Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Because none of us has a clue what that thing is, sire.’

  Tehol grimaced. ‘How can this thing defeat the greatest minds of the kingdom?’

  ‘I didn’t know we’d tried them yet,’ murmured Janath.

  ‘It’s bone, antler, inlaid pearl and it has two handles.’ Tehol waited, but no one had anything to add to that succinct description. ‘At least, I think they’re handles . . .’

  Janath’s breath caught, and then she said, ‘Oh.’

  King Tehol scratched his jaw. ‘Best the emissary wait a little longer, I think.’

  ‘Sound decision, sire.’

  ‘Such opinions, Bugg, are invaluable. Now, dear wife, shall we retire to our private chambers to further our exploration of this, uhm, offering?’

  ‘You must be mad. Find Shurq Elalle. Or Rucket.’

  ‘Finally, proper advice!’

  ‘And I’ll buy myself a new dagger.’

  ‘That hints of high emotions, my beloved. Jealous rage does not become you.’

  ‘It doesn’t become anyone, husband. You didn’t really think I wanted you to follow my suggestion?’

  ‘Well, it’s true that it’s easy to make suggestions when you know they won’t be heeded.’

  ‘Yes it is. Now, you will find a small room with a stout door and multiple locks, and once the emissary has departed, in goes that gift, never again to see the light of day.’ And she settled back on the throne, arms crossed.

  Tehol eyed the gift forlornly, and then sighed once more. ‘Send for the emissary, Bugg.’

  ‘At once, sire.’ He gestured to a servant waiting at the far end of the throne room.

  ‘While we’re waiting, is there any kingly business we need to mull over?’

  ‘Your repatriation proclamation, sire—that’s going to cause trouble.’

  Tehol thumped the arm of his throne with a fist. ‘And trouble is precisely what I want! Indignation! Outrage! Protests! Let the people rail and shake their knobby fists! Let us, yes, stir this steaming stew, wave the ladle about, spattering all the walls and worse.’

  Janath turned to eye him speculatively.

  Bugg grunted. ‘Should work. I mean, you’re taking land away from some very wealthy families. You could well foment a general insurrection. Assuming that would be useful.’

  ‘Useful?’ demanded Janath. ‘In what context could insurrection be useful? Tehol, I warned you about that edict—’

  ‘Proclamation—’

  ‘—and the rage you’ll incite. But did you listen?’

  ‘I most certainly did, my Queen. But let me ask you, are my reasons any less just?’

  ‘No, it was stolen land to begin with, but that’s beside the point. The losers won’t see it that way.’

  ‘And that, my love, is precisely my point. Justice bites. With snippy sharp teeth. If it doesn’t, then the common folk will perceive it as unbalanced, forever favouring the wealthy and influential. When robbed, the rich cry out for protection and prosecution. When stealing, they expect the judiciary to look the other way. Well, consider this a royal punch in the face. Let them smart.’

  ‘You truly expect to purge cynicism from the common people, Tehol?’

  ‘Well, wife, in this instance it’s more the sweet taste of vengeance, but a deeper lesson is being delivered, I assure you. Ah, enough prattling about inconsequential things—the noble Akrynnai emissary arrives! Approach, my friend!’

  The huge man with the wolf-skin cloak strode forward, showing his fiercest scowl.

  Smiling, King Tehol said, ‘We delight in this wondrous gift and please do convey our pleasure to Sceptre Irkullas, and assure him we will endeavour to make use of it as soon as an opportunity . . . arises.’

  The warrior’s scowl deepened. ‘Make use? What kind of use? It’s a damned piece of art, sire. Stick it on a damned wall and forget about it—that’s what I would do were I you. A closet wall, in fact.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Forgive me.’ Tehol frowned down at the object. ‘Art, yes. Of course.’

  ‘It wasn’t even the Sceptre’s idea,’ the emissary grumbled. ‘Some ancient agreement, wasn’t it? Between our peoples? An exchange of meaningless objects. Irkullas has a whole wagon stuffed with similar rubbish from you Letherii. Trundles around after us like an arthritic dog.’

  ‘The wagon’s pulled by an arthritic dog?’

  The man grunted. ‘I wish. Now, I have something to discuss. Can we get on with it?’

