Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Then why don’t we just go tell her?’ asked Masan Gilani. ‘We figured it all out but there’s a problem, only you got an idea on how to fix it.’

  Sinter smiled, and it was a smile that would have fitted well on the Adjunct’s own face. ‘I will do just that . . . once you two are gone.’

  ‘She might just chase us down anyway.’

  ‘She won’t. I said she’s quick.’

  ‘So why wait until we leave?’

  Sinter rubbed at her face, wiping away the last of the tears. ‘You don’t get it. She’s locked in a room, a prison of her own making. In there, she hears nothing, sees nothing. In there, she is absolutely alone. And holding on with white knuckles. It’s her burden and she won’t dump it on anyone else, not even her Fists, not even on her High Mage—though he’s probably worked it out by now. She’s put herself between us and the truth—but it’s killing her.’

  ‘So,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘you got to show her she ain’t alone, and that we’re not all fools, that maybe we’re ready for that truth. We not only worked it out, we’re with her. There to help, whether she asks for it or not.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Sinter.

  Masan Gilani sighed, and then flashed Kisswhere a grin. ‘You won’t surprise anyone. Me, that’s a different story.’

  ‘The Adjunct will hint something to put your reputation square,’ said Sinter. ‘Otherwise, you going might tip the balance for a whole mass of wavering soldiers in the ranks. Kisswhere, well, sister, nobody will be much surprised by you, will they?’

  ‘Thank you. So long as people understand I’m no coward—’

  Masan Gilani grunted, ‘But they’ll see it that way. Nothing you can do about it, either, Kisswhere. We’re marching to a war, and you went and ran off. Me too. So Sinter and the Adjunct work it out so it sounds like I was sent on some kind of mission—’

  ‘Which is true,’ cut in Sinter.

  ‘Which helps, aye. Thing is, people already thinking of maybe deserting might just take it as the perfect push. That’s the risk that the Adjunct might find unacceptable, no matter what you say to her, Sinter.’

  ‘I’m no coward,’ Kisswhere repeated. ‘I’m just not one for this whole family thing. Armies ain’t families, no matter how many times you try to tell me different. It’s rubbish. It’s the lie commanders and kings need so they always got us ready to do shit for them.’

  ‘Right,’ snapped Masan Gilani, ‘and I guess in that snarly jungle where you grew up you never heard any stories about what happens when armies mutiny. Kill their commanders. Depose their country’s ruler. Take over—’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the whole “we’re family” business?’

  ‘I’m saying some people run things and the rest should just stay out of it. That’s all. Just like in a family. Somebody’s in charge, not everybody. Usurpers never been anything better, or even different, from whoever they killed. Usually, they make it worse. That whole “family” thing, it’s about fighting to survive. You stand fast for kin, not strangers. Don’t you get that?’

  ‘And the ones in charge exploit it. Use us up. They ain’t interested in being kin to the rest of us, and you know it.’

  ‘You two,’ Sinter said, ‘could go at this all night. But we don’t have the time. Kisswhere, since when did you care what the people you leave behind think of you? Unless, of course, you’ve found some pride as a Bonehunter—’

  ‘Do you want me to help you or not?’

  ‘All right. Peace, then. The point is, it’s only looking like you’re deserting. The way Faradan Sort did outside Y’Ghatan.’

  ‘I ride south.’

  Sinter nodded.

  ‘I go find the Perish and the Khundryl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘You convince them not to abandon us.’

  ‘How in Hood’s name do I do that?’

  Sinter’s look was wry. ‘Try using your charms, sister.’

  Masan Gilani spoke. ‘Sergeant, if she’s going after both of them, where am I going?’

  ‘That’s not so easy to say,’ Sinter admitted haltingly.

  Masan snorted. ‘Work on that answer, Sinter. Meanwhile, let’s go steal some horses.’

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant, found you at last.’

  ‘Master Sergeant now, sir.’

  ‘Of course, and where are your charges, Master Sergeant?’

  ‘Dispensed with, sir.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Rather, dispersed, sir. Inserted seamlessly into the ranks, not a stitch out of place.’

  ‘Why, that is simply superb, Master Sergeant. You would deserve a commendation if you deserved anything. Alas, having perused the latest roster updates, I have discovered that not a single one of those recruits can be found anywhere in the army.’

  ‘Yes, sir, they are well trained.’

  ‘At what, Master Sergeant? Disappearing?’

  ‘Well now, sir, I am reminded of a story from my youth. May I?’

  ‘Please, do go on.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Ah, my youth. A sudden zeal afflicted young Aramstos Pores—’

  ‘Aramstos?’

  ‘Yes, sir—’

  ‘That’s your other name?’

  ‘It is indeed, sir. May I continue my tale, sir?’

  ‘Proceed.’

  ‘A sudden zeal, sir, to dig me a pond.’

  ‘A pond.’

  ‘Just behind the heap of broken bricks, sir, close to the lot’s back wall. I often played there when my parents had gone from fighting with words to fighting with knives, or the hovel caught fire as it was wont to do. On my hands and knees among the broken shards of pots and shattered dog teeth—’

  ‘Dog teeth.’

