Tway was beside him, and Gill sat at the bar. Calpe stood near the door. She had a tense, bodyguard posture, her eyes everywhere. Though there was no sign of the pistol she carried, she looked armed. The bartender looked in Harg’s direction, hoping to sell another pint. Tway motioned him away. She had a vigilant air, just like Calpe; but where Calpe was looking for external enemies, Tway seemed determined to protect Harg from himself. She was right, he admitted to himself; he needed to be able to think. And yet thinking was precisely what he didn’t want to do. The road branched before him, but as he tried to travel each way in his mind, the footing became rutted and treacherous. Down each route he met different versions of himself, all people he might become. None of them seemed like him. The most alluring false self was the one he had seen in Calpe’s eyes the instant he had told his friends about the meeting with Tiarch.
