Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  Koryk’s frown deepened. ‘That’s too easy, isn’t it?’

  Bottle scratched at his stubble, shifted from one foot to the other, and then sighed. ‘Aye, way too easy.’

  ‘Here come Balm and Gesler.’

  The two sergeants arrived.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Balm asked, eyes wide.

  Gesler said, ‘He’s in his funk again, never mind him. We got us a fight ahead, I figure. A nasty one. He won’t go down easy.’

  ‘What’s the plan, then?’ Koryk asked.

  ‘Stormy leads the way. He’s going to spring him loose—if he heads for the back door your friends will take him down. Same for if he goes up. My guess is, he’ll dodge round Stormy and try for the front door—that’s what I’d do. Stormy’s huge and mean but he ain’t fast. And that’s what we’re counting on. The four of us will be waiting for the bastard—we’ll take him down. With Stormy coming up behind him and holding the doorway to stop any retreat.’

  ‘He’s looking nervous and in a bad mood in there,’ Bottle said. ‘Warn Stormy—he just might stand and fight.’

  ‘We hear a scrap start and in we go,’ said Gesler.

  The gold-hued sergeant went off to brief Stormy. Balm stood beside Koryk, looking bewildered.

  People were rolling in and out of the tavern like it was a fast brothel. Stormy then appeared, looming over almost everyone else, his visage red and his beard even redder, as if his entire face was aflame. He tugged loose the peace-strap on his sword as he lumbered towards the door. Seeing him, people scattered aside. He met one more customer at the threshold and took hold of the man by the front of his shirt, then threw him into his own wake—the poor fool yelped as he landed face first on the cobbles not three paces from the three Malazans, where he writhed, hands up at his bloodied chin.

  As Stormy plunged into the tavern, Gesler arrived, stepping over the fallen citizen, and hissed, ‘To the door now, all of us, quick!’

  Bottle let Koryk take the lead, and held back even for Balm who almost started walking the other way—before Gesler yanked the man back. If there was going to be a scrap, Bottle preferred to leave most of the nasty work to the others. He’d done his job, after all, in tracking and finding the quarry.

  Chaos erupted in the tavern, furniture crashing, startled shouts and terrified screams. Then something went thump! And all at once white smoke was billowing out from the doorway. More splintering furniture, a heavy crash, and then a figure sprinted out from the smoke.

  An elbow cracked hard on Koryk’s jaw and he toppled like a tree.

  Gesler ducked a lashing fist, just in time to meet an upthrust knee, and the sound the impact made was of two coconuts in collision. The quarry’s leg spun round, taking the rest of the man with it in a wild pirouette, whilst Gesler rocked back to promptly sit down on the cobbles, his eyes glazed.

  Shrieking, Balm back-stepped, reaching for his short sword—and Bottle leapt forward to pin the sergeant’s arm—as the target lunged past them all, running hard but unevenly for the bridge.

  Stormy stumbled out from the tavern, his nose streaming blood. ‘You didn’t get him? You damned idiots—look at my face! I took this for nothing!’

  Other customers pushed out round the huge Falari, eyes streaming and coughing.

  Gesler was climbing upright, wobbly, shaking his head. ‘Come on,’ he mumbled, ‘let’s get after him, and hope Throatslitter and Smiles can slow him down some.’

  Tarr and Corabb showed up and surveyed the scene. ‘Corabb,’ said Tarr, ‘stay with Koryk and try bringing him round.’ And then he joined Bottle, Gesler, Stormy and Balm as they set out after their target.

  Balm glared across at Bottle. ‘I coulda had him!’

  ‘We need the fool alive, you idiot,’ snapped Bottle.

  The sergeant gaped. ‘We do?’

  ‘Look at that,’ hissed Throatslitter. ‘Here he comes!’

  ‘Limping bad, too,’ observed Smiles, sheathing her dagger once more. ‘We come up both sides and go for his ankles.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Throatslitter went left, Smiles went right, and they crouched at either end of the landing on this side of the bridge. They listened to the step-scruff of the limping fugitive as he reached the span, drawing ever closer. From the edge of the market street on the opposite side, shouts rang through the air. The scuffling run on the bridge picked up pace.

