Dust of Dreams (126 page)

‘Not as such. But in asking for the impossible, I would intend that they succeed in achieving it. The impossible is not the same as sending them to their deaths. That I would never do. But if I am to ask more of them than any commander has even the right to ask of his or her soldiers, then I must be with them, and be seen to be with them.

‘Tonight,’ he continued, ‘you must become my Atri-Ceda again for a time, and I your commander. When we speak with our soldiers. When we ask them how they fared on this day. When we endeavour to answer their questions and concerns, as best we can.’ He paused, his steps slowing. They were in a gap of relative darkness between two cookfires. ‘Especially on this night,’ he said, his tone low. ‘They are shaken—word’s come of the affliction striking the Malazan mages.’

‘Yes, Commander. I understand. In fact, High Mage Delat wondered, er, rather, he asked me. About you. Said that you may seem . . . different now . . . sir.’

‘And what will you tell him, when next you two meet?’

‘I—I am not sure, sir. I think so. Maybe . . .’

‘He is a clever man,’ Brys said. ‘This evening, Aranict, I felt as if . . . well, as if I had awakened, stepped out from a dark, cold place. A place I’d thought was the real world, the honest world—the coldness, I’d thought, was simply what I had never before noticed—before my death and resurrection, I mean. But I understand, now, that the cold and darkness were within me, death’s own touch upon my soul.’

She stared at him, adoring, eyes bright. ‘And it is gone now, sir?’

His returning smile was all the answer she needed.

‘Now, Atri-Ceda, let us speak with our soldiers.’

‘Carving the stone, sir.’

‘Just that.’

No need to worry about mine. I am yours. That stone, it’s all melted, reshaped—Errant save me, it’s got your face now. Oh, and about that biting—

As they stepped into the firelight, Brys chanced to glance across at his Atri-Ceda, and what he saw in her expression—quickly veiled but not quickly enough—almost took his breath away.

Lascivious hunger, a half-smile upon her lips, a fancy snared in the reflecting flames in her eyes. For an instant, he was at a loss for words, and could only smile his greeting as the soldiers turned and voiced their heartfelt welcome.

Aranict. I truly was half-dead inside, to have so thoroughly missed what is now so obvious. The question now is, what am I to do about it? About you?

That look, there was a darkness upon it—not cold as I found in myself—but
hot as a burning ember. Is it any wonder I so often see you standing inside swirls of smoke?

Atri-Ceda, what am I to do?

But he knew he would have no answer to that question, not until he knew his own feelings. It all seemed so new, so peculiar, so unfamiliar. All at once—and he felt the shift with a grinding lurch—she was the one standing so self-possessed and content inside her own inner world’s visions—whatever they happened to be—while he stood awkwardly at her side, flustered, dumbstruck.

Ridiculous. Set it aside for later, Brys.

This soldiering business was getting easier, Sunrise decided. Plenty of marching, and marching fast at that, but the soles of his feet had toughened, he’d got his wind back, and even carrying his armour, shield and weapons wasn’t proving so hard any more. They’d even found time for some sword practice.
Duck and stab, duck and stab—hold the shield up, soldier! Hold the line—no one breaks in the Bridgeburners. You stand and take the shock and then you step forward. Stand, take, step—it’s like felling a forest, soldiers, tree by tree. Duck and stab!

Couldn’t help but be a bit of a challenge, of course, living up to the legend that was the Bridgeburners, but then they had themselves a real one looking on, all sharp-eyed and stern, and that kept everyone trying and trying hard. High standards, aye, the highest.

The Bridgeburners had singlehandedly won the Blackdog Campaign. Sent the Crimson Guard and the Mott and Genabarii legions reeling in retreat. Kicked in the front gates of a dozen cities from Nathilog to One Eye Cat. And before that, they’d conquered all of Seven Cities. He’d never heard of any of these places but he liked the names. Seven Cities sounded simple and obvious. Place got seven cities? Call it Seven Cities. Straight thinking, that was. And all that Genabackan stuff, well, those names were amazing and exotic. Cities called Pale and Greydog, Tulips and Bulge. And then there were the wonderful beasts in those distant lands. Dragonflies big enough to ride—imagine whizzing through the clouds, looking down on everything! Seeing how beautiful it all was, and then dropping hundreds of bombs on it.

