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You raise the hood of your cloak and hurry through the open doors into the dark, cool hall. The people are kneeling in front of a pulpit where a holy man, dressed in flowing robes of black and gold, reads aloud from a gem-encrusted book. Behind him, the face of the late Zakhan, immortalized in a tapestry suspended from the roof by huge silken cords, looks down on the mourners.
The congregation is rapt in prayer, and nobody sees you enter. The ceremony soon comes to an end, and you are able to slip past Maouk’s men as the mourners flood into the streets.
