Dust of Dreams

  ‘Good question. We need something to make him go mad, completely mad—that’s the best revenge for stealing our pet.’

  ‘And then we kill him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! Why are you being so thick? Oh, what a ridiculous question! Listen, Curdle, now we got ourselves a plan and that’s good. It’s a start. So let’s think some more. Vengeance against the Errant.’

  ‘The Elder God.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Who’s still around.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Stealing pets.’

  ‘Curdle—’

  ‘I’m just thinking out loud, that’s all!’

  ‘You call that thinking? No wonder we ended up torn to pieces and dead and worse than dead!’

  ‘Oh, and what are you thinking, then?’

  ‘I didn’t have any time to, since I had to answer all your questions!’

  ‘You always got an excuse, Telorast, did you know that? Always.’

  ‘And you’re it, Curdle, did you know that?’

  A voice croaked from the other side of the room, ‘What are you two whispering about over there?’

  The two skeletons flinched. Then, tail lashing about, Telorast ducked a head in Banaschar’s direction. ‘Absolutely nothing, and that’s a fact. In fact, beloved pet, that’s the problem! Every time! It’s Curdle. She’s an idiot! She drives me mad! Drives you to drink, too, I bet.’

  ‘The Errant’s game is one of fate,’ Banaschar said, rubbing at his face. ‘He uses—abuses—proclivities, tendencies. He nudges, pushes over the edge.’ He blinked blearily at the two skeletons. ‘To take him down, you need to take advantage of that selfsame obsession. You need to set a trap.’

  Telorast and Curdle hopped down from the sill and advanced on the seated man, tails flicking, heads low. ‘A trap,’ whispered Telorast. ‘That’s good. We thought you’d switched gods, that’s what we thought—’

  ‘Don’t tell him what we thought!’ Curdle hissed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now—he’s on our side! Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘The Errant wants all he once had,’ said Banaschar. ‘Temples, worshippers, domination. Power. To do that, he needs to take down the gods. The High Houses . . . all in ruins. Smouldering heaps. This coming war with the Crippled God presents him with his chance—a few nudges on the battlefield—who’d notice? He wants spilled blood, my friends, that’s what he wants.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ asked Curdle.

  The two creatures had reached Banaschar’s scuffed boots and were now bobbing and fawning. ‘The chaos of battle,’ murmured Telorast, ‘yes, that would be ideal.’

  ‘For us,’ nodded Curdle.

  ‘Precisely. Our chance.’

  ‘To do what?’ Banaschar asked. ‘Find yourselves a couple of thrones?’ He snorted. Ignoring them as they prostrated themselves at his feet, he held up his hands and stared at them. ‘See this tremble, friends? What does it truly signify? I will tell you. I am the last living priest of D’rek. Why was I spared? I lost all the privileges of worship within a temple. I lost a secular game of influence and power, diminished in the eyes of my brothers and sisters. In the eyes of everyone, I imagine. But I never gave up worshipping my god.’ He squinted. ‘I should be dead. Was I simply forgotten? Has it taken longer than D’rek thought? To hunt us all down? When will my god find me?’ After a moment longer he lowered his hands on to his thighs. ‘I just . . . wait.’

  ‘Our pet’s disenchanted,’ whispered Telorast.

  ‘That’s bad,’ Curdle whispered back.

  ‘We need to find him a woman.’

  ‘Or a child to eat.’

  ‘They don’t eat children, Curdle.’

  ‘Well, some other kind of treat, then.’

  ‘A bottle!’

  ‘A bottle, yes, that’s good!’

  They went hunting.

  Banaschar waited.

  Koryk trained his crossbow on the back of the scout’s helmed head. His finger edged down to the iron press.

  The point of a knife hovered into view opposite his right eye. ‘I got orders,’ whispered Smiles, ‘to kill you if you kill anyone.’

  He drew his finger back. ‘Like Hood you have. Besides, it might be an accident.’

  ‘Oh, I saw that for sure, Koryk. Your trigger finger just accidentally slipping down like that. And then, oh, in went my knife point—another accident. Tragedies! We’ll burn you on a pyre Seti style and that’s a promise.’

