Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  Kisswhere kicked her horse into motion. It answered reluctantly. ‘Not much further,’ she said as she worked it into a loose canter. ‘See those riders? Khundryl. Almost there.’ I don’t need to convince them of anything—they’re on their way already. I just need to add a few spurs to their boots. Who knows, maybe it’s what Krughava goes for anyway. She has that look about her, I think.

  Here, sweetie, I bring spikes and whips—

  The riders of the Vedith Swift drawing towards the lone soldier were commanded by Rafala, who held sharp eyes on the stranger. A Malazan to be sure, she could see. On a tired horse. She tasted the excitement, proof that something was happening, yet another clench of history’s jaws, and no struggle could pull one free. Gall had sent them out ahead, riding hard. Find the Bonehunters. Ride into their column and speak to the Adjunct. Tell her to wait, or indeed to angle her march southward.

  The terrible gods were gathering—she could see it in the high clouds building to the southwest, tumbling down off the mountains. The armies must come together and so stand as one, facing down those gods. Such a moment awaited them! Adjunct Tavore, commander of the Bonehunters; Gall, Warleader of the Khundryl Burned Tears; Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Wolves; and Abrastal, Queen of Bolkando and commander of the Evertine Legion. Oh, and the Gilk, too. Those Barghast know how to roll in the furs, don’t they just. I won’t cringe with them on one flank, that’s for certain.

  What sought them in the Wastelands? Some pathetic tribe, no doubt—not much else could survive out here. No secret kingdom or empire, that was obvious. The land was dead, after all. Well, they would crush whoever the fools were, and then march on, seeking whatever fate the Adjunct knew awaited them all in distant Kolanse. Rafala only hoped she’d get the chance to bloody her blade.

  The Malazan soldier was slowing her exhausted mount, as if content to let the Khundryl horses do most of the work. Well enough. The Dal Honese did not look very comfortable on that saddle. For decades the Malazans had been clever in building their armies. They used horse-tribes to create their cavalry, mountain-dwellers for their scouts and skirmishers, and farmers for their infantry. City folk for sappers and coastal folk for marines and sailors. But things had since grown confused. The Dal Honese did not belong on horses.

  No matter. I remember the Wickans. I’d barely a month of bleeding then, but I saw them. They humbled us all.

  And now it is the Khundryls’ turn to do the same.

  She gestured to slow the riders behind her and continued ahead to rein in before the Malazan. ‘I am Rafala—’

  ‘Happy for you,’ the woman cut in. ‘Just take me to Gall and Krughava—and switch me to a fresher horse, this one’s done.’

  ‘How many days away?’ Rafala asked as one of her corporals took charge of switching mounts.

  The Malazan dropped down from her horse with some difficulty. ‘Who? Oh, not far, I should think. I got lost the first night—thought I could see the mountains on my right. Turned out those were clouds. I’ve been riding south and west for two days now. Is that fool ready yet?’

  Rafala scowled. ‘He gives you his finest battle-horse, soldier.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t paying.’ Wincing, the woman climbed into the saddle. ‘Gods, couldn’t you do with some decent padding? I’m sitting on bones here.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ drawled Rafala, ‘if you let your muscles get too soft. Let’s ride then, soldier.’ And see if you can keep up with me. To her Swift she said, ‘Continue on. I will provide her escort and then return to you.’

  And then they were off. The Swift resumed riding northward; Rafala and the Malazan struck southward, and, trailing at ever greater distance behind them, the lone corporal followed on the spent horse.

  Well, thought Kisswhere as she and Rafala approached the vanguard, this will make it easy. A forest of banners marked the presence of a clash—an old Malaz Island joke—of commanders. She could say what needed saying once and then be done with it.

  It was obvious to her that disaster awaited them all. Too many women holding skillets here. She’d always preferred men to women. As friends, as lovers, as officers. Men liked to keep things simple. None of that absurd oversensitivity, reacting to every damned expression or glance or gesture. None of that stewing over some careless passing comment. And, most importantly, none of that vicious backstabbing and poison cups so smilingly given. No, she’d long since learned all the nasty lessons of her own gender; she’d seen enough eyes crawling up and down her body and judging the clothes she wore, the cut of her hair, the man at her side. She’d seen women carving up others when those ones weren’t looking, eyes like blades—snip slice snip.