  At the proper moment, as the target reached the end and stepped out on to the street’s cobbles, the two Malazan marines leapt out from their hiding places, converging, each wrapping arms round one of the man’s legs.

  The three went down in a heap.

  Moments later, amidst a flurry of snarled curses, gouging thumbs and frantic kicking, the rest of the hunters arrived, and finally succeeded in pinning down their quarry.

  Bottle edged closer to gaze down at their victim’s bruised, flushed visage. ‘Really, Sergeant, you had to know it was hopeless.’

  Fiddler glared.

  ‘Look what you did to my nose!’ Stormy said, gripping one of Fiddler’s arms and apparently contemplating breaking it in two.

  ‘You used a smoker in the tavern, didn’t you?’ Bottle asked. ‘What a waste.’

  ‘You’ll all pay for this,’ said Fiddler. ‘You have no idea—’

  ‘He’s probably right,’ said Gesler. ‘So, Fid, we gonna have to hold you down here for ever, or will you come peacefully now? What the Adjunct wants, the Adjunct gets.’

  ‘Easy for you,’ hissed Fiddler. ‘Just look at Bottle there. Does he look happy?’

  Bottle scowled. ‘No, I’m not happy, but orders are orders, Sergeant. You can’t just run away.’

  ‘Wish I’d brought a sharper or two,’ Fiddler said, ‘that would’ve settled it just fine. All right now, you can all let me up—I think my knee’s busted anyway. Gesler, you got a granite jaw, did you know that?’

  ‘And it cuts me a fine profile besides,’ said Gesler.

  ‘We was hunting Fiddler?’ Balm suddenly asked. ‘Gods below, he mutiny or something?’

  Throatslitter patted his sergeant on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right now, Sergeant. Adjunct wants Fiddler to do a reading, that’s all.’

  Bottle winced. That’s all. Sure, nothing to it. I can’t wait.

  They dragged Fiddler to his feet, and wisely held on to the man as they marched him back to the barracks.

  Grey and ghostly, the oblong shape hung beneath the lintel over the dead Azath’s doorway. It looked lifeless, but of course it wasn’t.

  ‘We could throw stones,’ said Sinn. ‘They sleep at night, don’t they?’

  ‘Mostly,’ replied Grub.

  ‘Maybe if we’re quiet.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Sinn fidgeted. ‘Stones?’

  ‘Hit it and they’ll wake up, and then out they’ll come, in a black swarm.’

  ‘I’ve always hated wasps. For as long as I can remember—I must’ve been bad stung once, do you think?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Grub said, shrugging.

  ‘I could just set it on fire.’

  ‘No sorcery, Sinn, not here.’

  ‘I thought you said the house was dead.’

  ‘It is … I think. But maybe the yard isn’t.’

  She glanced round. ‘People been digging here.’

  ‘You ever gonna talk to anybody but me?’ Grub asked.

  ‘No.’ The single word was absolute, immutable, and it did not invite any further discussion on that issue.

  He eyed her. ‘You know what’s happening tonight, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere near that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Maybe, if we hide inside the house, it won’t reach us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Grub allowed. ‘But I doubt the Deck works like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Only, Uncle Keneb told me Fiddler talked about me last time, and I was jumping into the sea a
round then—I wasn’t in the cabin. But he just knew, he knew exactly what I was doing.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I went to find the Nachts.’

  ‘But how did you know they were there? You don’t make sense, Grub. And anyway, what use are they? They just follow Withal around.’

  ‘When they’re not hunting little lizards,’ Grub said, smiling.

  But Sinn was not in the mood for easy distraction. ‘I look at you and I think … Mockra.’

  To that, Grub made no reply. Instead, he crept forward on the path’s uneven pavestones, eyes fixed on the wasp nest.

  Sinn followed. ‘You’re what’s coming, aren’t you?’

  He snorted. ‘And you aren’t?’

  They reached the threshold, halted. ‘Do you think it’s locked?’

  ‘Shh.’

