"Take you to Atyersus. Confine you. Interrogate you . . . Now that they know the Consult runs amok, they'll do anything to exercise the semblance of control. For that reason alone, they'd never let you go."

"Then you mustn't tell them, Akka!" There had been an anger and an anxiousness to these words, a cross desperation that reminded him of Inrau.

"And the Second Apocalypse. What about that?"

"But are you sure? sure? Sure enough to wager an entire life?" A life for the world. Or the world for a life. Sure enough to wager an entire life?" A life for the world. Or the world for a life.

"You don't understand! The stakes stakes, Kellhus! Think of what's at stake!"

"How," Kellhus had replied, "can I think of anything else?"

The Cultic priestesses of Yatwer, Achamian had once heard, always dragged two two victims-usually spring lambs-to the sacrificial altar, one to pass under the knife, the other to witness the sacred passage. In this way, every beast thrown upon the altar always knew, in its dim way, what was about to happen. For the Yatwerians, ritual wasn't enough: the transformation of casual slaughter into true sacrifice required victims-usually spring lambs-to the sacrificial altar, one to pass under the knife, the other to witness the sacred passage. In this way, every beast thrown upon the altar always knew, in its dim way, what was about to happen. For the Yatwerians, ritual wasn't enough: the transformation of casual slaughter into true sacrifice required recognition recognition. One lamb for ten bulls, a priestess had told him once, as though she possessed the calculus to measure such things.

One lamb for ten bulls. At the time, Achamian had laughed. Now he understood.

Before the dilemma had overwhelmed in a harried, flinching way, like some secret perversion. But now that Kellhus knew knew, it simply overwhelmed. Before Achamian could find respite, from time to time, in the man's remarkable company. He could pretend to be a simple teacher. But now, the dilemma had become something between between them, something always them, something always there there whether Achamian averted his eyes or not. There was no more pretending, no more "forgetting." Only the knife of inaction. whether Achamian averted his eyes or not. There was no more pretending, no more "forgetting." Only the knife of inaction.

And wine. Sweet unwatered wine.

When they'd arrived at half-ruined Asgilioch, Achamian began, more out of desperation than anything else, teaching Kellhus algebra, geometry, and logic. What better way to impose clarity on soul-bruising confusion, certainty on rib-gnawing doubt? While the others watched from near by, laughing, scratching their heads, or in the Scylvendi's case, glowering, Achamian and Kellhus spent hours scratching proofs across the bare earth. Within days the Prince of Atrithau was improvising new axioms, discovering theorems and formulae that Achamian had never imagined possible, let alone encountered in the classic texts. Kellhus even proved to him-proved!-that the logic of Ajencis as laid out in The Sylhgistics The Sylhgistics was preceded by a was preceded by a more basic logic more basic logic, one which used relations between entire sentences rather than subjects and predicates. Two thousand years of comprehension and insight overturned by the strokes of a stick across dust!

"How?" he'd cried. "How?"

Kellhus shrugged. "This is simply what I see."

He's here, Achamian had thought absurdly, but he doesn't stand beside me . . . but he doesn't stand beside me . . . If all men saw from where they stood, then Kellhus stood somewhere else-that much was undeniable. But did he stand beyond the pale of Drusas Achamian's judgment? If all men saw from where they stood, then Kellhus stood somewhere else-that much was undeniable. But did he stand beyond the pale of Drusas Achamian's judgment?

Ah, the question. More drink was required.

Achamian rooted through his satchel, his only fireside companion, and withdrew the map he'd sketched-so long ago it now seemed-while journeying from Sumna to Momemn. He held it to the firelight, blinked several bleary times. All of them, every name scratched in black, was connected, except for ANASuRIMBOR KELLHUS.

Relations. Like arithmetic or logic it all came down to relations. Achamian had inked those relations he knew without a doubt, such as the link between the Consult and the Emperor, and even those he simply assumed or feared, such as that between Maithanet and Inrau. Ink lines-one for the Consult infiltration of the Imperial Court, another for Inrau's murder, another for the Scarlet Spires' war against the Cishaurim another for the Holy War's reconquest of Shimeh, and so on. Ink lines for relations. A thin skeleton of black. But where did Kellhus fit? Where?

Achamian suddenly cackled, resisted the urge to throw the parchment into the fire. Smoke. Wasn't that what relations were in truth? Not ink, but smoke. Hard to see and impossible to grasp. And wasn't that the problem? The problem with everything?