  He lowered the crossbow and rolled on to his side, out of sight of the clumsy scout on the track below. ‘Right, that makes perfect sense, Smiles. A pyre for the people who live on the grasslands. We like our funerals to involve, why, everyone. We burn down whole villages and scorch the ground for leagues in every direction.’

  She blinked at him, and then shrugged. ‘Whatever you do with your dead, then.’

  He worked his way down the slope, Smiles following.

  ‘My turn,’ she said when they reached the draw. ‘Get back up there.’

  ‘You waited till we got down here to say that?’

  She grinned.

  Leaving him to scrabble back into position, Smiles set off through the brush. It wasn’t that the Letherii scouts were especially bad. It was more the case that their tradition of warfare kept them trapped in the idea of huge armies clashing on open fields. Where scouts were employed simply to find the enemy encampments. The notion of a foe that could melt into the landscape the way the Malazans could, or even the idea that the enemy might split its forces, avoid direct clashes, and whittle the Letherii down with raids, ambushes and disrupted supply lines—none of that was part of their military thinking.

  The Tiste Edur had been tougher by far. Their fighting style was much closer to the Malazan one, which probably explained why the Edur conquered the Letherii the first time round.

  Of course, the Malazans could stand firm in a big scrap, but it made sense to have spent some time demoralizing and weakening their foe beforehand.

  These Letherii had a lot still to learn. After all, one day the Malazans might be back. Not the Bonehunters, but the imperial armies of the Empress. A new kingdom to conquer, a new continent to subjugate. If King Tehol wanted to hold on to what he had, his brother had better be commanding a savvy, nasty army that knew how to face down Malazan marines, heavies, squad mages, sappers with munitions, and decent cavalry.

  She quietly grunted as she approached the hidden camp. Poor Brys Beddict. They might as well surrender now.

  ‘If you was any less ugly,’ a voice said, ‘I’d a killed you for sure.’

  She halted, scowling. ‘Took your time announcing yourself, picket.’

  The soldier that edged into view was dark-skinned, barring a piebald blotch of pink disfiguring half his face and most of his forehead. The heavy crossbow in his hands was cocked but no quarrel rested in the slot.

  Smiles pushed past him. ‘Talk about ugly—you live in my nightmares, Gullstream, you know that?’

  The man stepped in behind her. ‘Can’t help being so popular with the ladies,’ he said. ‘Especially the Letherii ones.’

  Despite the blotch, there was indeed something about Gullstream that made women take a second and third look. She suspected he might have some Tiste Andii blood in his veins. The almond-shaped eyes that never seemed to settle on any one colour; his way of moving—as if he had all the time in the world—and the fact that he was, according to rumour, well-hung. Shaking her head to clear away stupid thoughts, she said, ‘Their scouts have gone right past—staying on the track mostly. So the Fist can move us all up. We’ll fall on the main column screaming our lungs out and that will be that.’

  As she was saying this, they entered the camp—a few hundred soldiers sitting or lying quietly amidst the trees, stumps and brush.

  Seeing Keneb, Smiles headed over to make her report.

  The Fist was sitting on a folding camp stool, using the point of his dagger to scrape mud
from the soles of his boots. A cup of steaming herbal tea rested on a stump beside him. Sprawled on the ground a few paces away was Sergeant Fiddler, and just beyond him Sergeant Balm sat crosslegged, studying the short sword he was holding, his expression confused. A dozen heavies waited nearby, grouped together and seeming to be engaged in comparing their outthrust hands—counting knuckle hairs, I bet.

  ‘Fist, Scout Smiles reporting, sir.’

  Keneb glanced up. ‘As predicted?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Can we go kill ’em all now?’

  The Fist looked over at Fiddler, ‘Looks like you lost your bet, Sergeant.’

  Eyes still closed, Fiddler grunted, then said, ‘We ain’t done any killing yet, sir. Brys Beddict’s been fishin in our brains for some time now, he’s bound to have snagged a fin or gill or two. Smiles, how many scouts on the track?’

  ‘Just the one, Sergeant. Picking his nose.’

  Fiddler opened his eyes and squinted over at Keneb. ‘Like that, Fist. Beddict’s reconfigured his scouting patrols—they pair up. If Smiles and Koryk saw only one, then where was the other one?’ He shifted to get more comfortable and closed his eyes again. ‘And he runs five units—five pairs—in advance of his main body. So.’