  And wasn’t it true—beyond all challenge—that women who preferred the company of men were the most hated women of all?

  Too many commanders with tits in this mob. Look at Gall, he’s under siege behind those tattooed tears. And that Barghast, no wonder he’s hiding his face behind all that paint.

  ‘You can go back now, Rafala,’ Kisswhere said. ‘I won’t get lost.’

  ‘I need your horse, Malazan.’

  ‘So I am to walk from now on?’

  The young Khundryl looked surprised. ‘Walk where?’

  Kisswhere scowled.

  They rode through the scattered line of outriders and drew up before the vanguard—the mounted commanders made no concession to their arrival, continuing on at a steady trot, forcing Rafala and Kisswhere to swing round and fall in step beside them. That attitude annoyed Kisswhere—when was the last time they’d even seen each other?

  Rafala spoke: ‘Warleader Gall, I bring you a Malazan messenger.’ And then she said to Kisswhere, ‘I will go and find you another horse.’

  ‘Good. Don’t take too long.’

  With a flat look, Rafala pulled her mount round and headed into the trailing columns.

  A red-haired woman Kisswhere had never seen before was the first to address her, in the trader tongue. ‘Malazan, where are your kin?’

  ‘My kin?’

  ‘Your fellow soldiers.’

  ‘Not far, I think. You should reach them today, especially at this pace.’

  ‘Marine,’ said Krughava, ‘what word do you bring us?’

  Kisswhere glanced about, noting the various staff officers clumped round the commanders. ‘Can we get a little more private here, Mortal Sword? You and Warleader Gall, I mean—’

  ‘Queen Abrastal of Bolkando and Warchief Spax of the Gilk White Faces have allied their forces with our own, sir. This said, I will send our staffs a short distance away.’ She faced the Queen. ‘Acceptable, Highness?’

  Abrastal’s face registered distaste. ‘Oh yes, they’re worse than flies. Go! All of you!’

  Twenty or more riders pulled away from the vanguard, leaving only Krughava, Tanakalian, Gall, the Queen and Spax.

  ‘Better?’ Krughava asked.

  Kisswhere drew a deep breath. She was too tired to have to work at this. ‘Among the seers serving the Adjunct . . . Mortal Sword, I can say this no other way. The threat of betrayal was judged to be very real. I was sent to confirm the alliance.’

  The Mortal Sword went deathly pale. Kisswhere saw the foreign Queen cast a sharp look at the young Shield Anvil, Tanakalian.

  What? Fuck, they know more of this than I do. Seems the threat is real after all. Sister, you have eyes that see what others do not. No wonder I’m always running away from you.

  Warleader Gall was the first to respond. ‘What is your name, soldier?’

  ‘Kisswhere. Tenth Squad, Third Company, Eighth Legion.’

  ‘Kisswhere—spirits know, how you Malazans can make a name an invitation never ceases to delight me—I will answer the Adjunct’s fear as the Khundryl must. We shall advance ahead and ride with you with all haste, and so rejoin the Bonehunters as soon as possible.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Krughava, ‘there will be no betrayal from the Perish. See the pace of our march. We are apprised of imminent danger, and so hasten to reach the Ad
junct’s army. It is our added fortune that the Bolkando Queen leads her Evertine Legion and the Gilk and has vowed to give us whatever aid we may require. Tell me, are the Bonehunters beset? What enemy has appeared out of the Wastelands to so assail them?’

  You get around to asking this now? ‘As of two days past, Mortal Sword, our only enemy was clouds of biting flies,’ Kisswhere replied.

  ‘Yet you were dispatched to find us,’ Krughava observed.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Therefore,’ the Mortal Sword continued, ‘some apprehension of danger—beyond that of possible betrayal—must exist to justify such urgency.’

  Kisswhere shrugged. ‘There is little more I can tell you, Mortal Sword.’

  ‘You ride all this way seeking nothing but reassurance?’

  At Gall’s question, Kisswhere glanced away for a moment. ‘Yes, it must seem odd to you. All of you. I have no answer. The alliance was perceived to be in jeopardy—that is all I know of the matter.’

