Dust of Dreams (124 page)

‘That’s how they catch ’em down south, that’s what the trader said. They stick a big hook through a horse and throw it in the river—’

‘That won’t work unless you tie a rope to the hook.’

‘He didn’t mention that, but it makes sense.’

They were drawing closer to the sea of campfires—well, Corabb amended, maybe not a sea. More like a big lake. But an awfully big lake. He glanced over at Flashwit, who wasn’t saying much, but then she rarely did. All she did was smile and wasn’t it a lovely smile? It was.

‘If we hooked a rabbit,’ said Saltlick, ‘we could catch wolves.’

‘Hook a horse and we’d get an even bigger wolf, I bet.’

‘We got horses, too. That’s an idea, Drawfirst, it surely is. Hey, Corabb, we’re gonna jump the next big lizard we see. For its skin. You want in?’

‘No.’

A distant howl sounded, drifting mournfully through the night.

‘Hear that?’ Saltlick asked. ‘More rabbits—keep an eye out, Drawfirst. You too, Flashwit.’

‘That sounded more like a hooked horse,’ Drawfirst muttered.

Corabb halted. ‘Cut it out, all of you. I’m Fid’s heavy, right? I stand just like you do.’ He pointed at Flashwit. ‘Don’t even think of winking. I spent half my life making mistakes about people, and I vowed I’d never do that again. So I keep my peace, but I pay attention, right? I’m a heavy, too. So stop it.’

‘We was jus’ havin’ fun, Corabb,’ Saltlick said. ‘You could always join in.’

‘I don’t believe in funny things. Now, come on, we done enough walking.’

They walked a further twenty paces before a sentry in the gloom ahead barked something—in Letherii. ‘Hood’s breath,’ hissed Corabb. ‘We done found the other army.’

‘Nobody can hide from the Bonehunters,’ intoned Drawfirst.

Koryk stood in darkness, a hundred paces out from the nearest picket. He had a memory that might be real or invented—he could not be certain. A dozen youths commandeered to dig a latrine trench for some garrison troop out on manoeuvres. Seti and Seti half-bloods, back when they were young enough to see no difference between the two, no reason yet for contempt, envy and all the rest.

He’d been one of the runts, and so his friends set him against a boulder at the far end of the pit, where he could strain and sweat and fail. Blistered hands struggling with the oversized pick, he had worked the whole morning trying to dislodge that damned boulder—with the others looking over every now and then with jeers and laughter.

Failure wasn’t a pleasant notion. It stung. It burned like acid. On that day, he now believed, young Koryk had decided he would never again accept failure. He’d dislodged that boulder in the end, with dusk fast coming on, the other boys long gone and that troop of riders—their little exercise in independence done—riding off in a cloud that hung like a god’s mocking breath of gold dust.

That rock had been firmly lodged in place. It had hidden a cache of coins. As twilight crept in, he found himself on his knees at one end of the trench, with a vast treasure cupped in his hands. Mostly silver, a few tiny gold clips, not one recognizable to Koryk’s pathetically limited experience—this was a spirit hoard, straight out from Seti legends. ‘
Under any stone, lad
 . . . ’ Yes, the whores who’d raised him had plenty of tales. Could be the whole memory was just one of those tales. A pathetic story, but . . .

He’d found a treasure, that was the meaning of it. Something precious, wonderful, rare.

And what did he do with his spirit hoard?

Squandered it. Every last fucking coin. Gone, and what was left to show for it?

Whores are warm to the touch, but they hide their souls inside a cold keep. It’s when you surrender to that world that you know you are truly lost, you are finally . . . alone.

It’s all cold to the touch these days. Everything. And now I spend the rest of my years blaming every damned coin.

But nobody’s fooled. Except me. Always me. Forever me.

He longed to draw his sword, to vanish into the mad mayhem of battle. He could then cut in two every face on every coin, howling that it made a difference, that a life wasn’t empty if it was filled with detritus. He could scream and curse and see not a single friend—only enemies. Justifying every slice, every lash of blood. At the very least, he vowed, he’d be the last one standing.

