Dust of Dreams (9 page)

The pommel of a weapon thumped on her door and a moment later it was pushed open. Faradan Sort leaned in, eyes searching until she found Lostara Yil. ‘Adjunct wants you,’ she said tonelessly.

So, it was time. Lostara collected a cloth and wiped down the knife-blade. The captain stood in the doorway, watching without expression.

She rose, sheathed the weapon, and then collected her cloak. ‘Are you my escort?’ she asked as she approached the door.

‘We’ve had one run away already this night,’ Faradan replied, falling in step beside Lostara as they made their way up the corridor.

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Not really, but I am to accompany you this evening.’

‘Why?’

Faradan Sort did not reply. They’d reached the pair of ornate, red-stained double doors that marked the end of the corridor, and the captain drew them open.

Lostara Yil strode into the chamber beyond. The ceiling of the Adjunct’s quarters—the command centre in addition to her residence—was a chaotic collection of corbels, vaults and curved beams. Consequently it was enwreathed in cobwebs from which shrivelled moths dangled down, mocking flight in the vague draughts. Beneath a central, oddly misshapen miniature dome stood a huge rectangular table with a dozen high-backed chairs. A series of high windows ran across the wall opposite the door, reached by a raised platform that was lined with a balustrade. In all, to Lostara’s eyes, one of the strangest rooms she had ever seen. The Letherii called it the Grand Lecture Medix, and it was the largest chamber in the college building that temporarily served as the officers’ quarters and HQ.

Adjunct Tavore stood on the raised walkway, intent on something beyond one of the thick-glassed windows.

‘You requested me, Adjunct.’

Tavore did not turn round as she said, ‘There is a tablet on the table, Captain. On it you will find the names of those who will attend the reading. As there may be some resistance from some of them, Captain Faradan Sort will accompany you to the barracks.’

‘Very well.’ Lostara walked over and collected the tablet, scanned the names scribed into the golden wax. Her brows rose. ‘Adjunct? This list—’

‘Refusals not permitted, Captain. Dismissed.’

Out in the corridor once again, the two women paused upon seeing a Letherii approaching. Plainly dressed, an unadorned long, thin-bladed sword scabbarded at his hip, Brys Beddict possessed no extraordinary physical qualities, and yet neither Lostara nor Faradan Sort could take their eyes off him. Even a casual glance would slide past only to draw inexorably back, captured by something ineffable but undeniable.

They parted to let him by.

He halted to deliver a deferential half-bow. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, addressing Lostara, ‘I would speak with the Adjunct, if that is possible.’

‘Of course,’ she replied, reaching to open one of the double doors. ‘Just step inside and announce yourself.’

‘Thank you.’ A brief smile, and then he entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.

Lostara sighed.

‘Yes,’ agreed Faradan Sort.

After a moment they set out once more.

As soon as the Adjunct turned to face him, Brys Beddict bowed, and then said, ‘Adjunct Tavore, greetings and salutations from the King.’

‘Be sure to return the sentiments, sir,’ she replied.

‘I shall. I have been instructed to deliver a caution, Adjunct, with respect to this session of divination you intend this night.’

‘What manner of caution, and from whom, if I may ask?’

‘There is an Elder God,’ said Brys. ‘One who traditionally chose to make the court of Letheras his temple, if you will, and did so for an unknown number of generations. He acted, more often than not, as consort to the Queen, and was known to most as Turudal Brizad. Generally, of course, his true identity was not known, but there can be no doubt that he is the Elder God known as the Errant, Master of the Tiles, which, as you know, is the Letherii corollary to your Deck of Dragons.’

‘Ah, I begin to comprehend.’

‘Indeed, Adjunct.’

‘The Errant would view the divination—and the Deck—as an imposition, a trespass.’

‘Adjunct, the response of an Elder God cannot be predicted, and this is especially true of the Errant, whose relationship with fate and chance is rather intense, as well as complicated.’

