Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  ‘I dare say the hares would think so!’ cried Curdle, spiny tail lashing the short grasses.

  ‘No doubt, no doubt, but think of the outrage among the yokel’s family and friends! Why, there’d be a war, a feud! Soldiers would be called in, slit-eyed scouts and master hunters wearing green floppy hats, the king would raise taxes and a thousand whores would follow in the baggage train! Poets would sing rousing ballads to fan the flames of righteousness! Entire epics would be penned to recount the venal escapades!’

  ‘They’re just puffed up on themselves, Telorast. That’s all. They’re all emperors and empresses in their own puny minds, don’t you see? With all in the domain theirs to do with as they will. How dare some dumb beast bite back!’

  ‘We’ll get them in the end, Curdle.’

  ‘Us and the hares!’

  ‘Exactly! Rule the domain, will you? No, my friends, the domain rules you!’

  Telorast fell silent then, as grim thoughts whispered through her. ‘Curdle,’ she ventured, lifting her small reptilian skull. ‘We’ll need to act soon.’

  ‘I know. It’s awful!’

  ‘Someone in the city’s causing trouble. We don’t like trouble, do we? At least, I don’t think we do.’

  ‘Unless it’s ours, Telorast. If we’re the ones causing trouble, that’s just fine. Perfect, in fact.’

  ‘Until it all goes wrong, like last time. And wasn’t that your fault? That’s how I remember it, Curdle. All your fault. This time round, watch yourself. Do as I say, everything I say.’

  ‘Should we tear him apart then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who likes keeping the throne empty. In out in out in out, just shuffle them through. Nobody get comfortable! Chaos and confusion, civil wars and betrayals and blood everywhere! What a creep!’

  ‘You think we should tear him apart, Curdle?’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be following your lead. So lead, Telorast! Do we rend him into little messy pieces or don’t we?’

  ‘That depends.’ Telorast leapt to her taloned feet and began pacing, tiny forearms twitching. ‘Is he the enemy?’

  ‘Is he—what? Sweetness, aren’t they all our enemies?’

  ‘Agh! You’re right! What got into me?’

  ‘Simple, he just thought to ignore us. We don’t like being ignored. People who ignore us die. That’s the rule we’ve always lived by. Snub us and we’ll chew you into mangled flaps of skin and hair! Chips of bone, things that drip and leak!’

  ‘Should we go and kill him then?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh, tell me what to do! I can’t tell you to follow my lead unless I get guidance from you first!’

  ‘It’s a partnership all right,’ agreed Curdle. ‘Let me think.’

  Telorast paused, head lifting yet higher. ‘Gah! What’s those green blobs in the sky?’

  ‘Don’t come near me.’

  Withal eyed his wife, decided he’d seen this before, and so kept his distance. ‘Why did she want you there at all? That’s what I can’t figure.’

  Sandalath sat down, the effort a protracted procedure measured in winces, grunts and cautious sighs. ‘I didn’t anticipate a physical assault, that’s for sure.’

  Withal almost stepped forward then, but managed to restrain his instinctive gesture. ‘She beat you up? Gods below, I knew the Adjunct was a hard woman, but that’s going too far!’

  ‘Oh, be quiet. Of course she didn’t beat me up. Let’s just say the cards were assigned with some, uh, force. As if that would convince us of anything. The whole sorcery surrounding the Deck of Dragons is an affront to sensible creatures—like me.’

  Sensible? Well, I suppose. ‘The caster found you a card, then. Which one?’

  He watched as she weighed the value of answering him. ‘It threw me into a wall.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘The card, you idiot! Queen of Dark! As if I could be anything like that—stupid deck, what does it know of High House Dark? The past is dead, the thrones abandoned. There is no King and certainly no Queen! It’s senseless—how can Quick Ben be Magus of Dark? He’s not even Tiste Andii. Bah, all nonsense, all of it—gods, I think my ribs are cracked. Make some tea, love, be useful.’

  ‘Glad I waited up for you,’ Withal muttered, setting off to brew a pot. ‘Any preferences?’

  ‘No, but add a drop of d’bayang oil, will you? Next time, I’ll wear armour. Is it cold in here? Feed the hearth, I don’t want to get a chill. Throw me those furs. Is that water pipe just ornamental? Do we have any durhang? Gods, it hurts to talk.’

