Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  Marine, Fourth Squad, Third Company, Bonehunters, sir.

  Not Dal Honese?

  No, sir.

  Malazan?

  No, sir. Bonehunters, sir.

  Now, if only she believed all that—there, in that gnarled hard thing at the centre of her being. Step up, aye, and mark it out with all the right attitudes. Diligence, discipline, loyalty. Don’t blink at any damned order given, no matter how stupid or pointless. The tribe lived to keep itself alive, and keeping itself alive meant making sure everything was in order and working the way it should. Made sense to her. And it was worthy enough to believe in, especially when there was nothing else in sight looking any better.

  So, she’d wanted to believe. For herself and for her wayward, flighty sister. Steady enough for the both of them, aye. Kisswhere was going to stray—she was like that, it was in her nature. People like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role. Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.

  Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly capable. Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?

  She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.

  Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she . . . she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself: capable of what? Will I ever find out?

  When is it my turn?

  She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.

  She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill. But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.

  She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge—sticky as honey—that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.

  Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish . . .

  There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.

  She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet—Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.

  But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them—they’re all grown up, aren’t they?

  So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?

  But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?

  Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. This time, I’m with you.

  But why this woman we hardly even know? Why not Badan Gruk?

  We got to get out, and now. I got to get out. And I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. Stow away with a D’ras trader. Easy, nothing to it. Two of us could do it, even three. But four? Now that’s a stretch. It’s logistics, sister, plain and simple. The kind you like so much. Straightforward. Too many and we’ll get caught. You’ll want Badan, too. And four’s too many.

  She’d wait, however. She’d see what Sinter had in mind here, with this meeting. She could work on Sinter later, but nothing direct, since that never worked. Sinter was stubborn. She could dig in deeper than anyone Kisswhere knew. No, Kisswhere would have to twist carefully, so that the decision, when it finally went the right way, would seem to be coming from Sinter herself.

  It wasn’t easy, but then Kisswhere had had a lifetime of practice. She knew she could do it.

  Sinter softly grunted and she turned to see a figure approaching from the camp. Swaying hips, and everywhere a whole lot of what men liked. A Dal Honese for sure, which was why Sinter had invited her in the first place. But since when did three Dal Honese women agree about anything?

  Madness. Sinter, this won’t work. You remember the histories. It’s us women who start most of the wars. Snaring the wrong men, using them up, humiliating them. Throwing one against another. Whispering blood vengeance beneath the furs at night. A sly comment here, a look there. We’ve been in charge a long time, us women of Dal Hon, and we’re nothing but trouble.

  Masan Gilani was from a savannah tribe. She was tall, making her curvaceous form all the more intimidating. She had the look of a woman who was too much for any man, and should a man get her he’d spend his whole life convinced he could never hold on to her. She was a monster of sensuality, and if she’d stayed in her tribe the whole north half of Dal Hon would be in the midst of a decades-long civil war by now. Every Dal Honese god and mud spirit tossed in on this one, didn’t they? She’s got pieces of them all.

  And here I thought I was dangerous.

  ‘Sinter,’ she said under her breath, ‘you have lost your mind.’

  Her sister heard her. ‘This one is far on the inside, Kiss, way farther in than anyone we know.’

  ‘What of it?’

  Sinter did not reply. Masan Gilani had drawn too close for any exchange now, no matter how muted.

  Her elongated eyes flitted between the sisters, curious, and then amused.

  Bitch. I hate her already.

  ‘Southerners,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked southerners. Your sweat smells of the jungle. And you’re never as gangly and awkward as us northerners. Did you know, I have to special-order all my armour and clothes—I’m no standard fit anywhere, except maybe among the Fenn and that’s no good because they’re extinct.’

  Kisswhere snorted. ‘You ain’t that big,’ and then she
looked away, as she realized how petty that sounded.

  But Gilani’s smile had simply broadened. ‘The only real problem with you southerners is that you’re barely passable on horseback. I’d not count on you to ride hard as me, ever. So it’s a good thing you’re marines. Me, I could be either and to be honest, I’d have jumped over to the scouts long ago—’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ Kisswhere asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Scouting’s boring. Besides, I’m not interested in always being the one delivering bad news.’

  ‘Expecting bad news?’

  ‘Always.’ And her teeth gleamed.

