Dust of Dreams

  The ghost struggled against panic. He could not warn them. This creature, so flush now with necessities and enormous tasks—the great war against the deterioration of Kalse Rooted, the ghost assumed—could not but see the clumsy explorations of Taxilian, Rautos and the others as a threat. To be eradicated.

  The drone, named Sulkit—this being a name derived from birth-month and status, indeed a name once shared by two hundred identical drones—now rose on its hind limbs, thin, prehensile tail slithering across the floor. Oils dripped from its slate-grey hide, pooled and then quickly vanished as the unseen army, emboldened, purified and enlivened by the commander it had itself created, dispersed to renew its war.

  And the ghost withdrew, raced back to his companions.

  ‘If this was a mind,’ said Taxilian, ‘it has died.’ He ran his hand along the sleek carapace, frowning at the ribbons of flexible, clear glass rippling out from the iron dome. Was something flowing through that glass? He could not be certain.

  Rautos rubbed his chin. ‘Truly, I do not see how you can tell,’ he said.

  ‘There should be heat, vibration. Something.’

  ‘Why?’

  Taxilian scowled. ‘Because that would tell us it’s working.’

  Breath barked a laugh behind them. ‘Does a knife talk? Does a shield drum? You’ve lost your mind, Taxilian. A city only lives when people are in it, and even then it’s the people doing the living, not the city.’

  In the chamber they had just left, Sheb and Nappet bickered as they cleared rubbish from the floor, making room for everyone to sleep. They had climbed level after level and, even now, still more waited above them. But everyone was exhausted. A dozen levels below, Last had managed to kill a nest of orthen, which he had skinned and gutted, and he was now arranging the six scrawny carcasses on skewers, while off to one side bhederin dung burned in a stone quern, the fire’s heat slowly driving back the chilly, lifeless air. Asane was preparing herbs to feed into a tin pot filled with fresh water.

  Bewildered, the ghost drifted among them.

  Breath strode back into the chamber, eyes scanning the floor. ‘Time,’ she said, ‘for a casting of the Tiles.’

  Anticipation fluttered through the ghost, or perhaps it was terror. He felt himself drawn closer, staring avidly as she drew out her collection of Tiles. Polished bone? Ivory? Glazed clay? All kinds, he realized, shifting before his eyes.

  Breath whispered, ‘See? Still young. So much, so much to decide.’ She licked her lips, her hands twitching.

  The others drew closer, barring Taxilian who had remained in the other room.

  ‘I don’t recognize none of them,’ said Sheb.

  ‘Because they’re new,’ snapped Breath. ‘The old ones are dead. Useless. These’—she gestured—‘they belong to us, just us. For now. And the time has come to give them their names.’ She raked them together in a clatter, scooped them up and held the Tiles in the enclosed bowl of her hands.

  The ghost could see her flushed face, the sudden colour making her skin almost translucent, so that he could discern the faint cage of bones beneath. He saw her pulse through the finest vessels in her flesh, the rush and swish of blood in their eager circuit. He saw the sweat beading on her high brow, and the creatures swimming within it.

  ‘First,’ she said, ‘I need to remake some old ones. Give them new faces. The names may sound like ones you’ve heard before, but these are new anyway.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Sheb, still scowling. ‘How are they new?’

  ‘They just are.’ She sent the Tiles on to the floor. ‘No Holds, you see? Each one is unaligned, all of them are unaligned. That’s the first difference.’ She pointed. ‘Chance—Knuckles—but see how it’s at war with itself? That’s the truth of Chance right there. Fortune and Misfortune are mortal enemies. And that one: Rule—no throne, thrones are too obvious.’ She flipped that Tile. ‘And Ambition on the other side—they kill each other, you see?’ She began flipping more Tiles. ‘Life and Death, Light and Dark, Fire and Water, Air and Stone. Those are the old ones, remade.’ She swept those aside, leaving three remaining Tiles. ‘These are the most potent. Fury, and on its opposite side, Starwheel. Fury is just what it says. Blind, a destroyer of everything. Starwheel, that’s Time, but unravelled—’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Rautos asked, his voice strangely tight, his face pale.