  News to me, darling.

  The dead iguana’s last animate act had been to clamp its jaws on Limp’s right ear. The soldier was weeping softly as Deadsmell knelt beside him and tried to prise loose the lizard’s savage grip. Blood flowed and it looked as if Limp was going to be left with half an ear on that side.

  Ebron was sitting on the bed, head in his hands. ‘It’ll be all right, Limp. We’ll get the knee fixed up. Maybe sew that bit of ear back on—’

  ‘No we won’t,’ said Deadsmell. ‘That’ll go septic for sure and then spread out. Iguana saliva, especially a dead iguana’s saliva, is bound to be nasty stuff. As it is, I’ll need to work a ritual to purge whatever toxins have already slipped into him.’ He paused. ‘Masan, you can crawl out from under the bed now.’

  ‘So you say,’ the woman replied, then coughed. ‘Hood-damned hairballs—I’ll never be clean again.’

  Limp squealed when Deadsmell worked a knife-blade between the iguana’s jaws and, failing to open them, simply started cutting at the tendons and muscle tissue at the hinges. A moment later and the creature fell away, startling everyone when it whistled an exhalation through its slitted nostrils.

  ‘I thought you said it was dead!’ Cord accused, walking over to slam his boot heel down on the iguana’s head. Things splatted out to the sides.

  ‘Now it is,’ Deadsmell affirmed. ‘Lie still, Limp. Let’s get the healing started—’

  ‘You should never let necromancers heal people,’ Crump complained, glowering from the corner of the room. The various components of his wood carving, shapeless riders on shapeless horses, had all vanished out into the corridor after breaching the door, which seemed to have been achieved by a combination of chewing and hacking and who knew what else.

  Deadsmell scowled over at the sapper. ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you were dying of some wound and I was your only hope.’

  ‘Yes I would.’

  The necromancer offered him a nasty smile. ‘We’ll see some day, won’t we?’

  ‘No we won’t. I’ll kill you first before I get wounded.’

  ‘And then we’d both be dead.’

  ‘That’s right, so there! Just what I was saying—nothing good comes of no necromancers no how!’

  The flicker bird was a mashed heap of feathers on the floor. The bat-turtle had fled through the hole in the door, possibly in pursuit of the wooden troop. The black-furred rat still clung on all fours to the ceiling.

  Shard moved to stand opposite Ebron. ‘Was Deadsmell right, mage? Did the Lord of Death show up here?’

  ‘No. Not as such. Why don’t you ask him yourself—’

  ‘Because he’s busy healing. I want to hear from you, Ebron.’

  ‘More like all the warrens woke up all at once. Corporal, I don’t know what the Adjunct’s playing at, but it won’t be fun. We’re gonna march soon—I think tonight’s decided it. The roles are set, only I doubt anybody—even Tavore—knows all the players. Noses are gonna get bloodied.’

  Deadsmell had of course been listening. Working on the wreck that was Limp’s knee had become rote for the healer—as it was for virtually every healer in the company, not one of whom had escaped delivering ministrations to the hapless fool. ‘Ebron’s right. I don’t envy your squad, if you end up as Sinn’s escort again—she’s right in the middle of it.’

  ‘I don’t like her neither,’ said Crump.
<
br />   Ebron sneered at Deadsmell. ‘How close we happen to be with anybody won’t make any difference. We’re all in trouble.’

  An odd, frothy, bubbling sound drew everyone’s attention, and all eyes fixed on the crushed head of the iguana, as it exhaled yet again.

  A snort came from under the bed. ‘I ain’t leaving here until the sun comes up.’

  The others had left, their departure more a headlong flight than a solemn dismissal, until only the Adjunct, Lostara Yil and Brys Beddict remained. Plaster dust hazed the light from the lanterns, and the floor ground and crunched underfoot.

  Brys watched as the Adjunct slowly sat down in the chair at the head of the table, and it was hard to determine which woman was more shaken or distraught. Whatever sorrow was buried within Lostara Yil now seemed much closer to the surface, and she had said not a word since Fiddler’s exit, standing with arms crossed—a gesture that likely had as much to do with aching ribs as anything else.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Adjunct, ‘for being here, sir.’