  Kisswhere turned away. She was done with this conversation. Sinter was welcome to it.

  ‘So,’ Masan Gilani said after a moment, ‘Sergeant Sinter. Rumour has it you’re a natural, a talent. Tell me if that’s true or not, since it’s the only thing that brought me out here—the chance that you are, I mean. If you’re not, then this meeting is over.’

  ‘Listen to her!’ Kisswhere sneered. ‘The Empress commands!’

  Masan blinked. ‘You still here? Thought you went to pick flowers.’

  Kisswhere reached for her knife but Sinter’s hand snapped out and closed on her wrist. Hissing, Kisswhere yielded, but her eyes remained fixed on Gilani’s.

  ‘Oh, it’s all so amusing to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Kisswhere, yes? That’s your name? I’ll say this once. I don’t know what’s got the stoat in your breeches so riled, since as far as I know I ain’t never done anything to cross you. Leaves me no choice but to assume it’s just some kind of bizarre bigotry—what happened, lose a lover to a willowy northerner? Well, it wasn’t me. So, why not drop the hackles? Here, will this help?’ And she drew out a Dal Honese wineskin. ‘Not wild grape from our homeland, alas—’

  ‘It ain’t that rice piss from Lether, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s Bluerose—an Andiian brew, originally, or so the trader claimed.’ She shrugged and held out the skin. ‘It’s drinkable enough.’

  Kisswhere accepted the skin. She knew overtures when they arrived, and she knew that Masan had given her a way through without too much damage to her pride, so it’d be stupid not to take that path. She tugged loose the gum stopper and took a mouthful. Swallowed and then gasped. ‘That’ll do,’ she said in a suddenly husky voice.

  Sinter finally spoke: ‘Everyone’s claws retracted? Good. Masan, you want to know if I’m a talent. Well, not in the way of Dal Honese witches. But I’ve got something, I suppose.’

  ‘All right. So what’s that “something” telling you?’

  Sinter hesitated, and then reached out to intercept the wineskin. She took two deep draughts. ‘Aye, you’re a northerner and we’re not, but we’re all still Dal Honese. So we understand each other, and when I say I’m going to give you something I don’t need to add that I expect something back.’

  Masan Gilani laughed, but it was not a mocking laugh. Not quite. ‘You just did.’

  ‘You been a soldier longer than us,’ Sinter countered, ‘so I was just reminding you of the ways you’ve maybe forgotten, or at least not used in a while.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I get senses of things about to happen, or maybe could happen—if we don’t do something to make sure they don’t.’

  ‘You’re a seer.’

  But Sinter shook her head. ‘Not so clear as that.’

  ‘What is about to happen to us, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re about to be abandoned.’

  Kisswhere joined Masan Gilani in regarding Sinter with alarm. What was all this? ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘what does that mean? Abandoned? By who? Do you mean just us? Or the Bonehunters?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Sinter. ‘Bonehunters. All of us, the Adjunct included.’

  Masan Gilani was frowning. ‘You’re talking about the Burned Tears? The Perish? Or the Letherii escort?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe all of them.’

  ‘So wherever we end up,’ Masan said slowly, ‘we’ll be fighting on our own. No one guarding our backs, no one on our flanks. Like that?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Masan rubbed at her neck. When Kisswhere offered her the skin she shook her head. ‘Hard to know, Sinter, how much shit should be freezing with that, since nobody has a clue about who we’ll be fighting. What if it’s some noseplug savages cowering behind a bamboo palisade throwing rocks at us? We’d hardly need help knocking on that door, would we?’

  ‘But you know we’re not heading for anything so easy,’ Sinter said.

  Masan’s lovely eyes narrowed. ‘This is what you want back from me? You think I’ve got my ear against the Adjunct’s tent?’

  ‘I know you know more than we do.’

  ‘And if I do? What difference would it make to you?’

  Kisswhere’s breath caught as she saw her sister’s hands clench into fists at her sides. ‘I need a reason, Masan Gilani. I need to know it’s all worth it.’

  ‘And you think what little I know can give you that? You must be desperate—’

  ‘Yes! I am!’

  ‘Why?’

  Sinter’s mouth shut, her jaw setting.

  Masan Gilani looked over at Kisswhere, as if to ask: What’s her problem here? What’s so hard to say?

