Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

Shard moved to stand opposite Ebron. ‘Was Deadsmell right, mage? Did the Lord of Death show up here?’

‘No. Not as such. Why don’t you ask him yourself-’

‘Because he’s busy healing. I want to hear from you, Ebron.’

‘More like all the warrens woke up all at once. Corporal, I don’t know what the Adjunct’s playing at, but it won’t be fun. We’re gonna march soon-I think tonight’s decided it. The roles are set, only I doubt anybody-even Tavore-knows all the players. Noses are gonna get bloodied.’

Deadsmell had of course been listening. Working on the wreck that was Limp’s knee had become rote for the healer-as it was for virtually every healer in the company, not one of whom had escaped delivering ministrations to the hapless fool. ‘Ebron’s right. I don’t envy your squad, if you end up as Sinn’s escort again-she’s right in the middle of it.’

‘I don’t like her neither,’ said Crump.

Ebron sneered at Deadsmell. ‘How close we happen to be with anybody won’t make any difference. We’re all in trouble.’

An odd, frothy, bubbling sound drew everyone’s attention, and all eyes fixed on the crushed head of the iguana, as it exhaled yet again.

A snort came from under the bed. ‘I ain’t leaving here until the sun comes up.’

The others had left, their departure more a headlong flight than a solemn dismissal, until only the Adjunct, Lostara Yil and Brys Beddict remained. Plaster dust hazed the light from the lanterns, and the floor ground and crunched underfoot.

Brys watched as the Adjunct slowly sat down in the chair at the head of the table, and it was hard to determine which woman was more shaken or distraught. Whatever sorrow was buried within Lostara Yil now seemed much closer to the surface, and she had said not a word since Fiddler’s exit, standing with arms crossed-a gesture that likely had as much to do with aching ribs as anything else.

‘Thank you,’ said the Adjunct, ‘for being here, sir.’

Startled, Brys frowned. ‘I may well have been the reason for the Errant’s attention, Adjunct. You would perhaps be more justified in cursing me instead.’

‘I do not believe that,’ she replied. ‘We are in the habit of acquiring enemies.’

‘This is the Errant’s back yard,’ Brys pointed out. ‘Naturally, he resents intruders. But even more, he despises the other residents who happen to share it with him. People like me, Adjunct.’

She glanced up at him. ‘You were dead, once. Or so I understand. Resurrected.’

He nodded. ‘It is extraordinary how little choice one has in such matters. If I mull on that overlong I become despondent. I do not appreciate the notion of being so easily manipulated. I would prefer to think of my soul as my own.’

She looked away, and then settled her hands flat on the table before her-a strange gesture-whereupon she seemed to study them. ‘Fiddler spoke of the Errant’s… rival. The Master of the Deck of Dragons.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘That man is my brother, Ganoes Paran.’

‘Ah. I see.’

She shook her head but would not look up, intent on her hands. ‘I doubt that. We may share blood, but in so far as I know, we are not allies. Not… close. There are old issues between us. Matters that cannot be salved, not by deed, not by word.’

‘Sometimes,’ Brys ventured, ‘when nothing can be shared except regret, then regret must serve as the place to begin. Reconciliation does not demand that one side surrender to the other. The simple, mutual recognition that mistakes were made is in itself a closing of the divide.’

She managed a half-smile. ‘Brys Beddict, your words, however wise, presume communication between the parties involved. Alas, this has not been the case.’

‘Perhaps, then, you might have welcomed the Master’s attention this night. Yet, if I did indeed understand Fiddler, no such contact was in truth forthcoming. Your soldier bluffed. Tell me, if you would, is your brother aware of your… predicament?’

She shot him a look, sharp, searching. ‘I do not recall sharing any details of my predicament.’

Brys was silent. Wondering what secret web he had just set trembling.

She rose, frowned over at Lostara for a moment, as if surprised to find her still there, and then said, ‘Inform the King that we intend to depart soon. We will be rendezvousing with allies at the border to the Wastelands, whereupon we shall march east.’ She paused. ‘Naturally, we must ensure that we are well supplied with all necessities-of course, we shall pay in silver and gold for said materiel.’

‘We would seek to dissuade you, Adjunct,’ said Brys. ‘The Wastelands are aptly named, and as for the lands east of them, what little we hear has not been promising.’

‘We’re not looking for promises,’ the Adjunct replied.

Brys Beddict bowed. ‘I shall take my leave now, Adjunct.’

‘Do you wish an escort?’

He shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. Thank you for the offer.’

The roof would have to do. He’d wanted a tower, something ridiculously high. Or a pinnacle and some tottering, ragged keep moments from plunging off the cliff into the thrashing seas below. Or perhaps a cliff-side fastness on some raw mountain, slick with ice and drifts of snow. An abbey atop a mesa, with the only access through a rope and pulley system with a wicker basket to ride in. But this roof would have to do.

Quick Ben glared at the greenish smear in the south sky, that troop of celestial riders not one of whom had any good news to deliver, no doubt. Magus of Dark. The bastard! You got a nasty nose, Fid, haven’t you just. And don’t even try it with that innocent look. One more disarming shrug from you and I’ll ram ten warrens down your throat.

Magus of Dark.

There was a throne once… no, never mind.

Just stay away from Sandalath, that’s all. Stay away, ducked out of sight. It was just a reading, after all. Fiddler’s usual mumbo jumbo. Means nothing. Meant nothing. Don’t bother me, I’m busy.

Magus of Dark.

Fiddler was now drunk, along with Stormy and Gesler, badly singing old Napan pirate songs, not one of which was remotely clever. Bottle, sporting three fractured ribs, had shuffled off to find a healer he could bribe awake. Sinn and Grub had run away, like a couple of rats whose tails had just been chopped off by the world’s biggest cleaver. And Hedge… Hedge was creeping up behind him right now, worse than an addled assassin.

‘Go away.’

‘Not a chance, Quick. We got to talk.’

‘No we don’t.’

‘He said I was the Mason of Death.’

‘So build a crypt and climb inside, Hedge. I’ll be happy to seal it for you with every ward I can think of.’

‘The thing is, Fid’s probably right.’

Eyes narrowing, Quick Ben faced the sapper. ‘Hood’s been busy of late.’

‘You’d know more of that than me, and don’t deny it.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’

‘You sure?’

Quick Ben nodded.

‘ Then why am I the Mason of Death? ’

The shout echoed from the nearby rooftops and Quick Ben flinched. ‘Because you’re needed,’ he said after a moment.

‘To do what?’

‘You’re needed,’ Quick Ben snarled, ‘ to build us a road .’

Hedge stared. ‘Gods below, where are we going?’

‘The real question is whether we’ll ever get there. Listen, Hedge, she’s nothing like you think. She’s nothing like any of us thinks. I can’t explain-I can’t get any closer than that. Don’t try anticipating. Or second-guessing-she’ll confound you at every turn. Just look at this reading-’

‘That was Fid’s doing-’