Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  She studied the eastern horizon once more. The mountains surrounding the kingdom of Saphinand formed a jagged wall to the north, but there in the place of dark’s birth, there was no hint of anything but level plain. The Wastelands.

  She would suggest to Gall that they march hard now, taking up stores from the Saphii traders as they went. It was imperative that they link up with the Adjunct as soon as possible. This was one of the matters she wished to discuss with Gall. There were others.

  A long, sleepless night awaited her.

  The Gilk Warchief grinned as he watched Queen Abrastal ride back into the camp. Firehair indeed. Flames were ready to spit out from her, from every place an imaginative man might imagine, and of course he was a most imaginative man. But a woman like that, well, far beyond his reach and more’s the pity as far as he was concerned.

  Spultatha had emerged from his tent behind him and now edged up on his right. Her eyes, so like her mother’s, narrowed as they tracked the woman’s approach. ‘Trouble,’ she said. ‘Stay away from her, Spax, for this night at least.’

  His grin broadened. ‘Afraid I can’t do that, wildcat.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool.’

  ‘Keep the furs warm,’ he said, setting out for the Queen’s pavilion. Soldiers of the Evertine Legion watched him stride past their posts, and he was reminded of a pet lion he’d once seen in the camp of another clan. It had had the freedom of the camp and was in the habit of sauntering back and forth in front of the cages crowded with hunting dogs. Those beasts were driven into a frenzy, flinging themselves bloody and stupid against the iron bars. He’d always admired that lion, its perfect insouciant strut, its lolling tongue and the itch that always made it pause directly opposite the cages, for a leisurely scratch and then a broad yawn.

  Let the eyes track him, let them glitter beneath the rims of their helms. He knew these soldiers so wanted to test themselves against the White Face Barghast. Against the Gilk, who were the match of any civilized heavy infantry unit anywhere in the world. But they had little chance of ever doing so. The next best thing was to stand beside them, and that was a competition the Gilk well understood.

  Now we shall see what will come to pass. Do we all march to a place of battle against an enemy? Who will stand fastest? Evertine, Grey Helms, Khundryl, or the Gilk? Hah. Spax reached the inner cordon and grunted a nod when the last bodyguard outside the pavilion stepped to one side. He strode into the silk-walled corridor with all its pale tones backlit by lanterns, and as always felt he was walking through colour itself, soft and dry and strangely cool, one flavour after another.

  One of her trusted lieutenants stood at the last portal. As Spax approached, the lieutenant shook his head. ‘Can it not wait, Warchief?’

  ‘No, Gaedis. Why, is she bathing?’

  ‘If she is, the water’s long since boiled away.’

  What did that iron woman say to Abrastal? ‘Brave enough to announce me, Gaedis?’

  ‘It’s not bravery that makes me say yes, Warchief, but then stupidity’s gotten me this far and I’m a conservative man.’

  ‘The offer still stands,’ Spax said.

  ‘I doubt my Queen would take kindly to one of her court lieutenants shucking all this to wear turtle shells and dance naked under the moon.’

  Spax smiled. ‘Saw that, did you?’

  Gaedis nodded.

  ‘It was a show, you understand. Don’t you?’

  ‘Warchief?’

  ‘The Queen’s clutch of scholars—we made something up to give them something to write about and then ponder its meaning for the rest of their dull, useless lives. Spirits below, a man’s grapes get tiny in the cold night—why’d you think we kept jumping over the fire?’

  After a moment’s gimlet regard, Gaedis turned and slipped through the drapery.

  Spax hummed softly to himself.

  Gaedis’s muffled voice invited him to enter the Royal Presence. Naked in the bowl? wondered Spax. Bah, the gods are never so kind.

  She stood in her underquilting, armour discarded, her long hair still tousled from the ride. The quilting was tight against her curves. ‘If eyes were paint,’ Abrastal said, ‘I’d be dripping right now. Barbaric bastard. What’s so important you’d dare my ill humour?’

  ‘Just this, Highness,’ Spax replied. ‘She struck sparks from you and I want to know how, and why.’

  ‘Ah, you’re curious, then.’

  ‘That’s it, Firehair.’