The thought of smoke brought Achamian to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then bent to retrieve his satchel. Again he debated tossing the map into the flames, but thought better of it-he was a veteran of many drunken blunders-and stuffed the parchment back with his things.

With his satchel and Xinemus's wineskin slung over opposite shoulders, he stumbled off into the darkness, laughing to himself and thinking, Yes, smoke . . . I need smoke. Hashish. Yes, smoke . . . I need smoke. Hashish.

Why not? The world was about to end.

As the sun set behind the Unaras Spur, each point of firelight became a circle of illumination, until the encampment became gold coins scattered across black cloth. Among the first to arrive, the Conriyans had pitched their pavilions on the heights immediately below Asgilioch and its ready supply of water. As a result Achamian travelled down, always down, into what seemed an ever-darker and more raucous underworld.

He walked and stumbled, exploring the shadowy arteries between pavilions. He passed many others: groups carousing from camp to camp, drunks searching for latrines, slaves on errands, even a Gilgallic priest chanting and swinging the carcass of a hawk from a leather string. From time to time he slowed, stared at the ruddy faces crowded about each fire, laughed at their antics or pondered their scowls. He watched them strut and posture, beat their breasts and bellow at the mountains. Soon they would descend upon the heathen. Soon they would close with their hated foe. "The God has burned our ships!" Achamian heard one bare-chested Galeoth roar, first in Sheyic, then in his native tongue. "Wossen het? het?"

Periodically he paused to search the darkness behind him. Old habit.

After a time he found himself weary and nearly out of wine. He'd trusted Fate, Anagke, to take him to the camp-followers; she was, after all, called "the Whore." But as with everything else, she'd led him astray-the fucking whore. He began daring the light to find directions.

"Wrong way, friend," an older man missing his front teeth told him at one camp. "Only mules rutting here. Oxen and mules."

"Good . . ." Achamian said, clutching his groin in the familiar Tydonni manner, "at least the proportions will be right." The old man and his comrades burst into laughter. Achamian winked and tipped back his wineskin.

"Then that way," some wit called from the fire, pointing to the darkness beyond. "I hope your ass has deep pockets!"

Achamian coughed wine from his nose, then spent several moments bent over, hacking. The general merriment this caused won him a place by their fire. An inveterate traveller, Achamian was accustomed to the company of warlike strangers, and for a time he enjoyed their companionship, their wine, and his own anonymity. But when their questions became too pointed, he thanked them and took his leave.

Drawn by the throb of drums, Achamian crossed a portion of the camp that seemed deserted, then quite without warning found himself in the precincts of the camp-followers. Suddenly all the activity seemed concentrated between the fires. With every step he bumped some shoulder, pressed some back. In some places, he pressed through crowds in almost total darkness, with only heads, shoulders, and the odd face frosted by the Nail of Heaven's pale light. In others, torches had been hammered into the earth, either for musicians, merchants, or leather-panelled brothels. Several avenues even boasted hanging lanterns. He saw young Men of the Tusk-no more than boys, really-vomiting from too much drink. He saw ten-year-old girls drawing thick-waisted warriors behind curtained canopies. He even glimpsed a boy wearing smeared cosmetics, who watched with fearful promise as man after man passed. He saw craftsmen manning stalls, walked past more than a few impromptu smithies. Beneath the rambling canopies of an opium den, he saw men twitch as though beset by flies. He passed the gilded pavilions of the Cults: Gilgaol Yatwer, Momas, Ajokli, even elusive Onkis, who'd been Inrau's passion as well as innumerable others. He waved away the ever-present beggars and laughed at the adepts who pressed clay blessing-tablets into his hands. For tracts of his journey, Achamian saw no tents at all, only rough shelters improvised from sticks, twine, and painted leather, or in some cases, a simple mat. While wandering one alley, Achamian saw no less than a dozen couples, male and female or male and male, rutting in plain view. Once he paused to watch an improbably beautiful Norsirai girl gasp between the exertions of two men, only to be accosted by a black-toothed man with a stick, demanding coin. Afterward he watched an ancient, tattooed hermit try to force himself on a fat drab. He saw black-skinned Zeumi harlots dancing in their strange, puppet-limbed manner and dressed in gaudy gowns of false silk-caricatures of the ornate elegance that so characterized their faraway land.

