Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’

  Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’

  ‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer preceded bread as the very first product of domesticated plants. Cleaner than water, and very nutritious. The first making of wine employed wild grapes. These two creations are elemental forces in the history of humanity. Others include such things as animal husbandry, the first tools of stone, bone and antler, the birth of music and dance and the telling of tales. Art, on stone walls and on skin. Crucial, profound moments one and all.’

  ‘So,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to them?’

  ‘Mindful and respectful partaking of their aspects have given way to dissolute, careless excess. Respect for their gifts has vanished, Acquitor. The more sordid the use of those gifts, the more befouled become the gift-givers.’

  Ursto belched. ‘We don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Far worse if we wuz outlawed, becuz that’d make us evil and we don’t wanna be evil, do we, sweet porridge?’

  ‘We’s unber attack alla time,’ snarled Pinosel. ‘Here, les fill these cups. Elder?’

  ‘Half measure, please,’ said Bugg.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Seren Pedac. ‘Ceda, you have just described these two drunks as the earliest gods of all. But Pinosel just called you “Elder”.’

  Ursto cackled. ‘Ceda? Mealyoats, y’hear that? Ceda!’ He reeled a step closer to Seren Pedac. ‘O round one, blessed Mahybe, we may be old, me and Pinosel, compared to the likes a you. But against this one ’ere, we’re just babies! Elder, yes, Elder, as in Elder God!’

  ‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.

  Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’

  He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’

  ‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’

  Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.

  Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.

  ‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.

  ‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.

  ‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen.’

  Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.

  Thirteen in all—at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.

  Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.

  Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?

  He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.

  The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’

  ‘Who?’

  The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’

  ‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’

  ‘I cannot. Not now.’

  ‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’

  ‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.

  ‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’

  A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’

  ‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled—not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’

  The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’

  After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.

  But that’s the problem with the Bonehunters, isn’t it?

  Nobody can keep them out of anyone’s way.

  Standing motionless in the shadows of the alley—after the ex-priest had gone inside—waited the Errant.

  The thirteenth player in this night’s game.

  Had he known that—had he been able to pierce the fog now thickening within that dread chamber and so make full count of those present—he would have turned round, discarding all his plans. No, he would have run for the hills.

  Instead, the god waited, with murder in his heart.

  As the city’s sand clocks and banded wicks—insensate and indifferent to aught but the inevitable progression of time—approached the sounding of the bells.

  To announce the arrival of midnight.

  Chapter Two

  Do not come here old friend

  If you bring bad weather

  I was down where the river ran

  Running no more

  Recall that span of bridge?

  Gone now the fragments grey

  And scattered on the sand

  Nothing to cross

  You can walk the water’s flow

  Wending slow into the basin

  And find the last place where

  Weather goes to die

  If I see you hove into view

  I’ll know your resurrection’s come

  In tears rising to drown my feet

  In darkening sky

  You walk like a man burned blind

  Groping hands out to the sides

  I’d guide you but this river

  Will not wait

  Rushing me to the swallowing sea

  Beneath fleeing birds of white

  Do not come here old friend

  If you bring bad weather

  BRIDGE OF THE SUN

  FISHER KEL TATH

  H

  e stood amidst the rotted remnants of ship timbers, tall yet hunched, and if not for his tattered clothes and long, wind-tugged hair, he could have been a statue, a thing of bleached marble, toppled from the Meckros city behind him to land miraculously upright on the colourless loess. For as long as Udinaas had been watching, the distant figure had not moved.

  A scrabble of pebbles announced the arrival of someone else coming up from the village, and a moment later Onrack T’emlava stepped up beside him. The warrior said nothing for a time, a silent, solid presence.

  This was not a world to be rushed through, Udinaas had come to realize; not that he’d ever been particularly headlong in the course of his life. For a long time since his arrival here in the Refugium, he had felt as if he were dragging chains, or wading through water. The slow measure of time in this place resisted hectic presumptions, forcing humility, and, Udinaas well knew, humility always arrived uninvited, kicking down doors, shattering walls. It announced itself with a punch to the head, a knee in the groin. Not literally, of course, but the result was the same. Driven to one’s knees, struggling for breath, weak as a
sickly child. With the world standing, looming over the fool, slowly wagging one finger.

  There really should be more of that. Why, if I was the god of all gods, it’s the only lesson I would ever deliver, as many times as necessary.

  Then again, that’d make me one busy bastard, wouldn’t it just.

