She came to me in the night, he thought. That troubled him. Whatever it is that's excited her, she came through the dangerous dark to invite me down here. There were night blights that lived in shadows, and grew and shrank with them. There were the Stalkers, who slept by the day and made the darkness their time; normal people with abnormal desires, though many sought to make monsters of them. And there were other things: the wraiths of those long gone, and truer shadows that had a semblance of life. Long Marrakash was the heart of Marrakash, and Marrakash was the heart of Noreela, yet even here people vanished into the darkness and were never seen again.

But day was good, and dawn was the hour of worship, especially for those who worshipped commerce: traders and dealers rushing this way and that to reach their shops; Cantrassan street vendors shouting at their slaves as they pushed loaded wagons to market; egg sellers shrilling at their flocks as they wheeled extravagant perches through the crowds; wholesalers flitting from one shop to another as they muttered orders under their breath; and people sitting along the streets taking breakfast before a full day of buying and selling, trading and dealing, loaning and hiring.

There were also those who chose to give dawn's hour to their own particular gods. Ramus passed by several groups chanting and running their fingers over runes carved into the foundations of ancient buildings. Some claimed to understand what the runes meant, but Ramus knew that they were all but unreadable, the forgotten language of a vanished civilization. Perhaps if the giant stones had been brought here in order and assembled in the correct sequence, they may have retained their meaning. But all across Long Marrakash, similar blocks were incorporated into buildings upside down and back to front. Most were badly weathered, and Ramus could not help looking down on those who worshipped them. The runes were the history of a long-dead people, their story spread across the city like crumbs from broken bread. Paying homage to such a tale was like worshipping dust.

Others crowded into temples built to the moon gods, or gathered around shamans in the street. Some of these shamans could read, and they held books as examples of their power. A few used such knowledge to twist the histories they read, telling stories to give themselves honored backgrounds or imaginary ancestors, and Ramus despised such perversions of knowledge. But he reserved greater hatred for those taken in by it.