  Grub crouched down and edged forward beneath the huge nest. Once past it, he slowly straightened and reached for the door’s latch. It came off in his hand, raising a puff of sawdust. Grub glanced back at Sinn, but said nothing. Facing the door again, he gave it a light push.

  It crumpled like wafer where his fingers had prodded. More sawdust sifted down.

  Grub raised both hands and pushed against the door.

  The barrier disintegrated in clouds and frail splinters. Metal clunked on the floor just beyond, and a moment later the clouds were swept inward as if on an indrawn breath.

  Grub stepped over the heap of rotted wood and vanished in the gloom beyond.

  After a moment, Sinn followed, ducking low and moving quickly.

  From the gloom beneath a nearly dead tree in the grounds of the Azath, Lieutenant Pores grunted. He supposed he should have called them back, but to do so would have revealed his presence, and though he could never be sure when it came to Captain Kindly’s orders—designed and delivered as they were with deliberate vagueness, like flimsy fronds over a spike-filled pit—he suspected that he was supposed to maintain some sort of subterfuge when following the two runts around.

  Besides, he’d made some discoveries. Sinn wasn’t mute at all. Just a stubborn little cow. What a shock. And she had a crush on Grub, how sweet—sweet as tree sap, twigs and trapped insects included—why, it could make a grown man melt, and then run down a drain into that depthless sea of sentimentality where children played, and, occasionally, got away with murder.

  Well, the difference was Pores had a very good memory. He recalled in great detail his own childhood, and could he have reached back, into his own past, he’d give that snot-faced jerk a solid clout to the head. And then look down at that stunned, hurt expression, and say something like ‘Get used to it, little Pores. One day you’ll meet a man named Kindly …’

  Anyway, the mice had scurried into the Azath House. Maybe something would take care of them in there, bringing to a satisfying conclusion this stupid assignment. A giant, ten-thousand-year-old foot, stomping down, once, twice. Splat, splot, like stinkberries, Grub a smear, Sinn a stain.

  Gods no, I’d get blamed! Growling under his breath, he set out after them.

  In retrospect, he supposed he should have remembered that damned wasp nest. At the very least, it should have caught his attention as he leapt for the doorway. Instead, it caught his forehead.

  Sudden flurry of enraged buzzing, as the nest rocked out and then back, butting his head a second time.

  Recognition, comprehension, and then, appropriately enough, blind panic.

  Pores whirled and ran.

  A thousand or so angry black wasps provided escort.

  Six stings could drop a horse. He shrieked as a fire ignited on the back of his neck. And then again, as another stinger stabbed, this time on his right ear.

  He whirled his arms. There was a canal somewhere ahead—they’d crossed a bridge, he recalled, off to the left.

  Another explosion of agony, this time on the back of his right hand.

  Never mind the canal! I need a healer—fast!

  He could no longer hear any buzzing, but the scene before him had begun to tilt, darkness bleeding out from the shadows, and the lights of lanterns through windows blurred, lurid and painful in his eyes. His legs weren’t working too well, either.

  There, the Malazan Barracks.

  Deadsmell. Or Ebron.

  Staggering now, struggling to fix his gaze on the compound gate—trying to shout to the two soldiers standing guard, but his tongue was swelling up, filling his mouth. He was having trouble breathing. Running …

  Running out of time—

  ‘Who was that?’

  Grub came back from the hallway and shook his head. ‘Someone. Woke up the wasps.’

  ‘Glad they didn’t come in here.’

  They were standing in a main chamber of some sort, a stone fireplace dominating one wall, framed by two deep-cushioned chairs. Trunks and chests squatted against two other walls, and in front of the last one, opposite the cold hearth, there was an ornate couch, above it a large faded tapestry. All were little more than vague, grainy shapes in the gloom.

  ‘We need a candle or a lantern,’ said Sinn. ‘Since,’ she added with an edge to her tone, ‘I can’t use sorcery—’

  ‘You probably can,’ said Grub, ‘now that we’re nowhere near the yard. There’s no one here, no, um, presence, I mean. It really is dead.’

  With a triumphant gesture Sinn awakened the coals in the fireplace, although the flames flaring to life there were strangely lurid, spun through with green and blue tendrils.