  No one seemed satisfied. Too bad. What can I say? My sister’s got a bad feeling. Fid keeps throwing up and the only high priest on Tavore’s staff has been drunk ever since Letheras. And those flies got a vicious bite.

  Rafala returned leading a saddled horse, a bay mare with a witless look to her. She led the beast up alongside Kisswhere. ‘Climb over, if you can.’

  Scowling, Kisswhere kicked her boots free of the stirrups and drew her right leg over. Rafala pulled the mare a step ahead and the Malazan set her right foot into the stirrup, rose, reaching for the Seven Cities saddle horn, and then pulled herself astride the broad-backed beast.

  The transfer was smooth and Rafala’s lips tightened, as if the notion of a compliment threatened nausea. She dropped back to come up behind Kisswhere, taking the reins of her warrior’s battle-horse. Moments later she was leading that mount away.

  Kisswhere looked over to see Gall grinning. ‘I know just the place,’ he said.

  The Barghast barked a laugh.

  ‘Ride with the Khundryl then,’ Krughava said to her. ‘Lead them to the Bonehunters.’

  Gods below— how to get out of this? ‘I fear I would only slow them, Mortal Sword. While this mount is fresh I, alas, am not.’

  ‘Ever slept between two horses?’ Gall asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A slung hammock, Kisswhere, with tent poles to keep the beasts apart. This is how we carry wounded whilst on the move.’

  All these women, looking at her. Knowing, seeing what the men did not. Showing all your sharp little teeth, are you? So delighted to see me trapped. To Gall she said, ‘If it comes to that need, Warleader, I will tell you.’

  ‘Very good,’ the warrior replied. ‘Then, let us ride to my Burned Tears. Highness, Mortal Sword, when next we meet it shall be in the Adjunct’s command tent. Until then, travel well and may the gods be blinded by your dust.’

  Kisswhere set off with the Warleader and they cut eastward and slightly arrears to where the main mass of the horse-warriors rode in loose formations. Once clear of the vanguard, Gall said, ‘My apologies, soldier. I see that you have discarded your uniform, and the last place you want to go is back to where you came from. But the Mortal Sword is a stern woman. Not one Perish Grey Helm has ever deserted, and should one ever try, I doubt they’d manage to live long. She would have acted on the Adjunct’s behalf, no matter the consequences. In every army imaginable, the Bonehunters included I’m sure, desertion is a death sentence.’

  Not stupid after all. ‘I was commanded to give nothing away whilst riding alone, Warleader, and so I wore nothing that could be construed to be a uniform.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Then I must apologize a second time, Kisswhere.’

  She shrugged. ‘My sister walks in that column, Warleader. How could I not seek to return as quickly as possible?’

  ‘Of course. I understand now.’

  He fell into something like an amiable silence as they approached the Burned Tears. She wondered if he’d been fooled. True, simple wasn’t necessarily the same as stupid, after all. She’d given reasonable answers, with only a hint of affront. Aye, a little dignity before the insult, as my mother used to say, makes a fine weapon.

  ‘She will be delighted to see you again, I am sure.’

  Kisswhere shot the man a searching look, but said nothing.

  Columnar clouds heaped the western horizon ahead, and Masan Gilani could feel a cool breeze freshening against her face. She had taken to spelling her horse every three or so leagues, but the animal was wearying nonetheless. It was this detail that killed most deserters, she knew. The pursuing troop would be leading spare mounts, whilst the fool on the fly generally had nothing but the lone beast he or she was riding.

  Of course, no one was chasing her, which, oddly enough, did nothing to assuage her guilt. She belonged with her squad, sharing mouthfuls of the same dust, cursing at the same whining flies. And, if things were as bad as people had intimated, she wanted to be there, right beside her friends, to face whatever arrived. Instead, here she was, hunting for . . . for what? For the tenth time this day she reached to brush her hand against the small leather pouch tied to her belt, confirming it was still there. Lose it, she knew, and this whole mission was a failure.

  It probably already is, anyway. I can’t find what I can’t see, pouch or no pouch.

  She could see the rain ahead and not much else, grey-blue sheets angling down on the sliding wind, the curtains sweeping across the land. More misery to add to this overflowing kitty. This is pointless. I’m looking for ghosts. Real ghosts? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe just the ghosts living in the Adjunct’s head, those old hoary hags of lost allegiances and forgotten promises. Tavore, you expect too much. You always did.