‘May I speak with this Turudal Brizad?’

‘The Elder God has not resumed that persona since before the Emperor’s reign; nor has he been seen in the palace. Yet I am assured that once more he has drawn close—probably stirred awake by your intentions.’

‘I am curious, who in the court of your king is capable of discerning such things?’

Brys shifted uneasily. ‘That would be Bugg, Adjunct.’

‘The Chancellor?’

‘If that is the capacity in which you know him, then yes, the Chancellor.’

Through all of this she had remained standing on the platform, but now she descended the four steps at one end and walked closer, colourless eyes searching Brys’s face. ‘Bugg. One of my High Mages finds him . . . how did he put it? Yes. “
Adorable
.” But then, Quick Ben is unusual and prone to peculiar, often sardonic assessments. Is the Chancellor a Ceda—if that is the proper term for High Mage?’

‘It would be best to view him as such, yes, Adjunct.’

She seemed to consider the matter for a time, and then she said, ‘While I am confident in the abilities of my mages to defend against most threats . . . that of an Elder God is likely well beyond their capacities. What of your Ceda?’

‘Bugg? Uh, no, I do not think he’s much frightened by the Errant. Alas, he intends to take refuge tonight should you proceed with the reading. As I stated earlier, I am here to give caution and convey King Tehol’s genuine concern for your safety.’

She seemed to find his words discomforting, for she turned away and walked slowly round to halt at one end of the rectangular table, whereupon she faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Brys Beddict,’ she said with stilted formality. ‘Unfortunately, I have delayed this reading too long as it is. Guidance is necessary and, indeed, pressing.’

He cocked his head. What were these Malazans up to? A question often voiced in the Royal Court, and no doubt everywhere else in the city, for that matter. ‘I understand, Adjunct. Is there any other way we can assist?’

She frowned. ‘I am not sure how, given your Ceda’s aversion to attending, even as a spectator.’

‘He does not wish his presence to deliver undue influence on the divination, I suspect.’

The Adjunct opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. And it was possible her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away. ‘What other form of assistance is possible, then?’

‘I am prepared to volunteer myself, as the King’s Sword.’

She shot him a glance, clearly startled. ‘The Errant would hesitate in crossing you, sir?’

He shrugged. ‘At the very least, Adjunct, I can negotiate with him from a position of some knowledge—with respect to his history among my people, and so on.’

‘And you would risk this for us?’

Brys hesitated, never adept at lying. ‘It is no risk, Adjunct,’ he managed.

And saw his abysmal failure in her narrowed gaze. ‘Courtesy and decency demand that I reject your generous offer. However,’ she added, ‘I must descend to rudeness and say to you that your presence would be most appreciated.’

He bowed again.

‘If you need to report back to your king,’ said the Adjunct, ‘there is still time—not much time, but sufficient for a brief account, I should think.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Brys.

‘Then please, help yourself to some wine.’

He grimaced. ‘Thank you, but I have given up wine, Adjunct.’

‘There is a jug of ale, there, under that side table. Falari, I believe—a decent brew, I’m told.’

He smiled and saw her start, and wondered, although not for long, as women often reacted that way when he smiled. ‘Yes, I would like to give that a try, thank you.’

______

‘What I can’t tolerate,’ he said, ‘is the very fact of your existence.’

The man sitting opposite him looked up. ‘So it’s mutual.’

The tavern was crowded, the clientele decidedly upscale, smug with privilege. Coins in heaps, dusty bottles and glittering glass goblets, and an eye-dazzling array of ostentatious attire—most of which suggested some version of the Royal Blanket, although this generally involved only a narrow wrap swathing the hips and groin. Here and there, some overscented young man also wore woollen pants with one trouser leg ending halfway down.

In a cage near the table where the two Malazans sat, two strange birds exchanged guttural comments every now and then, in tones singularly unimpressed. Short-beaked, yellow-plumed and grey-hooded, they were the size of starlings.

