Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

‘Civil war.’

‘Unless one of the aggrieved parties has the option of simply leaving. Assuming it’s not interested in retribution or vengeance.’

Brys thought about that for a time, watching the relentless bullying of his Letherii soldiers by those two Bonehunters in the yard below. ‘Perhaps they have things to teach us after all,’ he mused.

Cuttle stepped close to Tarr and hissed, ‘Gods below, Corporal, they’re worse than sheep!’

‘Been thrashed too many times, that’s their problem.’

‘So what do we do with them?’

Tarr shrugged. ‘All I can think of is thrash ’em again.’

Cuttle’s small eyes narrowed on his corporal. ‘Somehow, that don’t sound right.’

Grimacing, Tarr looked away. ‘I know. But it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve a better idea, feel free, sapper.’

‘I’ll get ’em marching round-that’ll give us time to think.’

‘There must be some clever strategy at work down there,’ Brys concluded after a time, and then he turned to the Queen. ‘We should probably attend to Tehol-he said something about a meeting in advance of the meeting with the Adjunct.’

‘Actually, that was Bugg. Tehol proposed a meeting to discuss Bugg’s idea of the meeting in advance-oh, listen to me! That man is like an infection! Yes, let us march with solemn purpose upon my husband-your brother-and at least find out whatever needs finding out before the Malazans descend upon us. What must they think? Our King wears a blanket!’

Lostara Yil’s hand crept to the knife at her hip and then drew back once more. A muttering whisper in her head was telling her the blade needed cleaning, but she had just cleaned and honed it not a bell ago, and even the sheath was new. None of this was logical. None of this made sense. Yes, she understood the reasons for her obsession. Twisted, pathetic reasons, but then, driving a knife through the heart of the man she loved was bound to leave an indelible stain on her soul. The knife had become a symbol-she’d be a fool not to see that.

Still, her hand itched, desperate to draw forth the knife.

She sought to distract herself by watching Fist Blistig pacing along the far wall, measuring out a cage no one else could see-yet she knew its dimensions. Six paces in length, about two wide, the ceiling low enough to make the man hunch over, the floor worn smooth, almost polished. She understood that kind of invention, all the effort in making certain the bars fit tightly, that the lock was solid and the key flung into the sea.

Fist Keneb was watching the man as well, doing an admirable job of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was the only one seated at the table, seemingly relaxed, although Lostara well knew that he was probably as bruised and battered as she was-Fiddler’s cursed reading had left them all in rough shape. Being bludgeoned unconscious was never a pleasant experience.

The three of them looked over as Quick Ben walked into the chamber. The High Mage carried an air of culpability about him, which was nothing new. For all his bravado, accusations clung to him like gnats on a web. Of course he was hiding secrets. Of course he was playing unseen games. He was Quick Ben, the last surviving wizard of the Bridgeburners. He thought outwitting gods was fun. But even he had taken a beating at Fiddler’s reading, which should have humbled the man.

She squinted as he sauntered up to the table, pulled out the chair beside Keneb, and sat, whereupon he began drumming his fingers on the varnished surface.

No, not much humility there.

‘Where is she?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘We’re seeing the King in a bell’s time-we need to settle on what we’re doing.’

Blistig had resumed pacing, and at the wizard’s words he snorted and then said, ‘She’s settled already. This is just a courtesy.’

‘Since when is the Adjunct interested in decorum?’ Quick Ben retorted. ‘No, we need to discuss strategies. Everything has changed-’

Keneb straightened at that. ‘What has, High Mage? Since the reading? Can you be specific?’

The wizard grinned. ‘I can, but maybe she doesn’t want me to.’

‘Then the rest of us should just leave you and her to it,’ said Blistig, his blunt features twisting with disgust. ‘Unless your egos demand an audience, in which case, why, we wouldn’t want those bruised, would we?’

‘Got a dog house in there, Blistig? You could always take a nap.’

Lostara made sure to glance away, amused. She had none of their concerns on her mind. In fact, she didn’t care where this pointless army ended up. Maybe the Adjunct would simply dissolve the miserable thing, cashier them all out. Letheras was a nice enough city, although a little too humid for her tastes-it was probably drier inland, away from this sluggish river.

She knew that such an outcome was unlikely, of course. Impossible, in fact. Maybe Tavore Paran didn’t possess the nobility’s addiction to material possessions. The Bonehunters were the exception. This was her army. And she didn’t want it sitting pretty on a shelf like some prized bauble. No, she wanted to use it. Maybe even use it up .

Which was where everyone else came in. Blistig and Keneb, Quick Ben and Sinn. Ruthan Gudd-not that he ever bothered attending briefings-and Arbin and Lostara herself. Add to that eight and a half thousand soldiers in Tavore’s own command, along with the Burned Tears and the Perish, and that, Lostara supposed, more than satisfied whatever noble acquisitiveness the Adjunct might harbour.

It was no wonder these men here were nervous. Something was driving the Adjunct, her very own fierce, cruel obsession. Quick Ben might have some idea about it, but she suspected the man was mostly bluff and bluster. The one soldier who might well know wasn’t even here. Thank the gods above and below for that one mercy.

‘We’re marching into the Wastelands,’ said Keneb. ‘We know that much, I suppose. Just not the reasons why.’

Lostara Yil cleared her throat. ‘That is a rumour, Fist.’

His brows lifted. ‘I understood it to be more certain than that.’

‘Well,’ said Quick Ben, ‘it’s imprecise, as most rumours turn out to be. More specifically, it’s incomplete. Which is why most of the speculation thus far has been useless.’

‘Go on,’ said Keneb.

The wizard drummed the tabletop once more, and then said, ‘We’re not marching into the Wastelands, my friends. We’re marching through them.’ He smiled but it wasn’t a real smile. ‘See how that added detail makes all the difference? Because now the rumours can chew hard on possibilities. The notion of goals, right? Her goals. What she needs us to do to meet them.’ He paused and then added, ‘What we need to do to convince ourselves and our soldiers that meeting them is even worth it.’

Well, that was said plainly enough. Here, chew hard on this mouthful of glass.

‘Unwitnessed,’ Keneb muttered.

Quick Ben fluttered a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think we have a problem with that. She’s already said what she needed to say on that subject. It’s settled. Her next challenge will come when she finally spills out precisely what she’s planning.’

‘But you think you’ve already figured that out.’

Lostara wasn’t fooled by the High Mage’s coy smile. The idiot hasn’t a clue. He’s just like the rest of us.

Adjunct Tavore made her entrance then, dragging Sinn by one skinny arm-and the expression on the girl’s face was a dark storm of indignation and fury. The older woman pulled out the chair opposite Keneb and sat Sinn down in it, then walked to position herself at one end, where she remained standing. When she spoke, her tone was uncharacteristically harsh, as if rage seethed just beneath the surface. ‘The gods can have their war. We will not be used, not by them, not by anyone. I do not care how history judges us-I hope that’s well understood.’