  Startled, Brys frowned. ‘I may well have been the reason for the Errant’s attention, Adjunct. You would perhaps be more justified in cursing me instead.’

  ‘I do not believe that,’ she replied. ‘We are in the habit of acquiring enemies.’

  ‘This is the Errant’s back yard,’ Brys pointed out. ‘Naturally, he resents intruders. But even more, he despises the other residents who happen to share it with him. People like me, Adjunct.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘You were dead, once. Or so I understand. Resurrected.’

  He nodded. ‘It is extraordinary how little choice one has in such matters. If I mull on that overlong I become despondent. I do not appreciate the notion of being so easily manipulated. I would prefer to think of my soul as my own.’

  She looked away, and then settled her hands flat on the table before her—a strange gesture—whereupon she seemed to study them. ‘Fiddler spoke of the Errant’s … rival. The Master of the Deck of Dragons.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘That man is my brother, Ganoes Paran.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  She shook her head but would not look up, intent on her hands. ‘I doubt that. We may share blood, but in so far as I know, we are not allies. Not … close. There are old issues between us. Matters that cannot be salved, not by deed, not by word.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Brys ventured, ‘when nothing can be shared except regret, then regret must serve as the place to begin. Reconciliation does not demand that one side surrender to the other. The simple, mutual recognition that mistakes were made is in itself a closing of the divide.’

  She managed a half-smile. ‘Brys Beddict, your words, however wise, presume communication between the parties involved. Alas, this has not been the case.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, you might have welcomed the Master’s attention this night. Yet, if I did indeed understand Fiddler, no such contact was in truth forthcoming. Your soldier bluffed. Tell me, if you would, is your brother aware of your … predicament?’

  She shot him a look, sharp, searching. ‘I do not recall sharing any details of my predicament.’

  Brys was silent. Wondering what secret web he had just set trembling.

  She rose, frowned over at Lostara for a moment, as if surprised to find her still there, and then said, ‘Inform the King that we intend to depart soon. We will be rendezvousing with allies at the border to the Wastelands, whereupon we shall march east.’ She paused. ‘Naturally, we must ensure that we are well supplied with all necessities—of course, we shall pay in silver and gold for said materiel.’

  ‘We would seek to dissuade you, Adjunct,’ said Brys. ‘The Wastelands are aptly named, and as for the lands east of them, what little we hear has not been promising.’

  ‘We’re not looking for promises,’ the Adjunct replied.

  Brys Beddict bowed. ‘I shall take my leave now, Adjunct.’

  ‘Do you wish an escort?’

  He shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. Thank you for the offer.’

  The roof would have to do. He’d wanted a tower, something ridiculously high. Or a pinnacle and some tottering, ragged keep moments from plunging off the cliff into the thrashing seas below. Or perhaps a cliff-side fastness on some raw mountain, slick with ice and drifts of snow. An abbey atop a mesa, with the only access through a rope and pulley system with a wicker basket to ride in. But this roof would have to do.

  Quick Ben glared at the greenish smear in the south sky, that troop of celestial riders not one of whom had any good news to deliver, no doubt. Magus of Dark. The bastard! You got a nasty nose, Fid, haven’t you just. And don’t even try it with that innocent look. One more disarming shrug from you and I’ll ram ten warrens down your throat.

  Magus of Dark.

  There was a throne once … no, never mind.

  Just stay away from Sandalath, that’s all. Stay away, ducked out of sight. It was just a reading, after all. Fiddler’s usual mumbo jumbo. Means nothing. Meant nothing. Don’t bother me, I’m busy.

  Magus of Dark.

  Fiddler was now drunk, along with Stormy and Gesler, badly singing old Napan pirate songs, not one of which was remotely clever. Bottle, sporting three fractured ribs, had shuffled off to find a healer he could bribe awake. Sinn and Grub had run away, like a couple of rats whose tails had just been chopped off by the world’s biggest cleaver. And Hedge … Hedge was creeping up behind him right now, worse than an addled assassin.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Not a chance, Quick. We got to talk.’

  ‘No we don’t.’

  ‘He said I was the Mason of Death.’