Smiles said the fever had scarred him. Perhaps it had. Perhaps it would from now on. It had done one thing for certain: it had shown him the truth of solitude. And that truth was seared into his soul. He listened to Fiddler going on and on about this so-called family of companions, and he believed none of it. Betrayals stalked the future—he felt it in his bones. There was coming a time when everything would cut clear, and he could stand before them all and speak aloud the fullest measure of his distrust.
We are each of us alone. We always were. I am done with all your lies. Now, save yourselves. As I intend to do for myself.

He wasn’t interested in any last stands. The Adjunct asked for faith, loyalty. She asked for honesty, no matter how brutal, how incriminating. She asked for too much. Besides, she gave them nothing in return, did she?

Koryk stood, facing the empty land in the empty night, and contemplated deserting.

Everything they gave me was a lie, a betrayal. It was the spirit hoard, you see. Those coins. Someone put them there to lure me in, to trap me. They poisoned me—not my fault, how could it be?

‘Look at him under that boulder! Careful, Koryk, playing under there will get you crushed!’

Too late.
It was all those fucking coins that did me in. You can’t fill a boy’s hands like that. You just can’t.

It was a memory. Maybe real, maybe not.

The whores, they just wink.

Skanarow’s lithe form rippled with shadows as someone outside the tent walked past bearing a lantern. The light coming through the canvas was cool, giving her sleeping form a deathly hue. Chilled by the vision, Ruthan Gudd looked away. He sat up, moving slowly to keep her from waking.

The sweat that had sheathed him earlier was drying on his skin.

He had no interest in revisiting the cause of his extremity—it wasn’t the love-making, Hood knew. As pleasing as she was—with that sudden smile of hers that could melt mountains of ice—Skanarow didn’t have it in her to send his heart thundering the way it had not long ago. She could delight, she could steal him away from his thoughts, his memories of a grim and eventful life; she could, in bright, stunning flashes, give him back his life.

But this night darkness had opened its flower, with a scent that could freeze a god’s soul.
Still alive, Greymane? Did you feel it? I think, your bones could be rotting in the ground right now, old friend, and still you’d have felt it.

Draconus.

Fuck.

He combed through the damp snarl of his beard.

The world shook. Balls of fire descending, the terrible light filling the sky. Fists hammering the world.

Wish I’d seen it.

But he remembered the Azath’s deathcry. He remembered the gnarled trees
engulfed in pillars of flames, the bitter heat of the soil he’d clawed through. He remembered staggering free beneath a crazed sky of lurid smoke, lightning and a deluge of ashes. He remembered his first thought, riding that breath of impossible freedom.

Jacuruku, you’ve changed.

One found loyalty under the strangest circumstances. Penitence and gratitude, arms entwined, a moment’s lustful exultation mistaken for worship. His gaze flicked back to Skanarow. The shadows and ill hue were gone. She slept, beauty in repose. Innocence was so precious.
But do not think of me with love, woman. Do not force upon me a moment of confession, the truth of foolish vows uttered a lifetime ago.

Let us play this game of blissful oblivion a little while longer.

‘It’s better this way, Draconus.’

‘This is Kallor’s empire, friend. Will you not reconsider?’

Reconsider. Yes, there is that. ‘The shore seems welcoming enough. If I mind my own business . . .’

He’d smiled at that.

And I smiled back.

Draconus returned to that continent—I felt his footfalls, there inside my seemingly eternal prison. He returned to see for himself the madness of Kallor.

You were right, Draconus. I should have minded my own business. For once.

Can you hear me now? Draconus? Are you listening?

I have reconsidered. At long last. And so I give you this. Find me, and one of us will die.

‘It’s the swirl in the dog’s fur.’

Balm stared. ‘What?’

Widdershins scowled. ‘You want this divination or not?’

‘I ain’t so sure no more.’

The mage stared down at the mangy creature he held by the scruff of the neck, and then snarled and sent it winging through the air.

