What do you want, little man?
Sekenre the sorcerer asks you this. I really want to know.
What?
What do you want among the mysteries of time and fate, and the babble of the gods? In such a context we are all little men. We might as well admit it.
Let me tell a story, speaking it aloud as I write it in my book, fabricating as I make it true.
Let me tell of that late and decadent time, when Wenamon the Twenty-Second ruled in the Delta, and the galleys of the Great Kings no longer ranged the length of Riverland nor crossed the Crescent Sea. Instead, they rotted in the mud. Barbarians grew bold, the satraps arrogant, and the nobles gave themselves over entirely to pleasure.
Perhaps it is true that this Wenamon was old and weak and stupid, that he sat in the gathering darkness with dotard