  ‘If it wasn’t that your rabid warriors might complain, I’d see you strangled with your own entrails and perhaps—just perhaps—that would satisfy my desire in this moment. Arrogance is a strange thing, Spax. It amuses when it cannot reach, then stings to rage when it can. What in the Errant’s empty skull convinced you that I’d yield to your shit-fouled curiosity?’

  Spax glanced across at Gaedis, saw the man’s face and the expression that seemed carved from stone. Coward. ‘Highness, I am Warchief of the Gilk. Each day I am under siege from the clan leaders, not to mention the bolder of the young warriors—who’d wage war on the wind if they had any chance of winning. They don’t complain of the coin, Highness. But they want a fight.’

  ‘Bolkando is at peace,’ Abrastal replied. ‘At least, it was when you were first hired, and now it is so again. If it was war you wanted, Spax, you should have stayed with the other White Faces, since they went and jumped with both feet on to a hornet’s nest.’ She faced him and he saw all the places he could put his hands, given the chance. Her expression darkened. ‘You are Warchief, as you say. A proud title, one with responsibility, one assumes. You are under siege, Spax? Deal with it.’

  ‘Not many arrows left in my quiver, Highness.’

  ‘Do I look like a fletcher?’

  ‘You look like someone with something on her mind.’ Spax spread his broad, scarred hands. ‘I don’t know these Perish Grey Helms, but I know of the order, Highness—’

  ‘What order?’

  ‘The warrior cult of the Wolves. A chapter of that cult defended at the siege of Capustan. The Grey Swords, they were called.’

  Abrastal studied him for a time, and then she sighed. ‘Gaedis, open us a jug of wine—but don’t even think of pouring yourself one. I’m still annoyed with you for letting this cattle-dog whine his way into my presence.’

  The lieutenant saluted and walked to the ornate wooden frame bearing a dozen or so amphorae, drawing a small knife as he scanned the stamps on the dusty necks.

  ‘Cults, Mortal Swords, Shield Anvils and wolf gods,’ Abrastal said in a mutter, shaking her head. ‘This has the stink of fanaticism—and that well matches my assessment after this evening’s parley. Is it simply war they seek, Spax? One where any face will do?’

  The Warchief watched as Gaedis selected a jug and then, with an expert hook and twist of his knife, deftly removed the cork. ‘Impressive, Lieutenant—you learn that between off-handed swordsmanship and riding backwards?’

  ‘Pay attention to me!’ barked Abrastal. ‘I asked you a question, you island of fleas!’

  Spax tilted his head in something between deference and amused insolence. When he saw the flaring of her eyes he bared his teeth and snapped out, ‘As long as you feel inclined to spit out insults, Highness, I will indeed stand as an island. Let the seas crash—the stones will not blink.’

  ‘Errant’s shit-hole throne—pour that wine, Gaedis!’

  Wine sloshed.

  Abrastal walked over to her cot and sat down. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, and then looked up in time to accept a goblet. She drank deep. ‘Another, damn you.’ Gaedis managed to get the second goblet into Spax’s hand before turning about to retrace his steps. ‘Never mind the Perish for now. You say you know these Malazans, Spax. What can you tell me of this Adjunct Tavore?’

  ‘Specifically? Almost nothing, Highness. Never met her, and the Barghast have never crossed her path. No, what I can do is tell you about the cant of the Malazan military—as it took shape at the
hands of Dassem Ultor, and the way the command structure changed.’

  ‘It’s a start, but first, what does her title mean? Adjunct? To whom? To what?’

  ‘Not sure this time round,’ the Warchief admitted after swallowing down a mouthful of wine. ‘They’re a renegade army, after all. So why hold on to the old title? Because it’s what her soldiers are used to, I suppose. Or is there more to it? Highness, the Adjunct—as far as I’ve gathered—was the weapon-bearing hand of the Empress. Her murderer, if you like. Of rivals inside the empire, enemies outside it. Slayer of sorcerors—she carries an otataral weapon, proof against any and all manner of magic.’

  Abrastal remained sitting through this, only to rise once more when he paused. She held out her empty goblet and Gaedis poured again. ‘Elite, then, specially chosen—how many of these Adjuncts did this Empress have at any one time?’

  Spax frowned. ‘I think . . . one.’

  The Queen halted. ‘And this Malazan Empire—it spans three continents?’

  ‘And more, Highness.’