  Breath shrugged. ‘Before and after are meaningless. Ahead and behind, then and soon, none of them mean anything. All those words that try to force order and, uh, sequence.’ She shrugged again. ‘You won’t see Starwheel in the castings. You’ll just see Fury.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Her smile was chilling. ‘I just do.’ She pointed at the second to last Tile. ‘Root, and on the other side, Ice Haunt—they both seek the same thing. You get one or the other, never both. This last one, Blueiron there, that’s the sorcery that gives life to machines—it’s still strong in this place, I can feel it.’ She turned the Tile on to its other side. ‘Oblivion. Ware this one, it’s a curse. A demon. It eats you from the inside out. Your memories, your self.’ She licked her lips once more, this time nervously. ‘It’s very strong right now. And getting stronger . . . someone’s coming, someone’s coming to find us.’ She hissed suddenly and swept up the last Tiles. ‘We need—we need to feed Blueiron. Feed it!’

  Taxilian spoke from the doorway. ‘I know, Breath. It is what I am trying to do.’

  She faced him, teeth bared. ‘Can you taste this place?’

  ‘I can.’

  From one side Asane whimpered, and then flinched as Nappet lashed out a foot to kick her. He would have done more but Last interposed himself between the two, arms crossed, eyes flat. Nappet sneered and turned away.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rautos. ‘I taste nothing—nothing but dust.’

  ‘It wants our help,’ Taxilian announced.

  Breath nodded.

  ‘Only I don’t know how.’

  Breath held up a knife. ‘Open your flesh. Let the taste inside, Taxilian. Let it inside.’

  Was this madness, or the only path to salvation? The ghost did not know. But he sensed a new flavour in the air. Excitement? Hunger? He could not be certain.

  But Sulkit was on its way. Still gaunt, still weak. On its way, then, not to deliver slaughter.

  The flavour, the ghost realized, was hope.

  ______

  Some roads, once set out upon, reveal no possible path but forward. Every other track is blocked by snarls of thorns, steaming fissures or rearing walls of stone. What waits at the far end of the forward path is unknown, and since knowledge itself may prove a curse, the best course is simply to place one foot in front of the other, and think not at all of fate or the cruel currents of destiny.

  The seven or eight thousand refugees trudging in Twilight’s wake were content with ignorance, even as darkness closed in as inexorable as a tide, even as the world to either side of the Road of Gallan seemed to lose all substance, fragments drifting away like discarded memories. Linked one to another by ropes, strands of netting, torn strips of cloth and hide—exhausted but still alive, far from terrible flames and coils of smoke—they need only follow their Queen.

  Most faith was born of desperation, Yan Tovis understood that much. Let them see her bold, sure strides on this stony road. Let them believe she had walked this path before, or that by virtue of noble birth and title, she was cloaked with warm, comforting knowledge of the journey they had all begun, this flowing river of blood. My blood.

  She would give them that comfort. And hold tight to the truth that was her growing terror, her surges of panic that left her undergarments soaked with chill sweat, her heart pounding like the hoofs of a fleeing horse—no, they would see none of that. Nothing to drive stark fear into them, lest in blind horror the human river spill out, pushed off the road, and in screams of agony find itself shredded apart by the cold claws of oblivion.

  No, best they know nothing.

  Sh
e was lost. The notion of finding a way off this road, of returning to their own world, now struck her as pathetically naïve. Her blood had created a gate, and now its power was thinning; with each step she grew weaker, mind wandering as if stained with fever, and even the babble of Pully and Skwish behind her was drifting away—their wonder, their pleasure at the gifts of Twilight’s blood had grown too bitter to bear.

  Old hags no longer. Youth snatched back, the sloughing away of wrinkles, dread aches, frail bones—the last two witches of the Shake danced and sung as if snake-bitten, too filled with life to even take note of the dissolution closing in on all sides, nor their Queen’s slowing pace, her drunken weaving on the road. They were too busy drinking her sweet blood.

  Forward. Just walk. Yedan warned you, but you were too proud to listen. You thought only of your shame. Your brother, Witchslayer. And, do not forget, your guilt. At the brutal reprieve he gave you. His perfect, logical solution to all of your problems.