The first woman found him more than the other way around. As he walked through a particularly gloomy alley between canvas shanties, he heard a rattle, then felt small hands groping for his groin from behind. When he turned and embraced her, she seemed shapely enough, though he could see little of her face in the dark. She was already rubbing his manhood through his robe, murmuring, "Jusht a copper, Lord. Jusht a copper for your sheed . . ." He could sense her sour smile. "Two coppersh for my peach. Do you want my peach?"

Almost despite himself, he leaned into her whisking hands-gasped. Then a file of torch-bearing cavalrymen-Imperial Kidruhil-rumbled by, and he glimpsed her face: vacant eyes and ulcerated lips . . .

He pressed her back, fumbling for his purse. He fished out a copper, meant to hand it to her, but fumbled it onto the ground instead. She fell to her knees, started combing the blackness, grunting . . . Achamian fled. A short time after, he found himself prowling the darkness, watching a group of prostitutes about their fire. They sang and clapped while a wanton, flat-chested Ketyai woman pranced around the flames, wearing only a blanket that reached her hips. This was a common custom, Achamian knew. They would each take turns, dancing lewdly and calling out into the surrounding blackness, declaring their wares and their station.

He reviewed the women from the shelter of darkness first, so as to avoid the embarrassment of choosing in their presence. The girl who danced didn't appeal to him-too much of a horse's mien. But the young Norsirai girl, who rolled her pretty face to the song like a child . . . She sat on the ground with her knees haphazardly before her, the firelight chancing upon her inner thighs.

When he finally walked into their midst, they began shouting like slavers at auction, offering promises and praise that became mockery the instant he took the Galeoth girl by the hand. Despite the drink, he felt so nervous he could barely breathe. She looked so beautiful. So soft and unspoiled.

Picking a candle from a small row of votives, she pulled him into the blackness, led him to the last in a row of crude shelters. She shed her blanket and crawled beneath the stained leather. Achamian stood above her, panting, wanting to breathe deep the pale glory of her naked form. The far wall of her shelter, however, consisted of little more than rags knotted into ropes. Through it, he could see hundreds of people pressing in this direction and that through a shadowy thoroughfare.

"You want fuck me, yes?" she said as though nothing could be amiss.

"Oh, yes," he mumbled. Where had his breath gone?

Sweet Sejenus.

"Fuck me many time? Eh, Baswutt?"

He laughed nervously. Peered through the rag curtain once again. Two men were cursing at each other, scuffling near enough to make Achamian flinch.

"Many times," he replied, knowing this to be the polite way to discuss price. "How many do you think?"

"Think four . . . Four silver times."

Silver? Obviously she'd confused his embarrassment for inexperience. Even still, what was money on a night like this? He celebrated, didn't he?

He shrugged, saying, "An old man like me?"

In this particular language, the man was forced to deride his own prowess in order to strike a fair bargain. If he was poor, he complained of being old, infirm, and so on. Arrogant men, Esmenet had told him once, usually fared poorly in these negotiations-which, of course, was the point. Harlots hated nothing more than men who arrived already believing the flattering lies they would tell them. Esmi called them the simustarapari simustarapari, or "those-who-spit-twice."

The Galeoth girl studied him with nebulous eyes: she'd started petting herself in the gloom. "You so strong," she said, suddenly thick-tongued. "Like Baswutt . . . Strong! Two Two silver times think?" silver times think?"

Achamian laughed, tried hard not to watch her fingers. The ground had started a slow spin. For an instant she looked pale and skinny in the dark, like an abused slave. The mat beneath her looked rough enough to cut her skin . . . He'd drunk too much. Not too much! Just enough . . . Not too much! Just enough . . .

The ground steadied. He swallowed, nodded his agreement, then pulled the two coins from his purse. "What does 'Baswutt' mean?" he asked, slipping the silver into her small, waiting palm.

"Hmmm?" she replied, smiling triumphantly.

She stashed the two white-shining talents with startling swiftness-what would she buy? he wondered-then looked back at him with large questioning eyes. "What does that mean?" he repeated, more slowly. "Baswutt . . ."

She frowned, then giggled. "For 'big bear' . . ."

She was full-breasted, mature, but something about her manner reminded him of a little girl. The guileless smile. The rolling eyes and bouncing chin. The knees opening and closing like butterfly wings. Achamian half-expected a scolding mother to come barging between them. Was that part of the pantomime as well? Like the shameless banter? His heart hammered.

He knelt where her toys should have been, between her legs. She squirmed and writhed, as though the threat of his mere presence would make her climax. "Fuck me, Baswutt," she gasped. "Emmmbaswutt . . . Fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me . . . Mmmm, pleassseee pleassseee . . ." . . ."

