The three-thousand-coin bid for the chained western warrior hung over the cave like the toll of a funeral bell.
Down in the lower stone galleries, the ragged rogue fighters and desperate back-alley apothecaries drew their hoods tighter.
No one contested the offer.
No one dared to challenge the voice that had spoken from the high southern stone railing.
Lu Chen shifted his weight against the damp dark rock pillar, his eyes tracing the shadows along the cave’s vaulted ceiling.
There, carved directly into the bedrock twenty deep-water lengths above the floor, sat seven private viewing alcoves.
Each balcony was shielded by heavy drapes of deep crimson velvet, trimmed with gold brocade.
Seated behind the stone railings were figures whose faces were fully hidden behind gleaming, polished masks.
