“I ain’t nobody,” Lift said. “He kills nobodies.” “And you don’t?” “I kill kings.” “Which is totally better.” He narrowed his eyes at her, then squatted down, sheathed sword held across his shoulders, with hands draped forward. “No. It is not. I hear their screams, their demands, whenever I see shadow. They haunt me, scramble for my mind, wishing to claim my sanity. I fear they’ve already won, that the man to whom you speak can no longer distinguish what is the voice of a mad raving and what is not.” “Oooookay,” Lift said. “But you didn’t attack me.” “No. The sword likes you.”