  The Watch is as he must be. Yet see how you hated his strength—but it was nothing more than hating your own weakness. Nothing more than that.

  Walk, Yan Tovis. It’s all you need do—

  With the sound of a sundered sail, the world tore itself wide open. The road dropped from beneath the two witches, then thundered and cracked like a massive spine as it slammed down atop rolling hills. Dust shot skyward, and sudden sunlight blazed down with blinding fire.

  Pully staggered to where Twilight had collapsed, seeing the spatters of blood brown and dull on the road’s cracked, broken surface. ‘Skwish, y’damned fool! We was drunk! Drunk on ’er an now ye look!’

  Skwish dragged herself loose from the half-dozen Shake who had tumbled into her. ‘Oh’s we in turble now—this anna Gallan! It’s the unnerside a Gallan! The unnerside! Iz she yor an dead, Pully? Iz she?’

  ‘Nearby, Skwish, nearby—she went on too long—we shoulda paid attention. Kept an eye on ’er.’

  ‘Get ’er back, Pully! We can’t be ’ere. We can’t!’

  As the two now young women knelt by Yan Tovis, the mass of refugees was embroiled in its own chaotic recovery. Broken limbs, scattered bundles of possessions, panicked beasts. The hills flanking the road were denuded, studded with sharp outcrops. Not a tree in sight. Through the haze of dust, now drifting on the wind, the sky was cloudless—and there were three suns.

  Yedan Derryg scanned his troop of soldiers, was satisfied that none had suffered more than bruises and scrapes. ‘Sergeant, attend to the wounded—and stay on the road—no one is to leave it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He then set out, picking his way round huddled refugees—wide-eyed islanders silent with fear, heads lifting and turning to track his passage. Yedan found the two captains, Pithy and Brevity, directing one of their makeshift squads in the righting of a toppled cart.

  ‘Captains, pass on the command for everyone to stay on the road—not a single step off it, understood?’

  The two women exchanged glances, and then Pithy shrugged. ‘We can do that. What’s happened?’

  ‘It was already looking bad,’ Brevity said, ‘wasn’t it?’

  ‘And now,’ added Pithy, ‘it’s even worse. Three suns, for Errant’s sake!’

  Yedan grimaced. ‘I must make my way to the front of the column. I must speak with my sister. I will know more when I return.’

  He continued on.

  The journey was cruel, as the Watch could not help but observe the wretched state of the refugees, islanders and Shake alike. He well comprehended the necessity of leaving the shore, and the islands. The sea respected them no longer, not the land, not the people clinging to it. His sister had no choice but to take them away. But she was also leading them. Ancient prophecies haunted her, demanding dread sacrifices—but her Shake were poor creatures for the most part. They did not belong in legends, in tales of hard courage and resolute defiance—he’d seen as much in the faces of the witches and warlocks he’d cut down. And he saw the same here, as he threaded through the crowds. The Shake were a diminished people, in numbers, in spirit. Generation upon generation, they had made themselves small, as if meekness was the only survival strategy they understood.

  Yedan Derryg did not know if they were capable of rising again.

  The islanders, he mused, might well prove more competent than the Shake, if Pithy and Brevity were any measure. He could use them. Letherii understood the value of adaptability, after all. And since these were the ones who had chosen Yan Tovis as their Queen, he could exploit that loyalty.

  They needed an army. The two captains were right. And they were looking to him to lead it. That seemed plain enough. His task now was to convince his sister.

  Of course, their paramount need at the moment was to leave this place. Before its residents found them.

  Pushing clear of the last huddle of refugees he saw that a perimeter of sorts had been established by—he noted with a frown—two young women and a half-dozen Shake youths armed with fishing spears. The women were busy scratching furrows in the road with antler picks, spirals and wavy circles—fashioning wards, Yedan realized with a start—in the gap between the guards and a small tent surrounded by a rough palisade of carved poles.

  Witching poles. Yedan Derryg walked up to the guards, who parted to let him pass—saving him the effort of beating the fools senseless—and halted before the women. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘Such rituals belong to Elder Witches, not their apprentices—where is my sister? In the tent? Why?’