  But Kisswhere had no answers. Well, not satisfying ones. ‘My sister,’ she said, ‘is a very loyal person. But she holds that loyalty in highest regard. She’ll give it, I mean—’

  ‘But,’ cut in Masan Gilani, ‘whatever or whoever she’s giving it to had better be worthy of it. Right. I think I’m beginning to understand this. Only, Kisswhere, you should look to your own feelings about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you sounded pretty bitter right there. As if loyalty is a curse and not one you want any part of. I’d wager your sister dragged you here as much to convince you of something as to convince me. Sinter, would that be a good guess?’

  ‘That’s between me and her,’ Sinter replied.

  Kisswhere glared at her sister.

  ‘All right,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘I’ll give you what little I know. What Ebron and Bottle and Deadsmell and Widdershins have put together. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. That’s for you to decide. Here’s what we think.’ She paused, reached for the skin.

  Kisswhere handed it to her.

  Masan drank, then squatted before them—taking the pose of the teller of tales, one they knew well—and both sisters followed suit.

  ‘He didn’t ask for it. But he’s been making trouble ever since. Quick Ben met him face to face. So, we worked out, did that Meckros weaponsmith, Withal. He’s poison and he knows it and he can’t help it, because he doesn’t belong here. There are pieces of him scattered over half the world, but the biggest one is sitting in this place called Kolanse—and it’s being . . . used.’

  ‘We’re going to kill the Crippled God.’

  Kisswhere shot her sister a wild look. ‘But who’d want to stop us doing that?’

  Sinter shook her head. Her face was wretched with confusion.

  Masan was eyeing them and when she spoke her voice was flat, ‘You jumped the wrong way, Sinter, like a one-eyed mongoose.’ She drank again, sloshed the skin and then scowled. ‘Should’ve brought two. We don’t think we’re off to kill the Chained One. In fact, it’s those chains we’re after. Well, the Adjunct, I mean. What she’s after.’ She lifted her head and fixed on Sinter’s eyes, and then Kisswhere’s. ‘We’re going to set the bastard free.’

  Kisswhere barked a savage laugh. ‘No wonder they’ll all abandon us! And I’m the first in line to join them!’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Sinter said through the hands she’d lifted to her face. She was trembling, no, shuddering, and Kisswhere saw the glitter of tears trickle to the heels of her sister’s palms.

  Masan Gilani’s face was grave, patient.

  Kisswhere rounded on Sinter. ‘You cannot! No! This is impossible! What if they’re wrong? They must be—ev
en the Adjunct’s not that stupid! Every god and ascendant in the world will be coming against us, never mind those idiots in Kolanse! She’s lost her mind! Our commander’s insane and there’s no damned law anywhere says we have to follow her!’

  Sinter drew a deep breath and then lowered her hands. Something solid filled her face, as if implacable stone was replacing the soft tissues beneath her onyx skin. The bleakness drained from her eyes as they settled on Kisswhere. ‘It will do,’ she said. ‘I think,’ she added, ‘nothing else would have.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘It is just, sister. Just.’

  ‘They’ll all turn on us,’ Kisswhere retorted. ‘You said so yourself—’

  ‘If we do nothing, yes. They will turn on us. And what little chance we had to succeed will go with them. We need to change their minds.’

  ‘How?’ asked Masan Gilani.

  ‘I will tell you how,’ said Sinter. ‘And it begins with you, Kisswhere.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to help—’

  ‘You’re going to desert.’

  ‘Wha—what?’

  ‘That’s how this starts. It’s the only way. Now, it’s what you want and don’t tell me any different. You’re deserting the Bonehunters, and you’re doing it tonight—on the fastest horse Masan Gilani can find you.’

  But Masan Gilani held up a staying hand. ‘Hold on. I need to talk this over with—’

  ‘Of course,’ cut in Sinter, ‘but it changes nothing. Now, you need to hear the rest, because I need you to do the same—’

  ‘Desert? Me?’

  Sinter nodded. ‘But you’ll ride in a different direction, Masan Gilani. Different from Kisswhere. With luck, you’ll both return.’

  ‘And get hanged? No thanks, sister—’

  ‘You won’t. The Adjunct is cold iron—the coldest there ever was. She’ll work it out, fast as lightning, she’ll work it out.’