Weariness broke across the Wizard, as if a consciousness of years were an integral part of understanding the man’s meaning. He turned to the illuminated tableau of scalpers before them: nodding, leaning, shaking with laughter, and, with the exception of Sarl and a few others, brash with rude youth. For the first time, Achamian felt the cumulative weight of all the lies he had told, as though the prick of each had been tallied in lead. How many would die? How many would he use up in his quest to learn the truth of the man-god whose profile graced all the coins they so coveted?

How many pulses had he sacrificed?

Are you doing this for the sake of vengeance? Is that it?

Guilt palmed his gaze toward the incidental background, toward those untouched by his machinations. Across the haze of the room’s central hearth, he saw Haubrezer watching the Skin Eaters as well. When he realized that Achamian had seen him, the thin man jerked to his feet, then lurched through the door, his wrists paddling the air with every loping step.

Achamian thought of the innkeep’s warning. “Stand aside for the Skin Eaters,” he had said.

They strike you down but good.

“I have built a place,” the High-King said.

It was strange, the way Achamian knew he dreamed, and the way he knew it not at all, so that he lived this moment as a true now, as something unthought, unguessed, unbreathed, as Seswatha, speaking with another man’s selfsame spontaneity, every heartbeat counting out a unique existence, veined and clothed and clotted with urgent and indolent passion. It was strange, the way he paused at the forks of the moment and made ancient decisions …

How could it be? How could he feel all the ferment of a free soul? How could he live a life for the first time over and over?

Seswatha leaned over a small table set between glowering tripods. Snake-entwined wolves danced in a bronze rim around the lip of each, so that the light cast by their flames was fretted by struggling shadows. It made staring at the benjuka plate and its occult patterns of stone pieces difficult. Achamian suspected his old friend had done this deliberately. Benjuka, after all, with its infinite relationships and rule-changing rules, was a game of prolonged concentration.

And no man loathed losing more than Anasûrimbor Celmomas.

“A place,” Achamian repeated.

“A refuge.”

Seswatha frowned, bent his gaze up from the plate.

“What do you mean?”

“In case the war … goes wrong.”

This was uncharacteristic. Not the worry, for indecision riddled Celmomas to the core, but the worry’s expression. Back then, no one save the Nonmen of Ishterebinth understood the stakes of the war that embroiled them. Back then, “apocalypse” was a word with a different meaning.

Achamian nodded in Seswatha’s slow and deliberate way. “You mean the No-God,” he said with a small laugh—a laugh! Even for Seswatha, that name had been naught but a misgiving, more abstraction than catastrophe.