbattalion-vanquishing spear in one hand and her raven perched on the other. Thegreat work, the statue that the artist Rahen had spent five years fashioning ofmarble, gold, and ivory, afterward putting down his sculptor's tools forever andsaying he knew his life's masterwork when he saw it, and would make no other....All gone. Harran could have understood it if they had stripped the gold andivory off, pried the gems out of the mighty shield. He knew as well as any otherSanctuarite that not even nailing things down could keep them safe here. But hehad never thought to have the fact brought home to him so brutally as this. Thepediment on which the statue had stood was bare except for bits of rubble,chunks and splinters of shattered marble... but those were eloquent even inruin. Here, a fat pyramidal lump was one corner of the statue's pedestal; there,a long slim shard, smooth and faintly grooved at one end, broken off sharpas a flint at the other-a feather from a raven's outstretched wing....Harran's brain roiled with rage. Where did they-why-A whole statue, a statuethirty feet high! Stolen, destroyed, lost.