  ‘Yet Tavore is a renegade. The measure of that betrayal . . .’ she slowly shook her head. ‘How can one trust this Adjunct? It is impossible. I wonder, did this Tavore attempt to usurp her Empress? Is she even now being pursued? Will the enemy they find be none other than her Malazan hunters?’

  Spax shrugged. ‘I doubt the Grey Helms would care much either way. It’s a war. As you said, any face will serve. As for the Khundryl, well, they’re sworn to the Adjunct personally, so they will follow her anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, and why would they do that to a betrayer?’

  ‘Highness, this is none of our concern,’ said Spax. ‘As much as my warriors lust for a fight, we have put ourselves at a tactical disadvantage—after all, it would have been better to deal with the Khundryl and the Perish back in Bolkando, and then take on the Bonehunters later. Mind you, it’s still possible. A secret emissary to the Saphii, a few tens of thousands of coins—we could catch them by surprise—’

  ‘No. After all, Spax, if it truly is none of our concern as you say, why attack them at all?’

  ‘Just my point, Highness. I was simply observing that our opportunity for a tactical advantage is fast disappearing, assuming we had cause, which we haven’t.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to make any such assumption, Warchief. Thus my dilemma. It is as you describe. None of the three foreign armies still poses us any threat. They have made plain their desire to vanish into the east. Is it time to dust off our hands and return to our beloved homeland?’

  ‘It might be, Highness.’

  ‘But then,’ and her frown deepened. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I have sent a daughter eastward, by sea, Spax. A most precious daughter. It seems you and I share the same curse: curiosity. Kolanse has fallen silent. Our trader ships find nothing but empty ports, abandoned villages. The Pelasiar Sea is empty of traffic. Even the great net-ships have vanished. And yet . . . and yet . . . something is there, perhaps deep inland. A power, and it’s growing.’

  Spax studied the Queen. She was not dissembling. He saw her fear for her daughter (gods, woman, you got enough of them, what’s the loss of one?) and it was genuine. Your heiress? Does it work that way in Bolkando? How should I know, when I don’t even care? ‘Summon her to return, Highness.’

  ‘Too late, Spax. Too late.’

  ‘Highness,’ said the Warchief, ‘do you mean to tell me we’re going with the foreigners? Across the Wastelands?’

  Gaedis had frozen in place, two strides to one side where he had been about to open another jug. The lieutenant’s eyes were on his Queen.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Abrastal said, eventually. ‘No, in fact—we are not equipped for such a venture, nor, I imagine, would they even welcome us. Nonetheless . . . I will see this Adjunct.’ She fixed Spax with a look that told him her tolerance was at an end, and she said, ‘Chew on what you’ve heard this night, Warchief, and if your stomach still growls, do not bring your complaints to my tent.’

  Spax dipped his head and then handed his goblet to Gaedis. ‘I hear your maids readying that bath, Highness. A most restorative conclusion to this night, I’m sure. Good night to you, Highness, Lieutenant.’

  Once outside, he set out, not back to his clans, but to the encampments of the Burned Tears. It had occurred to him, when envisioning the grand parley to come, that he and Gall would, in all likelihood, be the only men present. An exciting notion. He wasn’t sure Gall would see it that way, of course, if the rumours he’d picked up were true, but there was another rumour that, if accurate, could offer a common rug for them both. Not a drinker of fancy wines, this Gall. No, the man likes his beer, and if manhood has any measure, it’s that.

  Just my opinion, mind. Now, let’s see, Warleader Gall, if you share it.

  Stepping beyond the legion’s last row of tents, Spax paused. He spat to get that foul taste from his mouth. Wine’s for women. Gaedis, I bet that trick with the cork has spread a thousand soft thighs. You’ll have to teach it to me one day.

  She might as well have tied a cask of ale to her belly. Her lower back was bowed, and every shift of weight made the bones creak. Muscles quivered, others were prostrate with exhaustion. Her breasts, which had never been modest or spry, now sat resting uneasy on the swell of that damned cask. Everything was swollen and too big—how was it that she kept forgetting? Of course, amidst all these groans and shuffles and grunts, her thoughts swam through honey. So sweet, this drowning. The world glowed. Life shouted. Sang.

