Denisius and Vos made better time than expected -- not least because Vos felt the need for haggling had passed if they were to give the appearance of a desperate and cowardly noble -- and they made their way back to the old temple with about an hour to spare before sunset. Three boys not much older than Casimir strained to haul their provisions. All were innocent of the Swiftfoot mark. Denisius had expected to see it everywhere, but no one even seemed interested in them, except for the Butcherstreet salesmen hawking their goods and a few fortune tellers who promised to relieve them of but a few silvers in exchange for all the secrets of the gods. The Prideful Lioness was still closed, although a single light burned on the uppermost floor, presumably Madame Laurette mourning another night's lost business. Guardsmen patrolled the Old Godsway, but the bloodstains from Lena's murder were long gone, trampled into the dust by the day's traffic.

Casimir met them at the front doors. The boy was dressed in a heavy traveling cloak and carried a lantern. "Come on," he whispered to them, closing the door behind them once the delivery boys, looking rather intimidated by the looming temple ruin, had dropped off the provisions. The cursewright's apprentice passed his hand over certain panels and reliefs, just as Ammas had instructed him to do to re-seal the wards.

The old temple was cast in shadows. All the lamps and fires had been doused, and there was a forlorn air to the place that made Denisius uneasy. The only light to be seen besides Casimir's lamp was a pale, wavering illumination rising from behind the altar. It seemed almost magical, although not in a way either man found especially comforting. Once the sun had set the temple would be totally shrouded in darkness. Casimir walked ahead of them, leading them with the lamp to the area behind the altar. A stair descended into a lit chamber. Shadows broke through the light. Barthim the Beast was climbing the stair.

"Our provisions!" he exclaimed happily. "You and I will be doing much of the carrying, Lord Marhollow. But wait. Ammas is coming to speak with you."

The cursewright was indeed following the enormous bouncer, now fully clad in his cursewright regalia. Casimir's lamplight glittered off the charms on his hat and shoulders. He clapped Denisius and Vos both on the shoulders, smiling in a way both men found hard to believe. Not unlike Carala, Lord Marhollow found himself wondering if all cursewrights had been slightly mad.

"Just in time. We'll be leaving before sunset. Let's see what you've got for our journey." As he strode down the center of the temple, Casimir following close at hand with the lantern, Ammas spoke rapidly. "When I settled in this temple, I did so for many reasons. I had known it as a boy. Its location is amenable to my particular gifts. The city and the priesthood of the Graces had no interest in it, but the city preferred it to be a place of business rather than a den of criminals or beggars, however gray that business might be. But there was a more important consideration than any of these: I knew, someday, I might need an escape route."

Vos and Denisius stared at him.

Ammas smiled knowingly, his eyes glittering. "The catacombs beneath the altar are extensive. They served this temple for centuries. And they connect to the old city sewers, ruined cellars, long-lost streets. If one knows the way, one may follow the places beneath all the way to regions far beyond the city walls. We'll leave Munazyr right under these wolves' noses, and be miles away before they even know we're gone."

"Do you actually know these ruins well enough to lead us there?" Vos sounded incredulous.

Ammas nodded. "I've mapped out a goodly portion of them. Far from all, but enough to get us to an abandoned monastery in the Chalk Hills. I won't lie: this is not a completely safe route, and there will be dangers along the way."

"I'm worried about the grave-leeches," Casimir said in a voice that hinted this was the latest line in a familiar argument.

"Oh, Cass!" Denisius smiled, though he looked a trifle pale himself. "You don't have to worry about that. Grave-leeches are nothing but a myth."

Casimir and Ammas exchanged a look. Denisius tried not to feel insulted by the way the boy shook his head. "Grave-leeches or otherwise, Lord Marhollow, there are dangers, and so I give you one last opportunity to depart Munazyr. I see no shame in such a choice, so long as you contact the Throne as I've asked."

"I see shame in it," Denisius said with a touch of mulishness. "I care as much about Carala as you do, Ammas. More, I should think."

Ammas's smile faded to be replaced by a look of admiration. "Well said, Lord Marhollow. Now come. We've a long and unlit journey ahead of us."

Hoisting the provisions onto their backs -- everyone was carrying some, even Casimir and Carala, who had emerged from the catacomb toward the end of this conversation -- the group descended the stair. Ammas took up the silver cage containing the airy spirit and placed it at the top of a stout walking stick that leaned against one of the catacomb walls. Leading them, Casimir at his side, Vos and Barthim at the rear, and Denisius and Carala between them, Ammas strode into the dark hall that led to the main body of the catacombs. Some of the niches in this section were still occupied, and Casimir shuddered every now and then to see a grinning skull, or a decrepit casket that had decayed to the point of the shrouded form within becoming exposed.

Eventually the spirit's light was no longer visible from the stair as they descended further, drowning the chancel in utter darkness. As the sun set over Munazyr, the temple shadows deepened, until it was so dark and lonesome that it might have been a ruin that had stood empty on the Old Godsway for centuries. When the Prideful Lioness finally reopened, the few patrons who had never been there before thought exactly that, and when the girls they hired for the night told them a cursewright had kept shop there until a few days ago, no one believed them at all.