He swayed, caught himself, chuckled. He began hitching up his robe, glanced nervously at the shadowy stream of passers-by through the curtain. They walked so close he could spit on their shins.

He tried to ignore the smell. His smell.

"Oooh, such big big bear," she cooed, stroking his cock. bear," she cooed, stroking his cock.

Suddenly, his apprehension melted away, and some deranged part of him actually exulted in the thought of others watching. Let them watch! Let them learn! learn!

Always the teacher . . .

Cackling, he seized her narrow hips, pulled her across his thighs. How he'd yearned for this moment! To have license with a stranger stranger. It seemed there could be nothing so sweet as a fresh peach! He was trembling! Trembling!

She moaned silver, cried gold. Faces turned in the passing crowd. Through the knotted rags, Achamian saw Esmenet.

"Esmi!" Achamian hollered, barrelling through arms and shoulders. The Galeoth girl was crying out something behind him-some gibberish.

He glimpsed Esmenet again, hurrying along a row of torches that fronted the canopies of a Yatwerian lazaret. A tall man, sporting the matted braids of a Thunyeri warrior, held her arm, but she seemed to be leading.

"Esmi!" he cried, jumping to be seen above the screens of people. She didn't turn. "Esmi! Stop!"

Why would she run? Had she seen him with the drab?

For that matter, what would she be doing here? here?

"Dammit, Esmenet! It's me! Me!"

Did she glance back? It was too dark to tell . . .

For a heartbeat, he debated using sorcery: he could blind the entire quarter if he wished. But as always, he could sense the small points of death scattered throughout the surrounding crowds: Men of the Tusk, bearing their hereditary Chorae . . .

He redoubled his efforts, began lunging through the mobs. Someone struck him, hard enough to leave his ears ringing, but he didn't care.

"Esmi!"

He glimpsed her pulling the Thunyeri into an even darker byway. He stumbled free of what seemed the last thicket of people, then sprinted to the mouth of the alley. He hesitated before plunging into the blackness, struck by a sudden premonition of disaster. Esmenet here? In the Holy War? There was no way.

A trap. A thought like a knife.

The ground had resumed spinning.

If the Consult could fashion a Skeaos, couldn't they fashion an Esmenet as well? If they knew about Inrau, then they almost certainly knew about her . . . What better way to gull a heartsick Schoolman than to . . .

A skin-spy? Do I chase a skin-spy?

In his soul's eye, he saw Geshrunni's corpse pulled from the River Sayut. Murdered. Desecrated.

Sweet Sejenus, they took his face. Could the same have happened . . .

"Esmi!" he cried, charging into the darkness. "Esmi! Essmmii! Essmmii!"

Miraculously, she paused with her escort in the light of a single torch, either alarmed by his cries or . . .

Achamian staggered to a stop before her, utterly dumbstruck. He reeled.

It wasn't wasn't her-the brown eyes were smaller, the cheeks too high. Almost, but no . . . Almost Esmenet. her-the brown eyes were smaller, the cheeks too high. Almost, but no . . . Almost Esmenet.

"Another madman," the woman snorted to her companion.

"I-I thought . . ." Achamian murmured. "I thought you were someone else."

"Poor girl," she sneered, turning her back.

"No, wait! Please . . ."

"Please, what?"

Achamian blinked at his tears. She looked so . . . so close close. "I need you," he whispered. "I need your . . . your comfort."

Without warning, the Thunyeri seized him by the throat, hammered him in the gut. "Kundrout!" the man bellowed. "Parasafau ferautin kun dattas!" Winded, Achamian coughed and clawed at the man's massive forearm. Panic. Then gravel and rock-ground-slammed against his chest and cheek. Concussion. Bright blackness. Someone screaming. The taste of blood. A dim image of the wild-haired warrior spitting on him.

He convulsed, rolled to his side. Sobbed, then pressed himself to his knees. Through tears he saw their retreating backs disappear in thickets of people.

"Esmi!" he bawled. "Esmenet, please!"

Such an old-fashioned name.

"Esssmmii!"

Come back . . .

Then he felt the touch. Heard the voice.

"Still fetching sticks, I see . . . Tired old dog."

Glimpses of menace by torchlight.

Her slender arms bracing him, they stumbled through a gallery of darkling faces. She smelled of camphor and the oil of sesame-like a Fanim merchant. Could that be her smell?

"Sweet Seja, Akka, you're a mess."

"Esmi?"