  Tehol smiled. ‘By all means. This has proved most fascinating.’

  ‘What has? I haven’t started yet.’

  ‘Just so. Proceed, then, sir.’

  ‘We think our traders have been murdered by the Barghast. In fact, we think the painted savages have declared war on us. And so we call upon our loyal neighbours, the Letherii, for assistance in this unwanted war.’ And he crossed his arms, glowering.

  ‘Is there precedent for our assistance in such conflicts?’ Tehol asked, settling his chin in one hand.

  ‘There is. We ask, you say “no”, and we go home. Sometimes,’ he added, ‘you say, “Of course, but first let us have half a thousand brokes of pasture land and twenty ranks of tanned hides, oh, and renounce sovereignty of the Kryn Freetrade Lands and maybe a royal hostage or two.” To which we make a rude gesture and march home.’

  ‘Are there no other alternatives?’ Tehol asked. ‘Chancellor, what has so irritated the—what are they called again—the Barnasties?’

  ‘Barghast,’ corrected Bugg. ‘White Face Clans—they claim most of the plains as their ancestral homeland. I suspect this is the reason for their setting out to conquer the Akrynnai.’

  Tehol turned to Janath and raised an eyebrow. ‘Repatriation issues, see how they plague peoples? Bugg, are these Barghast in truth from those lands?’

  The Chancellor shrugged.

  ‘What kind of answer is that?’ Tehol demanded.

  ‘The only honest kind, sire. The problem is this: migratory tribes move around, that’s what makes them migratory. They flow in waves, this way and that. The Barghast may well have dwelt on the plains and much of the Wastelands once, long, long ago. But what of it? Tarthenal once lived there, too, and Imass, and Jheck—a well-trammelled land, by any count. Who’s to say which claim is more legitimate than the next?’

  The emissary barked a laugh. ‘But who lives there now? We do. The only answer that matters. We will destroy these Barghast. Irkullas calls to the Kryn and their mercenary Warleader Zavast. He calls to Saphinand and to the D’rhasilhani. And he sends me to you Letherii, to take the measure of your new King.’

  ‘If you will crush the Barghast with the assistance of your allies,’ said Tehol, ‘why come here at all? What measure do you seek from me?’

  ‘Will you pounce when our backs are turned? Our spies tell us your commander is in the field with an army—’

  ‘We can tell you that,’ Tehol said. ‘There’s no need for spies—’

  ‘We prefer spies.’

  ‘Right. Well. Yes, Brys Beddict leads a Letherii army—’

  ‘Into the Wastelands—through our territory, in fact.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Bugg, ‘we will be mostly skirting your territories, sir.’

  ‘And what of these foreigners you march with?’ the emissary asked, adding an impressive snarl after the question.

  Tehol held up a hand. ‘A moment, before this paranoia gets out of hand. Deliver the following message to Sceptre Irkullas, from King Tehol of Lether. He is free to prosecute his war against the Barghast—in defence of his territory and such—without fear of Letherii aggression. Nor, I add, that of the Malazans, the foreigners, I mean.’

  ‘You cannot speak for the foreigners.’

  ‘No, but Brys Beddict and his army will be escorting them, and so guarantee that nothing treacherous will take place—’

  ‘Hah! Bolkando is already warring with the foreigners’ allies!’

  Bugg snorted. ‘Thus revealing to you that the much acclaimed Bolk
ando Alliance has a straw spine,’ he pointed out. ‘Leave the Bolkando to sort out their own mess. As for the Malazans, assure Irkullas, they are not interested in you or your lands.’

  The emissary’s eyes had narrowed, his expression one of deep, probably pathological suspicion. ‘I shall convey your words. Now, what gift must I take back to Irkullas?’

  Tehol rubbed his chin. ‘How does a wagonload of silks, linens, quality iron bars and a hundred or so silver ingots sound, sir?’

  The man blinked.

  ‘Outmoded traditions are best left behind, I’m sure Sceptre Irkullas will agree. Go, then, with our blessing.’

  The man bowed and then walked off, weaving as if drunk.

  Tehol turned to Janath and smiled.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Now the poor bastard has to reciprocate in kind—which will likely impoverish him. Those old traditions survived for a reason, husband.’

  ‘He won’t be impoverished with the haul I just sent his way.’