‘Maybe it is,’ the first man said after taking a mouthful of the heady wine, ‘but it’s still different.’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘It is, you ear-flapped idiot. For one thing, you were dead. You hatched a damned cusser under your butt. Those clothes you’re wearing right now, they were in shreds. Fragments. Flecks of ash. I don’t care how good Hood’s seamstresses might be—or even how many millions of ’em he’s got by now,
nobody
could have stitched all that back together—of course, there are no stitches, not where they’re not supposed to be, I mean. So, your clothes are intact. Just like you.’

‘What’s your point, Quick? I put myself back together in Hood’s cellar, right? I even helped out Ganoes Paran, and rode with a Trygalle troupe for a time. When you’re dead you can do . . . stuff—’

‘That depends on your will-power, actually—’

‘The Bridgeburners ascended,’ Hedge pointed out. ‘Blame Fid for that—nothing to do with me.’

‘And you’re their messenger, are you?’

‘Could be. It’s not like I was taking orders from anybody—’

‘Whiskeyjack?’

Hedge shifted uneasily, glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘Funny, that.’

‘What?’

The sapper nodded towards the two caged birds. ‘Those are jaraks, aren’t they?’

Quick Ben tilted his head downward and knuckled his brow with both hands. ‘Some kind of geas, maybe? Some curse of evasiveness? Or just the usual obstinate stupidity we all knew so well?’

‘There you go,’ said Hedge, reaching for his ale, ‘talkin’ to yourself again.’

‘You’re shying from certain topics, Hedge. There’s secrets you don’t want to spill, and that makes me nervous. And not just me—’

‘Fid always gets nervous round me. You all do. It’s just my stunning looks and charm, I figure.’

‘Nice try,’ drawled Quick Ben. ‘I was actually talking about the Adjunct.’

‘What reason’s she got to be nervous about me?’ Hedge demanded. ‘In fact, it’s
the other damned way round! There’s no making sense of that woman—you’ve said so yourself often enough, Quick.’ He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ‘You heard something new? About where we’re going? About what in Hood’s name we’re doing next?’

The wizard simply stared.

Hedge reached under a flap and scratched above his ear, and then settled back, looking pleased with himself.

A moment later two people arrived to halt at their table. Glancing up, Hedge started guiltily.

‘High Mage, sapper,’ said Lostara Yil, ‘the Adjunct requests your immediate presence. If you will follow us.’

‘Me?’ asked Hedge, his voice almost a squeal.

‘First name on the list,’ said Faradan Sort with a hard smile.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ hissed Quick Ben.

As the four foreigners left, one of the jarak birds said, ‘I smell death.’

‘No you don’t,’ croaked the other.

‘I smell death,’ the first one insisted.

‘No. You smell
dead
.’

After a moment, the first bird lifted a wing and thrust its head underneath, and then withdrew and settled once more. ‘Sorry.’

The matted wicker bars of the pen wall between them, Captain Kindly and the Wickan cattle-dog Bent glared at each other with bared teeth.

‘Listen to me, dog,’ said Kindly, ‘I want you to find Sinn, and Grub. Any funny business, like trying to rip out my throat, and I’ll stick you. Mouth to butt, straight through. Then I’ll saw off your head and sink it in the river. I’ll chop off your paws and sell ’em to ugly witches. I’ll strip your hide and get it cut up and made into codpieces for penitent sex-addicts-turned-priests, the ones with certain items hidden under their cots. And I’ll do all this while you’re still alive. Am I understood?’

The lips on the beast’s scarred, twisted muzzle had if anything curled back even further, revealing blood-red lacerations from the splintered fangs. Crimson froth bubbled out between the gaps. Above that smashed mouth, Bent’s eyes burned like two tunnels into a demon lord’s brain, swirling with enraged madness. At the dog’s back end, the stub of the tail wagged in fits and starts, as if particularly pleasing thoughts spasmed through the beast.