  ‘So,’ repeated Keneb, frowning. He rose, slipped the dagger into his scabbard. ‘If he’s sent one or two down the track, they were meant to be seen. Sergeant Balm, find me that map.’

  ‘Map, sir? What map?’

  Muttering under his breath, Keneb walked over to the heavies. ‘You there—yes, you—name?’

  ‘Reliko, sir.’

  ‘What are you doing with those heavies, Reliko?’

  ‘Why, cos I am one, sir.’

  Watching this, Smiles snorted. The top of Reliko’s gnarly head barely reached her shoulder. The man looked like a prune with arms and legs.

  ‘Who’s your sergeant?’ Keneb asked the Dal Honese soldier.

  ‘Badan Gruk, sir. But he stayed back sick, sir, along with Sergeant Sinter and Kisswhere. Me and Vastly Blank here, we squadding up with Drawfirst and Shoaly, under Sergeant Primly, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Go into the command tent and bring me the map.’

  ‘Aye sir. You want the table with it?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

  As the soldier walked off, Fiddler said, ‘Coulda been there and back by now, sir. All by yourself.’

  ‘I could have, yes. And just for that observation, Sergeant, go and get that map-table for me.’

  ‘Thought it wasn’t necessary, sir?’

  ‘I changed my mind. On your feet.’

  Groaning, Fiddler sat up, nudged Balm and said, ‘You and me, we got work to do.’

  Blinking, Balm stared at him a moment. Then he leapt upright, sword in his hand. ‘Where are they, then?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Fiddler said, climbing to his feet. ‘And put that thing away before you poke me with it.’

  ‘Why would I stab you? I mean, I know you, right? I think. Aye, I know you.’

  They passed Reliko on their way to the tent.

  As the soldier stepped up, Keneb took the rolled-up hide. ‘Thank you. Reliko, before you go, a question—why are all the heavies examining their hands?’

  ‘We was adding up lost bits, sir, t’see if it made up a whole hand.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘We’re missing a thumb, but we heard there’s a heavy without any thumbs—might be over in Blistig’s legion.’

  ‘Indeed, and what would his name be?’

  ‘Nefarias Bredd, sir.’

  ‘And how would this soldier be able to wield any weapons, without thumbs?’

  Reliko shrugged. ‘Can’t say, sir, as I only seen ’im once, and that was from too far away. I expect he ties ’em up sort of, somehow.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ ventured Keneb, ‘he’s missing only one thumb. Shield hand, perhaps.’

  ‘Might be, sir, might be, in which case as soon as we find a thumb, why, we’ll let him know.’ Reliko returned to his companions.

  Keneb stared after the soldier, frowning.

  ‘Kingdoms toppled one by one,’ said Smiles, ‘because of soldiers like him, sir. Keep telling yourself that—that’s how I do it.’

  ‘Do what, scout?’

  ‘Stay sane, sir. He’s the one, you know.’

  ‘Who, what?’

  ‘The shortest heavy in the history of the Malazan Empire, sir.’

  ‘Really? Are you certain of that, scout?’

  ‘Sir?’

  But he’d unfurled the map and was now studying it.

  Fiddler and Balm were approaching, a heavy table between them. As soon as they arrived, Keneb rolled up the map and set it on the tabletop. ‘You can take that back now, Sergeants. Thank you.’

  Smiles jogged her way back to where Koryk was hidden along the ridge. Behind her clunked Corporal Tarr, sounding like a damned tinker’s cart. She shot him a glare over one shoulder. ‘You shoulda strapped down, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘This is a damned feint,’ said Tarr, ‘what difference does it make?’

  They reached the base of the ridge.

  ‘I’ll wait here. Go collect the fool, Smiles, and be quick about it.’

  Biting back a retort, she set off up the slope. It’d be different, she knew, if she was the corporal. And this was a perfect example. If she was corporal, it’d be Tarr doing this climb and that was a fact.

  Koryk heard her coming and worked his way down to meet her. ‘No column, huh?’

  ‘No, how’d you guess?’

  ‘Didn’t have to. I waited. And . . . no column.’

  They descended the slope side by side to where Tarr waited.