  ‘But he’ll need to divide it up among his warleaders, to buy their loyalty.’

  ‘He would have done that anyway,’ said Tehol. ‘And where did this insane notion of buying loyalty come from? It’s a contradiction in terms.’

  ‘The currency is obligation,’ said Bugg. ‘Gifts force honour upon the receiver. Sire, I must speak with you now as the Ceda. The journey Brys intends is more fraught than we had initially thought. I fear for his fate and that of his legions.’

  ‘This relates, I assume,’ said Janath, ‘to the unknown motives of the Malazans. But Brys is not compelled to accompany them beyond the Wastelands, is he? Indeed, is it not his intention to return once that expanse is successfully crossed?’

  Bugg nodded. ‘Alas, I now believe that the Wastelands are where the greatest peril waits.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Blood has been spilled on those ancient soils. There will be more to come.’

  Tehol rose from the throne, the Akrynnai gift in his hands. He held it out to one side and a servant hurried forward to take it. ‘I do not believe my brother is as unaware of such dangers as you think, Bugg. His sojourn in the realm of the dead—or wherever it was—has changed him. Not surprising, I suppose. In any case, I don’t think he returned to the realm of the living just to keep me company.’

  ‘I suspect you are right,’ said Bugg. ‘But I can tell you nothing of the path he has taken. In a sense, he stands outside of . . . well, everything. As a force, one might view him as unaligned, and therefore unpredictable.’

  ‘Which is why the Errant sought to kill him,’ said Janath.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bugg. ‘One thing I can say: while in close company with the Malazans, Brys is perhaps safer from the Errant than he would be anywhere else.’

  ‘And on the return journey?’ Tehol asked.

  ‘I expect the Errant to be rather preoccupied by then, sire.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Bugg was long in replying, and on his blunt face could be seen a reluctant weighing of risks, ending in a grimace and then a sigh. ‘He compels me. In my most ancient capacity, he compels me. Sire, by the time Brys begins his return to the kingdom, the Errant will be busy . . . contending with me.’

  The iron beneath Bugg’s words silenced the two others in the throne room, for a time.

  Tehol then spoke, looking at neither his wife nor his closest friend. ‘I will take a walk in the garden.’

  They watched him leave.

  Janath said, ‘Brys is his brother, after all. And to have lost him once . . .’

  Bugg nodded.

  ‘Is there anything more you can do?’ she asked him. ‘To protect him?’

  ‘Who, Brys or Tehol?’

  ‘In this matter, I think, they are one and the same.’

  ‘Some possibilities exist,’ Bugg allowed. ‘Unfortunately, in such circumstances as these, often the gesture proves deadlier than the original threat.’ He held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Of course I will do what I can.’

  She looked away. ‘I know you will. So, friend, you are compelled—when will you leave us?’

  ‘Soon. Some things cannot be resisted for long—I am making him sweat.’ He then grunted and added, ‘and that’s making me sweat.’

  ‘Is this a “binding of blood”?’ she asked.

  He started, eyed her curiously. ‘I keep forgetting you are a scholar, my Queen. That ancient phrase holds many layers of meaning, and almost as many secrets. Every family begins with a birth, but there can never be just one, can there?’

  ‘Solitude is simple. Society isn’t.’

  ‘Just so, Janath.’ He studied her for a moment. She sat on the throne, leaning to one side, head resting on one hand. ‘Did you know you are with child?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Does Tehol?’

  ‘Probably not. It’s early yet—Bugg, I suffered greatly in the hands of the Patriotists, didn’t I? I see scars on my body but have no memory of how they came to be there. I feel pains inside and so I believe there are scars within, as well. I suspect your hand in my strange ignorance—you have scoured away the worst of what I experienced. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you.’

  ‘An even measure of both, I should think.’

  She regarded him levelly. ‘Yes, you understand the necessity of balance, don’t you? Well, I think I will give it a few more weeks before I terrify my husband.’

  ‘The child is healthy, Janath, and I sense no risks—those pains are phantom ones—I was thorough in my healing.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ She rose. ‘Tell me, was it simply a question of my twisted imagination, or did that Akrynnai artist have something disreputable in mind?’

  ‘My Queen, neither mortal nor immortal can fathom the mind of an artist. But as a general rule, between two possible answers, choose the more sordid one.’