  ‘My father’s failures with pets, but that, sir, is another story, perhaps for another time. A pond, sir, one into which I could transplant the tiny minnows I was rescuing from the fouled river down past the sewage outlets—where we used to swim on cold days, warming up as it were, sir. Minnows, then, into my pond. Imagine my excitement—’

  ‘It is suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye, Master Sergeant.’

  ‘Wonderful. And yet, having deposited, oh, fifty of the tiny silver things, just the day before, imagine my horror and bafflement upon returning the very next morning to find not a single minnow in my pond. Why, what had happened to them? Some voracious bird, perhaps? The old woman from down the alley who kept her hair in a net? Are there perchance now glinting minnows adorning her coiffure? Insects? Rats? Unlikely to be either of those two, as they generally made up our nightly repast at the dinner table and so accordingly were scarce round our home. Well, sir, a mystery it was and a mystery it remains. To this very day and, I am certain, for the entirety of the rest of my life. Fifty minnows. Gone. Poof! Hard to believe, sir, and most crushing for that bright-eyed, zealous lad.’

  ‘And now, if I am to understand you, Master Sergeant, once more you find yourself victimized by inexplicable mystery.’

  ‘All those recruits, sir. Dispersed into the ranks. And then . . .’

  ‘Poof.’

  ‘As you say and say well, sir.’

  ‘Whatever happened to your pond, Master Sergeant?’

  ‘Well, my pet water snake thrived for a while longer, until the pond dried up. Children have such grand dreams, don’t they?’

  ‘That they do, Master Sergeant. Until it all goes wrong.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Until we meet again, Master Sergeant Pores.’

  ‘And a good night to you, too, Captain Kindly.’

  It was him. I was fooling myself ever thinking otherwise. Who can explain love anyway? She slid the knife back into its sheath and pushed through the loose flaps of the tent, stepping outside and suddenly shivering as something cold slithered through the faint breeze.

  The dark north flicks its tongue. Echoes of some unwanted rebirth—glad I’m not a mage. They had nothing to dance about this afternoon.

/>   Lostara moved away from the command tent. The Adjunct sending her away this late at night was unusual—I was ready for bed, dammit— but having the guards roust and drive out a drunken Banaschar wasn’t just sweet entertainment. It was, on another level, alarming.

  What did Quick Ben and Bottle tell you this night, Tavore? Is there any end to your secrets? Any breach in your wall of privacy? What’s so satisfying about being alone? Your love is a ghost. The empire you served has betrayed you. Your officers have stopped talking, even to each other.

  O serpent of the north, your tongue does not lie. Draw closer. We’re barely breathing.

  She was forced to halt as Banaschar reeled across her path. Seeing her, he managed to stop, tottering a moment before straightening. ‘Captain Yil,’ he said genially, taking a deep breath and then letting it loose in the way that drunks did when mustering sodden thoughts. ‘Pleasant evening, yes?’

  ‘No. It’s cold. I’m tired. I don’t know why the Adjunct cleared everyone out—it’s not as if she needs the extra room. For what?’

  ‘For what, indeed,’ he agreed, smiling as if his purse was full of sweets. ‘It’s the wardrobe, you see.’

  ‘What?’

  He weaved back and forth. ‘Wardrobe. Yes, that’s the word? I think so. Not makes for easy travel, though. Doesn’t, rather. But . . . sometimes . . . where was I? Oh, sometimes the wardrobe’s so big the girl, she just runs away from it, fast and long as she can. Is that what I mean? Did I say it right?’

  ‘Wardrobe.’

  Banaschar pointed at her, nodding. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Who runs away from a wardrobe? Girls don’t do that—’

  ‘But women do.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘All those choices, right? What to put on. And when, and when not. If it’s this, but not if it’s that. What to put on, Captain Yil. Choices. Surrounding you. Closing in. Creeping. Girl’s got to run, and let’s hope she makes it.’

  Sniffing, Lostara stepped round the fool and continued on between the tent rows.

  It was him. But you let him go. Maybe you thought he’d come back, or you’d just find him again. You thought you had the time. But the world’s always armed and all it takes is a misstep, a wrong decision. And suddenly you’re cut, you’re bleeding, bleeding right out. Suddenly he’s gasping his last breaths and it’s time to put him away, just close him up, like a scroll bearing bad news.

  What else can you do?

  It was him, but he’s gone and he’s not coming back.

  Her pace slowed. She frowned. Where am I going? Ah, that’s right. ‘New whetstone, that’s it.’

  The world’s armed, Adjunct, so be careful. Kick open that wardrobe, girl, and start throwing on that armour. The days of fetes are over, all those nights among the glittering smirks of privilege and entitlement.

  ‘You idiot, Banaschar, there’s only one item in her wardrobe. What’s to choose?’

  She almost heard him reply, ‘And still she’s running away.’

  No, this conversation wasn’t even real, and it made no sense anyway. Resuming her journey to the smiths’ compound, she encountered a marine coming up the other way. A quick exchange of salutes, and then past.