  ‘Hoary witches of old,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘you’ve a lot to answer for.’ There was no possible position in which to sit in comfort, so Hanavat, wife to Gall, had taken to walking through the camp each night. She was the wandering moon of her people’s legends, in the ages before her sister moon’s betrayal, when love was still pure and Night lay down in the arms of Darkness—oh, the legends were quaint, if ever tainted with sorrow, that inevitable fall from grace. She wondered if such creations—those tales of times lost—were nothing more than a broken soul’s embrace of regret. The fall was in sensibility’s wake, too late to do anything about, but this—look around!—this is what it made of us.

  The moon had ceased to wander. Snared in the webs of deceit, it could only slide round and round the world it loved—never to touch, doomed to tug at its lover’s tears, that and nothing more. Until, in some distant future, love died and with it all the pale fires of its wonder, and at last Night found her lover and in turn Darkness swallowed her whole. And that was the end of all existence.

  Hanavat could look up now and see a vision that did not fit with the legend’s prophecy. No, the moon had been struck a mortal blow. She was dying. And still the web would not release her, whilst, ever cool, ever faint, her sister moon watched on. Had she murdered her rival? Was she pleased to witness her sister’s death throes? Hanavat’s gaze strayed southward to the jade lances arcing ever closer. The heavens were indeed at war.

  ‘Tea, Hanavat?’

  Her attention, drawn down from the skies, found the shapes of two women seated round a small fire banked against a steaming pot. ‘Shelemasa. Rafala.’

  Rafala, who’d been the one voicing the offer, now lifted into view a third cup. ‘We see you pass each night, Mahib. Your discomfort is plain to our eyes. Will you join us? Rest your feet.’

  ‘I was fleeing the midwives,’ Hanavat said. She hesitated, and then waddled over. ‘The Seed Wakeners are cruel—what’s wrong with just an egg? We could manage one, I think, about the size of a palm nut.’

  Shelemasa’s laugh was low and wry. ‘But not as hard, I’d hope.’

  ‘Or as hairy,’ Rafala added.

  The two warrior women laughed.

  Grunting, moving slowly, Hanavat sat down, forming the third point to this triangle surrounding the fire. She accepted the cup, studied it in the soft light. Pewter. Bolkando. ‘So, you didn’t sell everything back to them, I see.’

  ‘Only the useless things,’ Rafala said.
‘They had plenty of those.’

  ‘It’s what makes us so different from them,’ observed Shelemasa. ‘We don’t invent useless things, or make up needs that don’t exist. If civilization—as they call it—has a true definition, then that must be it. Don’t you think, Mahib?’

  The ancient honorific for a pregnant woman pleased Hanavat. Though these two were young, they remembered the old ways and all the respect those ways accorded people. ‘You may be right in that, Shelemasa. But I wonder, perhaps it’s not the objects that so define a civilization—perhaps it’s the attitudes that give rise to them, and to the strangely overwrought value attached to them. The privilege of making useless things is the important thing, since it implies wealth and abundance, leisure and all the rest.’

  ‘Wise words,’ murmured Rafala.

  ‘The tea is sweet enough,’ replied Hanavat.

  The younger woman smiled, accepting the faint admonishment with good grace.

  ‘The child kicks,’ said Hanavat, ‘and so promises me the truth of the years awaiting us. I must have been mad.’ She sipped tea. ‘What brew is this?’

  ‘Saphii,’ answered Shelemasa. ‘It’s said to calm the stomach, and with the foreign food we’ve been eating of late, such calm will be a welcome respite.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ added Rafala, ‘it will soothe the child as well.’

  ‘Or kill it outright. At this point I don’t really care which. Heed this miserable Mahib’s warning: do this once to know what it means, but leave it at that. Don’t let the dream serpents back into your thoughts, whispering to you of pregnancy’s bliss. The snake lies to soften your memories. Until there is nothing but clouds and the scent of blossoms in your skull, and before you know it, you’ve gone and done it again.’

  ‘Why would the serpents lie, Mahib? Are not children women’s greatest gift?’

  ‘So we keep telling ourselves, and each other.’ She sipped more tea. Her tongue tingled as if she’d licked a bell of pepper. ‘But not long ago my husband and I invited our children to a family feast, and my how we did feast. Like starving wolves trying to decide which among us was the stranded bhederin calf. All night our children flung that bloody hide back and forth, each of them cursed to wear it at least once, and finally they all decided to drape the two of us in that foul skin. It was, in short, a most memorable reunion.’