  ‘Of course. How silly of me.’

  ‘Draconus is lost within Dragnipur. Nightchill’s soul is scattered to the winds. Grizzin Farl vanished millennia ago. And Edgewalker might well deny any compulsion out of sheer obstinacy or, possibly, a righteous claim to disassociation.’ Knuckles managed a twisted smile, and then shrugged. ‘If there is one presence I would find unwelcome above all others, Errastas, it is Olar Ethil.’

  ‘She is dead—’

  ‘And supremely indifferent to that condition—she embraced the Ritual of Tellann without hesitation, the opportunistic bitch—’

  ‘And so bound herself to the fate of the T’lan Imass,’ said the Errant, as he eyed Kilmandaros. The huge creature had dragged a massive trunk to the centre of the chamber, snapping the lock with one hand and then flinging back the lid; and now she was pulling out various pieces of green-stained armour, muttering under her breath. On the walls on all sides, seawater was streaming in through widening cracks, swirling ankle-deep and rising to engulf the fire in the hearth. The air was growing bitter cold.

  ‘Not as bound as you might hope for,’ said Sechul Lath. ‘We have discussed K’rul, but there is one other, Errastas. An entity most skilled at remaining a mystery to us all—’

  ‘Ardata. But she is not the only one. I always sensed, Setch, that there were more of us than any of us imagined. Even with my power, my command of the Tiles, I was convinced there were ghosts, hovering at the edge of my vision, my awareness. Ghosts, as ancient and as formidable as any of us.’

  ‘Defying your rule,’ said Sechul slyly, swirling the amber wine in his crystal goblet.

  ‘Afraid to commit themselves,’ the Errant said, sneering. ‘Hiding from each other too, no doubt. Singly, not one poses a threat. In any case, it is different now.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. The rewards we can reap are vast—whatever has gone before is as nothing. Think on it. All that was stolen from us returned once more into our hands. The ghosts, the ones in hiding—they would be fools to hesitate. No, the wise course is to step out from the shadows.’

  Knuckles took a mouthful of wine. The water was soaking t
he seat of the chair beneath him. ‘The House is eager to wash us out.’

  Kilmandaros had shrugged her way into a sopping hauberk of chain. She reached down to the submerged floor and lifted from the foaming swirl a huge gauntlet through which water gushed in a deluge. She dragged the gauntlet over one gnarled fist, and then reached down to find the other one.

  ‘She’s pleased,’ said Errastas.

  ‘No she isn’t,’ countered Knuckles. ‘You have awakened her anger, and now she must find an enemy worthy of it. Sometimes—even for you—control is a delusion, a conceit. What you unleash here—’

  ‘Is long overdue. Cease your efforts to undermine me, Setch—you only reveal your own weaknesses.’

  ‘Weaknesses I have never run from, Errastas. Can you say the same?’

  The Errant bared his teeth. ‘You are cast. It cannot be undone. We must take our fate into our own hands—look to Kilmandaros—she will show us how it must be. Discard your fears—they sting like poison.’

  ‘I am ready.’

  At her words both men turned. She was clad for war and stood like a bestial statue, a hoary apparition enwreathed in seaweed. Algae mottled her hauberk. Verdigris mapped her helm’s skullcap. The broad, low-slung, grilled cheek-guards looked like iron chelae, the bridge gleaming like a scorpion’s pincer. Her gauntleted hands were closed into fists, like giant mauls at the ends of her apish, multi-jointed arms.

  ‘So you are,’ said Errastas, smiling.

  ‘I have never trusted you,’ Kilmandaros said in a growl.

  He rose, still smiling. ‘Why should I be unique? Now, who among us will open the portal? Knuckles, show us your power.’

  The gaunt man flinched.

  The water had reached hip-level—not Kilmandaros’s hips, of course. The Errant gestured in Sechul Lath’s direction. ‘Let us see you as you should be. This is my first gift, Setch.’ Power blossomed.

  The ancient figure blurred, straightened, revealing at last a tall, youthful Forkrul Assail—who reeled, face darkening. He flung away his goblet. ‘How dare you! Leave me as I was, damn you!’

  ‘My gift,’ snapped Errastas. ‘To be accepted in the spirit in which it is given.’