  Rain spat into her face, swarmed the ground until it seemed the dust danced like crazed ants. In moments all visibility beyond a few dozen paces vanished. She was now more blinded to what she was looking for than at any other time.

  The world mocked.

  Pointless. I’m going back—

  Five figures stood before her, grey as the rain, dull as the muddy dust, sudden as a dream. Cursing, she reined in, fought with her panicking horse. Gravel skittered. The beast snorted, hoofs stamping in the sluicing streams and puddles.

  ‘We are who you seek.’

  She could not tell which one the voice came from. She grasped the pouch containing the seething dirt, gift of the Atri-Ceda Aranict, and gasped at its sudden heat.

  They were corpses one and all. T’lan Imass. Battered, broken, limbs missing, weapons dangling from seemingly senseless hands of bone wrapped in blackened skin. Long hair, dirty blond and rust red, was plastered down round their desiccated faces, where rainwater ran like eternal tears.

  Breathing hard, Masan Gilani studied them for a time, and then she said, ‘Just five of you? No others?’

  ‘We are who remain.’

  She thought the one speaking was the one standing closest to her, but could not be certain. The rain was a roar around them all, the wind moaning as if trapped in an enormous cave. ‘There should be . . . more,’ she insisted. ‘There was a vision—’

  ‘We are the ones you seek.’

  ‘Are you summoned then?’

  ‘We are.’ And the lead T’lan Imass pointed to the pouch at her hip. ‘Thenik is incomplete.’

  ‘Which one of you is Thenik?’

  The creature on the outside right stepped forward. Every bone looked to be shattered, with splinters and chips missing. A crazed web of cracks broke up its face beneath a helm made from the skull of some unknown beast.

  Fumbling with the ties, Masan finally managed to pull free the pouch. She tossed it over. Thenik made no move to catch it. The pouch landed at its feet, sank into a puddle.

  ‘Thenik thanks you,’ said the speaker. ‘I am Urugal the Woven. With me is Thenik the Shattered, Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb the Silent Hunter and Halad the Giant. We are the Unbound, who once numbered seven. Now we are five. Soon we shall be seven again�
��there are fallen kin in this land. Some refuse the enemy. Some will not follow the one who leads nowhere.’

  Frowning, Masan Gilani shook her head. ‘You’ve lost me. No matter. I was sent to find you. Now we must return to the Bonehunters—my army—it’s where—’

  ‘Yes, she is the hunter of bones indeed,’ Urugal said. ‘Her hunt is soon complete. Ride on your beast. We shall follow.’

  She wiped water from her eyes. ‘Thought there’d be more of you,’ she muttered, gathering her reins and dragging her horse round. ‘Can you keep up?’ she asked over one shoulder.

  ‘You are the banner before us, mortal.’

  Masan Gilani’s frown deepened. She’d heard something like that before . . . somewhere.

  Four leagues to the northwest, Onos T’oolan suddenly halted, the first time in days. Something not far away had brushed his senses, but now it was gone. T’lan Imass. Strangers. He hesitated, as the more distant and altogether different wave of compulsion returned, insistent, desperate. He knew its flavour, had known its flavour for weeks now. This was what Toc the Younger had sought, what he had demanded of the First Sword.

  But he was no longer the friend Toc once knew, just as Toc was no longer the friend Tool himself remembered. The past was both dead and alive, but between them it was simply dead.

  The summons was Malazan. It was the claim of alliance as had been forged long ago, between the Emperor and the Logros T’lan Imass. Somewhere to the east, a Malazan force waited. Danger approached, and the T’lan Imass must stand with allies of old. Such was duty. Such was the ink of honour, written so deep as to stain the immortal soul.

  He defied the command. Duty was dead. Honour was a lie—see what the Senan had done to his wife, his children. Mortality was the realm of deceit; the sordid room of horror hid in the house of the living, its walls crusted and streaked, dark stains on the warped floor. Dust crowded the corners, dust made of skin flakes and snarls of hair, nail clippings and clots of phlegm. Every house had its secret room, where memories howled in the thick silence.