  ‘We lost the enemy, Corporal?’

  ‘Something like that, Koryk. And now the Fist’s got us on the move—we’re going to be buggered trying catch-up, too. He’s now thinking we’ve stuck our heads in a wasp nest.’

  ‘These Letherii couldn’t turn an ambush on us,’ Koryk pronounced. ‘We would’ve sniffed it out by now.’

  ‘But we didn’t,’ Smiles pointed out. ‘We been flushed, Koryk.’

  ‘Lazy,’ pronounced Tarr. ‘Overconfident. Fiddler was right.’

  ‘Of course he was,’ said Smiles. ‘He’s Fiddler. It’s always the problem, the people in charge never listen to the people in the know. It’s like two different worlds, two different languages.’

  She stopped when she noticed both men looking at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tarr, ‘except, well, that was a sharp observation there, Smiles.’

  ‘Oh, and did that shock you two?’

  ‘Shocked me,’ admitted Koryk.

  She scowled at him.

  But secretly, she was pleased. That’s right. I ain’t the fool you think I am. I ain’t the fool nobody thinks I am. Everybody, I mean. Well, they’re the real fools, anyway.

  They hurried on, but long before they caught up to the company, it was all over.

  The Letherii ambush caught Keneb’s mob coming down a forested slope that funnelled before reaching the basin. Enemy ranks rose up on both sides from fast-dug foxholes and loosed a few hundred un-fletched arrows with soft clay balls instead of barbed iron points. If the flights had been real, half the Malazans would have been downed, dead or wounded. A few more salvos and most of the rest would be out of commission.

  Brys Beddict made an appearance in the midst of Letherii catcalls and cheering, walking up to Fist Keneb and painting with one dripping finger a red slash across his boiled-leather cuirass.

  ‘Sorry, Fist, but you have just been wiped out.’

  ‘Indeed, Commander,’ Keneb acknowledged. ‘Three hundred dead Bonehunters, cut down in a pocket. Very well done, although I suspect it highlights a lesson as yet undiscovered.’

  The smile on Brys’s face faded slightly. ‘Fist? I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Sometimes, one’s tactics must prove brutal in the execution, Commander. Especially when the timin
g’s off and nothing can be done for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Horns sounded suddenly, from the ridge lines beyond the Letherii units—on all sides, in fact.

  Keneb said, ‘Three hundred dead Bonehunters, Commander, and eight hundred dead Letherii, including their supreme commander. Not an ideal exchange for either side, but in a war, probably one the Adjunct could stomach.’

  Brys sighed, his expression wry. ‘Lesson delivered, Fist Keneb. My compliments to the Adjunct.’

  At that moment, Fiddler walked up to them. ‘Fist, you owe me and my squad two nights’ leave, sir.’

  Keneb grinned at Brys Beddict. ‘As much as the Adjunct would appreciate the compliments, Commander, they in fact belong to this sergeant here.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘That’s another lesson to mull over,’ Keneb said, ‘the one about listening to your veterans, regardless of rank.’

  ‘Well,’ mused Brys, ‘I may have to go hunting for my few surviving veterans, then. None the less, Fist, the sacrifice of three hundred of your soldiers strikes me as a loss you can ill afford, regardless of the battle’s outcome.’

  ‘True. Hence my comment about timing, Commander. I sent a rider to Fist Blistig but we could not respond in time to your ambush. Obviously, I would rather have avoided all contact with your troops. But since I know we’d all prefer to sleep in real beds tonight, I thought it more instructive to invite the engagement. Now,’ he added, smiling, ‘we can all march back to Letheras.’

  Brys drew out a handkerchief, wetted it from his canteen, and then stepped up to Fist Keneb, and carefully cleaned off the streak of red paint.

  Captain Faradan Sort entered Kindly’s office to find her counterpart standing to one side of his desk and staring down at an enormous mound of what looked like hair heaped on the desktop.

  ‘Gods below, what is that?’

  Kindly glanced over. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Hair.’

  ‘Correct. Animal hair, as best as I can determine. A variety of domestic beasts.’

  ‘It reeks. What is it doing on your desk?’

  ‘Good question. Tell me, was Lieutenant Pores in the outer office?’

  She shook her head. ‘No one there, I’m afraid.’