  ‘So build a crypt and climb inside, Hedge. I’ll be happy to seal it for you with every ward I can think of.’

  ‘The thing is, Fid’s probably right.’

  Eyes narrowing, Quick Ben faced the sapper. ‘Hood’s been busy of late.’

  ‘You’d know more of that than me, and don’t deny it.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Quick Ben nodded.

  ‘Then why am I the Mason of Death?’

  The shout echoed from the nearby rooftops and Quick Ben flinched. ‘Because you’re needed,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘You’re needed,’ Quick Ben snarled, ‘to build us a road.’

  Hedge stared. ‘Gods below, where are we going?’

  ‘The real question is whether we’ll ever get there. Listen, Hedge, she’s nothing like you think. She’s nothing like any of us thinks. I can’t explain—I can’t get any closer than that. Don’t try anticipating. Or second-guessing—she’ll confound you at every turn. Just look at this reading—’

  ‘That was Fid’s doing—’

  ‘You think so? You’re dead wrong. He knows because she told him. Him and no one else. Now, you can try to twist Fiddler for details all you like—it won’t work. The truth as much as cut out his tongue.’

  ‘So what’s made you the Magus of Dark? What miserable piss-sour secret you holding back on now, Quick?’

  The wizard turned away once more, stared out over the city, and then stiffened. ‘Shit, what now?’

  The sorcery erupted from an alley mouth, striking Brys Beddict from his left side. The impact sent him sprawling, grey tendrils writhing like serpents about his body. In the span of a single heartbeat, the magic had bound him tight, arms trapped. The coils began constricting.

  Lying on his back, staring up at the night sky—that had at last begun to pale—Brys heard footsteps and a moment later the Errant stepped into the range of his vision. The god’s single eye gleamed like a star burning through mist.

  ‘I warned you, Brys Beddict. This time, there will be no mistakes. Yes, it was me who nudged you to take that mouthful of poisoned wine—oh, the Chancellor had not anticipated such a thing, but he can be forgiven that. After all, how could I have imagined that you’d found a guardian among Mael’s minions?’
He paused, and then said, ‘No matter. I am done with subtlety—this is much better. I can look into your eyes and watch you die, and what could be more satisfying than that?’

  The sorcery tautened, forcing Brys’s breath from his lungs. Darkness closed in round his vision until all he could see was the Errant’s face, a visage that had lost all grace as avid hunger twisted the features. He watched as the god lifted one hand and slowly clenched the fingers—and the pressure around Brys’s chest built until his ribs creaked.

  The new fist that arrived hammered like a maul against the side of the Errant’s head, snapping it far over. The gleaming eye seemed to wink out and the god crumpled, vanishing from Brys’s dwindling vision.

  All at once the coils weakened, and then frayed into dissolving threads.

  Brys drew a ragged, delicious breath of chill night air.

  He heard horse hoofs, a half dozen beasts, maybe more, approaching at a canter from up the street. Blinking sweat from his eyes, Brys rolled on to his stomach and then forced himself to his knees.

  A hand closed on his harness and lifted him to his feet.

  He found himself staring up at a Tarthenal—a familiar face, the heavy, robust features knotted absurdly into a fierce frown.

  ‘I got a question for you. It was for your brother and I was on my way but then I saw you.’

  The riders arrived, horses skidding on the dew-slick cobbles—a Malazan troop, Brys saw, weapons unsheathed. One of them, a dark-skinned woman, pointed with a sword. ‘He crawled into that alley—come on, let’s chop the bastard into stewing meat!’ She made to dismount and then seemed to sag and an instant later she collapsed on to the street, weapon clattering.

  Other soldiers dropped down from their mounts. Three of them converged on the unconscious woman, while the others fanned out and advanced into the alley.

  Brys was still having difficulty staying upright. He found himself leaning with one forearm against the Tarthenal. ‘Ublala Pung,’ he sighed, ‘thank you.’

  ‘I got a question.’

  Brys nodded. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’

  ‘But that’s the problem. I forgot what it was.’

  One of the Malazans crowded round the woman now straightened and faced them. ‘Sinter said there was trouble,’ he said in heavily accented trader tongue. ‘Said we needed to hurry—to here, to save someone.’