  ‘That’s too easy for you,’ Grub said. ‘I didn’t even feel a warren.’

  She said nothing, walking up to study the tapestry.

  Grub followed.

  A battle scene was depicted, which for such things was typical enough. It seemed heroes only existed in the midst of death. Barely discernible in the faded weave, armoured reptiles of some sort warred with Tiste Edur and Tiste Andii. The smoke-shrouded sky overhead was crowded with both floating mountains—most of them burning—and dragons, and some of these dragons seemed enormous, five, six times the size of the others even though they were clearly more distant. Fire wreathed the scene, as fragments of the aerial fortresses broke apart and plunged down into the midst of the warring factions. Everywhere was slaughter and harrowing destruction.

  ‘Pretty,’ murmured Sinn.

  ‘Let’s check the tower,’ said Grub. All the fires in the scene reminded him of Y’Ghatan, and his vision of Sinn, marching through the flames—she could have walked into this ancient battle. He feared that if he looked closely enough he’d see her, among the hundreds of seething figures, a contented expression on her round-cheeked face, her dark eyes satiated and shining.

  They set off for the square tower.

  Into the gloom of the corridor once more, where Grub paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A moment later green flames licked out from the chamber they had just quit, slithering across the stone floor, drawing closer.

  In the ghoulish glow, Sinn smiled.

  The fire followed them up the saddled stairs to the upper landing, which was bare of all furnishings. Beneath a shuttered, web-slung window was slumped a desiccated corpse. Leathery strips of skin here and there were all that held the carcass together, and Grub could see the oddity of the thing’s limbs, the extra joints at knee, elbow, wrist and ankle. The very sternum seemed horizontally hinged midway down, as were the prominent, birdlike collarbones.

  He crept forward for a closer look. The face was frontally flattened, sharpening the angle where the cheekbones swept back, almost all the way to the ear-holes. Every bone he could see seemed designed to fold or collapse—not just the cheeks but the mandibles and brow-ridges as well. It was a face that in life, Grub suspected, could manage a bizarre array of expressions—far beyond what a human face could achieve.

  The skin was bleached white, hairless, and Grub knew that if he so much as touched the corpse, it would fall to dust.

  ‘Forkrul Assail,’ he whispered.

  Sinn rounded
on him. ‘How do you know that? How do you know anything about anything?’

  ‘On the tapestry below,’ he said, ‘those lizards. I think they were K’Chain Che’Malle.’ He glanced at her, and then shrugged. ‘This Azath House didn’t die,’ he said. ‘It just … left.’

  ‘Left? How?’

  ‘I think it just walked out of here, that’s what I think.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything! How can you say things like that?’

  ‘I bet Quick Ben knows, too.’

  ‘Knows what?’ she hissed in exasperation.

  ‘This. The truth of it all.’

  ‘Grub—’

  He met her gaze, studied the fury in her eyes. ‘You, me, the Azath. It’s all changing, Sinn. Everything—it’s all changing.’

  Her small hands made fists at her sides. The flames dancing from the stone floor climbed the frame of the chamber’s entranceway, snapping and sparking.

  Grub snorted, ‘The way you make it talk …’

  ‘It can shout, too, Grub.’

  He nodded. ‘Loud enough to break the world, Sinn.’

  ‘I would, you know,’ she said with sudden vehemence, ‘just to see what it can do. What I can do.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  She grimaced as she turned away. ‘You might shout back.’

  Tehol the Only, King of Lether, stepped into the room and, arms out to the sides, spun in a circle. Then beamed at Bugg. ‘What do you think?’

  The manservant held a bronze pot in his battered, blunt hands. ‘You’ve had dancing lessons?’

  ‘No, look at my blanket! My beloved wife has begun embroidering it—see, there at the hem, above my left knee.’

  Bugg leaned forward slightly. ‘Ah, I see. Very nice.’

  ‘Very nice?’

  ‘Well, I can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be.’

  ‘Me neither.’ He paused. ‘She’s not very good, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s terrible. Of course, she’s an academic.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Tehol agreed.

  ‘After all,’ said Bugg, ‘if she had any skill at sewing and the like—’