  The woman closest to him, curvaceous beneath her rags, her black hair glistening in the sunlight, placed two fingers beneath her large, dark eyes, and then smiled. ‘The Watch sees but remains blind, an yer blind an blind.’ Then she laughed.

  Yedan narrowed his gaze, and then shot the other woman a second look.

  This one straightened from etching the road. She lifted her arms as if to display herself—the tears and holes in her shirt revealing smooth flesh, the round fullness of her breasts. ‘Hungry, Witchslayer?’ She ran a hand through her auburn hair and then smiled invitingly.

  ‘See what her blood done t’us?’ the first one exclaimed. ‘Ya didn’t nearby kill us. Leff the two a us, an that made us rich wi’ ’er power, and see what it done?’

  Yedan Derryg slowly scowled. ‘Pully. Skwish.’

  Both women pranced the opening steps to the Shake Maiden Dance.

  Growling under his breath, he walked between them, taking care not to scrape the patterns cut into the packed earth of the road.

  The one he took to be Pully hurried up to his side. ‘Careful, ya fat walrus, these are highest—’

  ‘Wards. Yes. You’ve surrounded my sister with them. Why?’

  ‘She’s sleepin—don’t asturb ’er.’

  ‘I am the Watch. We need to speak.’

  ‘Sleeps!’

  He halted, stared at the witch. ‘Do you know where we are?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Yedan stared at her. Saw the tremor behind her eyes. ‘If not,’ he said, ‘the hold of the Liosan, then a neighbouring realm within their demesne.’

  Pully flinched. ‘The Watch sees and is not blind,’ she whispered.

  As he moved to continue to the tent the witch snapped out a hand to stay him. ‘Lissen. Not sleep. Nearby a coma—she didn’t know to slow ’er own blood, just let it pour out—nearby killt ’er.’

  He ground his teeth, chewed silently for a moment, and then asked, ‘You bound her wounds?’

  ‘We did,’ answered Skwish behind them. ‘But mebbe we was too late—’

  ‘Too busy dancing.’

  Neither woman replied.

  ‘I will look upon my sister.’

  ‘An then stay close,’ said Pully, ‘an bring up your soljers.’

  Yedan pointed to one of the Shake guards. ‘Send that one back to Captains Pithy and Brevity. They are to take command of the rearguard with their company. Then have your lad lead my troop back here.’

  Skwish t
urned away to comply with his commands.

  They were flush, yes, these two witches. And frightened. Two forces he could use to ensure their cooperation. That and the guilt they must now be feeling, having drunk deep when—if not for Yedan’s slaying of the others—they would have but managed a sip with the rest shared out among scores of parched rivals. He would keep them down from now on, he vowed. Serving the Royal Family. ‘Pully,’ he now said. ‘If I discover you ever again withholding information from me—or my sister—I will see you burned alive. Am I understood?’

  She paled and almost stepped back.

  He stepped closer, permitting her no retreat. ‘I am the Watch.’

  ‘Aye. You are the Watch.’

  ‘And until the Queen recovers, I command this column—including you and Skwish.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Make certain your sister witch understands.’

  ‘I will.’

  He turned and made his way to the tent. Crouched at the entrance. He hesitated, thinking, and then reached out to tug aside the hide flap—enough to give him a view inside. Hot, pungent air gusted out. She was lying like a corpse, arms at her sides, palms up. He could just make out the black-gut stitchwork seaming the knife cuts. Reaching in, he took one of her bare feet in his hand. Cold, but he could detect the faintest of pulses. He set the foot down, closed the flap, and straightened.

  ‘Pully.’

  She was standing where he’d left her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She might not recover left just as she is.’

  ‘Na, she might not.’

  ‘She needs sustenance. Wine, meat. Can you force that into her without choking her?’

  Pully nodded. ‘Need us a snake tube.’

  ‘Find one.’

  ‘Skwish!’

  ‘I heard.’

  Yedan made his way back through the wards. Four horses were tethered to his sister’s supply wagon. He selected the biggest one, a black gelding with a white blaze on its forehead. The beast was unsaddled but bridled. He drew it out from the others and then vaulted on to its back.