The assassin’s art calls for the mastery of stillness in the face of shock or surprise. Even in the face of the impossible. In this case, perversely, stone, like flesh. I forced myself to stillness as the giant statue on which I lay slowly shifted its position. Shan had been carved with multiple arms, as the gods usually were—four in this case, though I had seen sculptures of him with as many as ten. As the Signet passed around in front of the statue, she touched the back of her left hand to the cross-legged god’s knee. That’s when Shan’s lower arms began to move, sliding forward and down with a dull grinding sound like the world’s largest knife being sharpened. Dust fell from the ceiling here and there, bringing with it the damp smell of rotting mortar. The whole thing made me want to shriek like a child and bolt for the exit. Two things kept me in place. The first was a lifetime’s indoctrination in the need for stealth. The second, and far more important factor, was that the statue didn’t feel alive.