Deadsmell and Balm and Throatslitter watched the thing twist smartly in the air and manage in the last possible instant to land splayed out wide on its four paws, whereupon with a flick of its bushy tail it bolted, vanishing into the night.

‘Just like a damned cat,’ Throatslitter said.

‘Wasn’t even a dog,’ Deadsmell said.

Widdershins threw up a hand in dismissal. ‘Dog, fox, what’s the difference? Now I’ll need to find something else.’

‘How about a sheepskin?’ Balm asked.

‘Is a sheepskin alive? No. Won’t work. Needs to be breathing.’

‘Because breathing fluffs the swirls,’ Balm said, nodding. ‘I get it.’

Widdershins cast a helpless look upon Deadsmell, who shrugged and then said, ‘This whole thing’s a waste of time anyway. Every seer and diviner in the whole damned world’s got scrambled brains right now.’ He gingerly touched his
own neck. ‘I swear I felt that sword’s bite. What was Hood thinking? It’s insane. The whole thing—’

‘Never mind Hood,’ snapped Widdershins. ‘Wasn’t him made me wet my trousers.’

Balm stared with huge eyes. ‘Did you really? Gods below.’

Throatslitter burst out a sudden, piping laugh. Then ducked. ‘Sorry. Just . . . well, never mind.’

Widdershins spat on the ground. ‘None of this is funny, Throatslitter. You don’t get it. That . . . that
thing.
It didn’t show up on the other side of the world. It showed up
here.
’

Balm started, looked round. ‘Where? Get me my armour—who—what—’

‘Relax, Sergeant,’ Deadsmell said. ‘He didn’t mean “here” as in right here. He meant it as . . . Wid, what did you mean, exactly?’

‘What’s with the jokes? You’re as bad as Throatslitter. I don’t know why I’m talking to any of you.’

‘We wanted a divination,’ said Throatslitter. ‘I’m changing my mind. It was a stupid idea. You think Fid’s playing with the Deck right now? Not a chance. Forget it, I’m going to bed. Not that I’ll get any sleep. In fact—’

Balm stepped up and punched Widdershins. The man fell in a heap.

Throatslitter yelped again. ‘Sergeant! What did you do that for?’

Frowning, Balm rubbed at his knuckles. ‘He said he wasn’t gonna get any sleep. He’s asleep now. You two, drag him to his tent. It’s time to take charge of things and that’s what I’m doing. Once you get him tucked in, why, we can go find Ebron. We’ll get a divination tonight if it kills us.’

‘I need more corporals,’ Hellian announced to the night sky. She’d been sitting by the hearth, staring into the flames. But now she was on her back, beneath spinning stars. The world could change in an instant. Who decided things like that? ‘One ain’t enough. Ballsgird, you’re now a corporal. You too, Probbly.’

‘It’s Maybe.’

‘No, I made up my mind.’

‘And Balgrid.’

‘Tha’s what I said. As soon as the earthquake’s over, we’ll get right on it. Who am I missing? How many in my squad? Four of ya, right? That last one, he’s a corporal now, too. I want four corporals, t’take my orders.’

‘What orders?’

‘The ones I come up with. Firs’ off, you’re all my bodyguards—I’m done with Skulldumb—keep him away from me.’

‘He’s convinced you’re royalty, Sergeant.’

‘An’ I am, Iffy, so you got to do what I say. Where my ’riginal corporal? Touchy Breath? You here?’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘I can’t be looking at this mess any longer. Take me to my tent—no, quit that, don’t help me up, you idiots. Take my feet. Nice an’ slow now—ow, who put rocks under me? Corperl Marble, clear them rocks, will ya? Gods, where’s my tent? Letheras?’

‘We’re looking, Sergeant—didn’t you put it up?’

‘Me? You’re my corperl, that was your job.’

‘Hold on, Sergeant. Just rest here—we’re on it.’

‘So I should think. Derliction of duty. Gi’me a wax and a stick, someone, got to write you up. I’m bustin’ you down, to . . . to, uh, undercorperl. What’s that pounding?’