  The sun overhead was cool, presaging the winter to come. The shoulderwomen said there would be deep snow in the months ahead. Desiccated leaves, caught in the tawny grasses of the hilltop, fluttered and trembled as if shivering in dread anticipation. He’d never much liked the cold—the slightest chill and his hands went numb.

  ‘What does he want?’ Onrack asked.

  Udinaas shrugged.

  ‘Must we drive him off?’

  ‘No, Onrack, I doubt that will be necessary. For the moment, I think, there’s no fight left in him.’

  ‘You know more of this than me, Udinaas. Even so, did he not murder a child? Did he not seek to kill Trull Sengar?’

  ‘He crossed weapons with Trull?’ Udinaas asked. ‘My memories of that are vague. I was preoccupied getting smothered by a wraith at the time. Well, then, friend, I can understand how you might want to see the last of him. As for Kettle, I don’t think any of that was as simple as it looked. The girl was already dead, long dead, before the Azath seeded her. All Silchas Ruin did was crack the shell so the House could send down its roots. In the right place and at the right time, thus ensuring the survival of this realm.’

  The Imass was studying him, his soft, brown eyes nested in lines of sorrow, in lines that proved that he felt things too deeply. This fierce warrior who had—apparently—once been naught but leathery skin and bones was now as vulnerable as a child. This trait seemed true of all the Imass. ‘You knew, then, all along, Udinaas? The fate awaiting Kettle?’

  ‘Knew? No. Guessed, mostly.’

  Onrack grunted. ‘You rarely err in your guesses, Udinaas. Very well, go then. Speak with him.’

  Udinaas smiled wryly. ‘Not bad at guessing yourself, Onrack. Will you wait here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was glad of that, for despite his conviction that Silchas Ruin did not intend violence, with the White Crow there was no telling. If Udinaas ended up cut down by one of those keening swords, at least his death would be witnessed, and unlike his son, Rud Elalle, Onrack was not so foolish as to charge out seeking vengeance.

  As he drew closer to the albino Tiste Andii, it became increasingly evident that Silchas Ruin had not fared well since his sudden departure from this realm. Most of his armour was shorn away, leaving his arms bare. Old blood stained the braided leather collar of his scorched gambeson. He bore new, barely healed gashes and cuts, and mottled bruises showed below skin like muddy water beneath ice.

  His eyes, alas, remained hard, unyielding, red as fresh blood in their shadowed sockets.

  ‘Longing for that old Azath barrow?’ Udinaas asked as he halted ten paces from the gaunt warrior.

  Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘Udinaas. I had forgotten your bright gift with words.’

  ‘I can’t recall anyone ever calling it a gift,’ he replied, deciding to let the sarcasm pass, as if his stay in this place had withered his natural acuity. ‘A curse, yes, all the time. It’s amazing I’m still breathing, in fact.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Tiste Andii agreed, ‘it is.’

  ‘What do you want, Silchas Ruin?’

  ‘We travelled together for a long time, Udinaas.’

  ‘Running in circles, yes. What of it?’

  The Tiste Andii glanced away. ‘I was … misled. By all that I saw. An absence of sophistication. I imagined the rest of that world was no different from Lether … until that world arrived.’

  ‘The Letherii version of sophistication is rather narcissistic, granted. Comes with being the biggest lump of turd on the heap. Locally speaking.’

  Ruin’s expression soured. ‘A turd thoroughly crushed under heel, now.’

  Udinaas shrugged. ‘Comes to us all, sooner or later.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence stretched between them, and still Ruin would not meet his gaze. Udinaas understood well enough, and knew too that it would be unseemly to show any pleasure at the White Crow’s humbling.

  ‘She will be Queen,’ Silchas Ruin said abruptly.

  ‘Who?’

  The warrior blinked, as if startled by the question, and then fixed his unhuman attention once more upon Udinaas. ‘Your son is in grave danger.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘I thought, in coming here, that I would speak to him. To offer what meagre advice of any worth I might possess.’ He gestured at the place where he stood. ‘This is as far as I could manage.’

  ‘What’s holding you back?’

  Ruin’s expression soured. ‘To the Blood of the Eleint, Udinaas, any notion of community is anathema. Or of alliance. If in spirit the Letherii possess an ascendant, it is the Eleint.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Which was why Quick Ben managed to defeat Sukul Ankhadu, Sheltatha Lore and Menandore.’