  A sergeant. Marine. Dal Honese. Where in Hood’s name is she going this time of night? Never mind. Whetstone. They keep wearing out. And the sound of the iron licking back and forth, the way it just perfectly echoes the word in my head—amazing. Perfect.

  It was him. It was him.

  It was him.

  Most of the ties and fittings on his armour had loosened or come undone. The heavy dragon-scale breast-and back-plates hung askew from his broad shoulders. The clawed bosses on his knees rested on the ground as he knelt in the wet grasses. He’d pulled off the bone-strip gauntlets to better wipe the tears from his cheeks and the thick smears of snot running from his nose. The massive bone-handled battleaxe rested on the ground beside him.

  He’d bawled through half the night, until his throat was raw and his head felt packed solid with sand. Where was everyone? He was alone and it seemed he’d been alone for years now, wandering lost on this empty land. He’d seen old camps, abandoned villages. He’d seen a valley filled with bones and rubble. He’d seen a limping crow that laughed at him only to beg for mercy when he caught it. Stupid! His heart had gone all soft and he foolishly released it, only to have the horrid thing start laughing at him all over again as it limped away. It only stopped laughing when the boulder landed on it. And now he missed that laughing crow and its funny hopping—at least it had been keeping him company. Stupid boulder!

  The day had run away and then come back and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it’d been earlier. The ghost of Old Hunch Arbat had blown away like dust and was that fair? It wasn’t. So he was lost, looking for something but he’d forgotten what it was and he wanted to be home in Letheras, having fun with King Tehol and sexing with Shurq Elalle and breaking the arms of his fellow guards in the palace. Oh, where were all his friends?

  His bleary, raw eyes settled on the battleaxe and he scowled. It wasn’t even pretty, was it. ‘Smash,’ he mumbled. ‘Crush. Its name is Rilk, but it never says anything. How’d it tell anybody its name? I’m alone. Everybody must be dead. Sorry, crow, you were last other thing left alive! In the whole world! And I killed you!’

  ‘Sorry I missed it,’ said a voice behind him.

  Ublala Pung climbed to his feet and turned round. ‘Life!’

  ‘I share your exultation, friend.’

  ‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.

  ‘That will pass.’

  ‘Are you a god?’

  ‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’

  Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’

  ‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’

  ‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’

  The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’

  ‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.

  ‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet—indeed, I believe I recognize both.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Let us journey together, then.’

  ‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.

  ‘And spiteful enemies,’ the stranger said, ‘but we shall not be enemies, so that need not concern us. Wielder of Rilk, Wearer of Dra Alkeleint, what is your name?’

  He swelled his chest. He liked being called Wielder and Wearer of things. ‘Ublala Pung. Who are you?’

  The stranger smiled. ‘We will walk east, Ublala Pung. I am named Draconus.’

  ‘Oh, funny.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That’s the word Old Hunch Arbat’s ghost screamed, before the black wind tore him to pieces.’

  ‘You must tell me how you came to be here, Ublala Pung.’

  ‘I’m no good with questions like that, Draconus.’

  The god sighed. ‘Then we have found something in common, friend. Now, collect up Rilk there and permit me to refasten your straps.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I don’t like knots.’

  ‘No one does, I should think.’

  ‘But not as bad as chains, though.’

  The strangers hands hesitated on the fittings, and then resumed. ‘True enough, friend.’

  Ublala Pung wiped clean his face. He felt light on his feet and the sun was coming up and, he decided, he felt good again.

  Everybody needs a friend.

  Chapter Twenty

  Let the sun warm the day.

  If light holds all the colours

  then
see the union as pure

  and free of compromise.

  Walk the stone and burden of earth

  with its manes like cats lying in wait

  as the wind slips silken

  and slides round the curl

  of your sure vision.

  Let the sun warm this day

  armoured against all argument,

  solid in sanctity to opinion.

  The hue does not deceive

  and the blur hides no thought

  to partake of grey masses in the sky

  lowering horizon’s rim

  where each step is balanced

  on the day’s birth.

  Wake to the warmth of the sun.

  It knew other loves past

  and stole all the colours

  from eternal promises.

  The dust only flows to life

  in the lost-treasure golds of light.

  Hold to nothing new

  for even the new is old

  and burden-worn.

  Let the sun bring forth the day.

  You have walked this way before

  amid hunters in the grasses

  and wheeling lovers of death

  crowning every sky.

  The armies have pursued anon;

  riders risen along the ridge.

  Maids and courtiers abide

  in future’s perfect shadows

  until what is lost returns.

  LAY OF WOUNDED LOVE

  FISHER

  I

  t’s no simple thing,’ he said, frowning as he worked through his thoughts, ‘but in the world—among people, that is. Society, culture, nation—in the world, then, there are attackers and there are defenders. Most of us possess within ourselves elements of both, but in a general sense a person falls to one camp or the other, as befits their nature.’

  The wind swept round the chiselled stone. What guano remained to stain the dark, pitted surfaces had been rubbed thin and patchy, like faded splashes of old paint. Around them was the smell of heat lifting from rock, caught up, spun and plucked away with each gust of the breeze. But the sun did not relent its battle, and for that, Ryadd Eleis was thankful.