And the Bridgeburners had done all that and, more importantly, they weren’t done yet. More adventures were coming. Glories and heroic defences, monsters in the sky and flooded deserts and ghosts with sharp swords and warriors made of dust. Moranth and Barghast and Tiste Andii and Jaghut tyrants and all the rest.

Sunrise couldn’t wait, couldn’t wait to get to the legendary stuff. It’s what he was meant for, what his whole life was heading towards—as if he’d only been waiting for these foreign soldiers to arrive. To sweep him up and carry him along and now he was one of them. And he knew the others felt the same.
We’re Bridgeburners now. They’ll look to us when things get desperate, too desperate
for the others to handle. We’ll march forward, shields locked, faces cold and with hearts of iron. We’ll prove we’re worthy of the legend.

Wait and see, just wait and see.

Two women stood well away from the fires, waiting for a third.

There was nothing sure in this. In fact, Sinter reminded herself, it was almost guaranteeing trouble. There wasn’t much sisterhood among the Dal Honese. Scarce any brotherhood either, come to that. Tribes get left behind, and with them ties of the blood, feuds and all the rest. That was how it should be and mostly they held to it, since to do otherwise could rip a company apart. Squad’s the new kin, company’s the tribe, army’s the people—the kingdom, the damned empire.
What are you, soldier?

Marine, Fourth Squad, Third Company, Bonehunters, sir.

Not Dal Honese?

No, sir.

Malazan?

No, sir. Bonehunters, sir.

Now, if only she believed all that—there, in that gnarled hard thing at the centre of her being. Step up, aye, and mark it out with all the right attitudes. Diligence, discipline, loyalty. Don’t blink at any damned order given, no matter how stupid or pointless. The tribe lived to keep itself alive, and keeping itself alive meant making sure everything was in order and working the way it should. Made sense to her. And it was worthy enough to believe in, especially when there was nothing else in sight looking any better.

So, she’d wanted to believe. For herself and for her wayward, flighty sister. Steady enough for the both of them, aye. Kisswhere was going to stray—she was like that, it was in her nature. People like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role.
Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.

Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly
capable.
Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?

She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.

Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she . . . she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself:
capable of what? Will I ever find out?

When is it my turn?

She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.

She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill.
But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.

She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge—sticky as honey—that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.

Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish . . .

There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.

She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet—Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.

But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them—they’re all grown up, aren’t they?

So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?

But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?

Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. This time, I’m with you.

But why this woman we hardly even know? Why not Badan Gruk?

We got to get out, and now. I got to get out. And I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. Stow away with a D’ras trader. Easy, nothing to it. Two of us could do it, even three. But four? Now that’s a stretch. It’s logistics, sister, plain and simple. The kind you like so much. Straightforward. Too many and we’ll get caught. You’ll want Badan, too. And four’s too many.

She’d wait, however. She’d see what Sinter had in mind here, with this meeting. She could work on Sinter later, but nothing direct, since that never worked. Sinter was stubborn. She could dig in deeper than anyone Kisswhere knew. No, Kisswhere would have to twist carefully, so that the decision, when it finally went the right way, would seem to be coming from Sinter herself.

It wasn’t easy, but then Kisswhere had had a lifetime of practice. She knew she could do it.

Sinter softly grunted and she turned to see a figure approaching from the camp. Swaying hips, and everywhere a whole lot of what men liked. A Dal Honese for sure, which was why Sinter had invited her in the first place. But since when did three Dal Honese women agree about anything?

Madness. Sinter, this won’t work. You remember the histories. It’s us women who start most of the wars. Snaring the wrong men, using them up, humiliating them. Throwing one against another. Whispering blood vengeance beneath the furs at night. A sly comment here, a look there. We’ve been in charge a long time, us women of Dal Hon, and we’re nothing but trouble.

Masan Gilani was from a savannah tribe. She was tall, making her curvaceous form all the more intimidating. She had the look of a woman who was too much for any man, and should a man get her he’d spend his whole life convinced he could never hold on to her. She was a monster of sensuality, and if she’d stayed in her tribe the whole north half of Dal Hon would be in the midst of a decades-long civil war by now.
Every Dal Honese god and mud spirit tossed in on this one, didn’t they? She’s got pieces of them all.