  Silchas Ruin nodded. ‘Each intended to betray the others. It is the flaw in the blood. More often than not, a fatal one.’ He paused, and then said, ‘So it proved with me and my brother Anomander. Once the Draconic blood took hold of us, we were driven apart. Andarist stood between us, reaching with both hands, seeking to hold us close, but our newfound arrogance surpassed him. We ceased to be brothers. Is it any wonder that we—’

  ‘Silchas Ruin,’ Udinaas cut in, ‘why is my son in danger?’

  The warrior’s eyes flashed. ‘My lesson in humility very nearly killed me. But I survived. When Rud Elalle’s own lesson arrives, he may not be so fortunate.’

  ‘Ever had a child, Silchas? I thought not. Giving advice to a child is like flinging sand at an obsidian wall. Nothing sticks. The brutal truth is that we each suffer our own lessons—they can’t be danced round. They can’t be slipped past. You cannot gift a child with your scars—they arrive like webs, constricting, suffocating, and that child will struggle and strain until they break. No matter how noble your intent, the only scars that teach them anything are the ones they earn themselves.’

  ‘Then I must ask you, as his father, for a boon.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am, Udinaas.’

  Fear Sengar had tried to stab this Tiste Andii in the back, had tried to step into Scabandari Bloodeye’s shadow. Fear had been a difficult man, but Udinaas, for all his jibes and mockery, his bitter memories of slavery, had not truly disliked him. Nobility could be admired even when not met eye to eye. And he had seen Trull Sengar’s grief. ‘What would you ask of me, then?’

  ‘Give him to me.’

  ‘What?’

  The Tiste Andii held up a hand. ‘Make no answer yet. I will explain the necessity. I will tell you what is coming, Udinaas, and when I am done, I believe you will understand.’

  Udinaas found he was trembling. And as Silchas Ruin continued to speak, he felt the once-solid ground inexorably shifting beneath his feet.

  The seemingly turgid pace of this world was proved an illusion, a quaint conceit.

  The truth was, everything was pitching headlong, a hundred thousand boulders sliding down a mountainside. The truth was, quite simply, terrifying.

  Onrack stood watching the two figures. The conversation had stretched on much longer than the Imass had anticipated, and his worry was burgeoning along with it. Little good was going to come of this, he was certain. He heard a coughing grunt behind him and turned to see the two emlava crossing his trail a hundred or so paces back. They swung their massive, fanged heads in his direction and eyed him warily, as if seeking permission—but he could see by their loping gait and ducked tail-stubs that they were setting out on a hunt. The guilt beneath their intent seemed instinctive, as did their wide-eyed belligerence. They might be gone a day, or weeks. In need of a major kill, with winter fast approaching.

  Onrack turned his attention back to Udinaas and Silchas Ruin, and saw that t
hey were now walking towards him, side by side, and the Imass could read well enough Udinaas’s battered spirit, his fugue of despair.

  No, nothing good was on its way here.

  He heard the scrabble behind him as the emlava reached the point where the trail they’d taken would move them out of Onrack’s line of sight, and both animals bolted to escape his imagined attention. But he had no interest in calling them back. He never did. The beasts were simply too stupid to take note of that.

  Intruders into this realm rode an ill tide, arriving like vanguards to legions of chaos. Change stained the world the hue of fresh blood more often than not. When the truth was, the one thing all Imass desired was peace, affirmed in the ritual of living, secure and stable and exquisitely predictable. Heat and smoke from the hearths, the aromas of cooking meats, tubers, melted marrow. The nasal voices of the women singing as they went about their day’s modest demands. The grunts and gasps of love-making, the chants of children. Someone might be working an antler tine, the spiral edge of a split longbone, or a core of flint. Another kneeling by the stream, scraping down a hide with polished blades and thumbnail scrapers, and nearby there was the faint depression marking a pit of sand where other skins had been buried. When anyone needed to urinate they would squat over the pit to send their stream down. To cure the hides.

  Elders sat on boulders and watched the camp and all their kin going about their tasks, and they dreamed of the hidden places and the pathways that opened in the fever of droning voices and drumming and swirling scenes painted on torch-lit stone, deep in the seethe of night when spirits blossomed before the eyes in myriad colours, when the patterns rose to the surface and floated and flowed in the smoky air.

  The hunt and the feast, the gathering and the shaping. Days and nights, births and deaths, laughter and grief, tales told and retold, the mind within unfolding to reveal itself like a gift to every kin, every warm, familiar face.

  This, Onrack knew, was all that mattered. Every appeasement of the spirits sought the protection of that precious peace, that perfect continuity. The ghosts of ancestors hovered close to stand sentinel over the living. Memories wove strands that bound everyone together, and when those memories were shared, that binding grew ever stronger.