Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

Stormy belched and scratched at his beard. ‘It wasn’t a fun dream, that’s all.’

‘When was the last fun dream you remember having?’

‘Don’t know. Been some time, I think. But maybe we just forget those ones. Maybe we only remember the bad ones.’

Gesler refilled their tankards. ‘So there’s a storm coming. Impressive subtlety, your dreams. Prophetic, even. You sleep to the whispers of the gods, Stormy.’

‘Now ain’t you in a good mood, Ges. Remind me not to talk about my dreams no more.’

‘I didn’t want you talking about them this time round. It was the scream.’

‘Not a scream, like I told you. It was a howl.’

‘What’s the difference?’

Scowling, Stormy reached for his tankard. ‘Only, sometimes, maybe, gods don’t whisper.’

‘ Furry women still haunting your dreams? ’

Bottle opened his eyes and contemplated throwing a knife into her face. Instead, he slowly winked. ‘Good afternoon, Captain. I’m surprised you’re not-’

‘Excuse me, soldier, but did you just wink at me?’

He sat up on his cot. ‘Was that a wink, Captain? Are you sure?’

Faradan Sort turned away, muttering under her breath as she marched towards the barracks door.

Once the door shut behind her, Bottle sat back, frowning. Now, messing with an officer’s head was just, well, second nature. No, what disturbed him was the fact that he was suddenly unsure if she’d spoken at all. As a question, it didn’t seem a likely fit, not coming from Faradan Sort. In fact, he doubted she even knew anything about his particular curse-how could she? There wasn’t a fool alive who confided in an officer. Especially ones who viciously killed talented, happily married scorpions for no good reason. And if she did indeed know something, then it meant someone had traded that bit of information in exchange for something else. A favour, a deal, which was nothing less than a behind-the-back betrayal of every common soldier in the legion.

Who was vile enough to do that?

He opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone in the barracks. Fiddler had taken the squad out for that field exercise, the war-game against Brys Beddict’s newly assembled battalions. Complaining of a bad stomach, Bottle had whined and groaned his way out of it. Not for him some useless trudging through bush and farmland; besides, it hadn’t been so long ago that they were killing Letherii for real. There was a good chance someone-on either side-would forget that everyone was friends now. The point was, he’d been the first one quick enough with the bad-stomach complaint, so no one else could take it up-he’d caught the vicious glare from Smiles, which of course he’d long got used to since he was always faster off the mark than she was.

Smiles. Bottle fixed his gaze on her cot, studied it through a suspicious squint. Behind-the-back shit was her forte, wasn’t it? Aye, and who else had it in for him?

He swung his feet to the floor and-gods, that stone was cold! — padded over to her berth.

It paid to approach these things cautiously. If anyone was in the habit of rigging booby traps to just about everything they didn’t want anyone else to touch, it was that spitting half-mad kitten with the sharp eye-stickers. Bottle drew his eating knife and began probing under the thin mattress, leaning close to peer at seams and seemingly random projections of tick straw-any one of which could be coated in poison-projections which, he discovered, turned out to be, uh, random projections of tick straw. Trying to lull me into something… I can smell it.

He knelt and peeked under the frame. Nothing obvious, and that made him even more suspicious. Muttering, Bottle crawled round to kneel in front of her lockbox. Letherii issue-not something they’d be taking with them. She’d not have had much time to rig it, not deviously, anyway. No, the needles and blades would be poorly hidden.

She’d sold him out, but she would learn to regret doing that.

Finding nothing on the outside of the trunk, he slipped his knife point into the lock and began working the mechanism.

Discovering that the lockbox wasn’t even locked froze him into a long moment of terror, breath held, sudden sweat beading his forehead. A snare for sure. A killer snare. Smiles doesn’t invite people in, oh no, not her. If I just lift this lid, I’m a dead man.

He whirled upon hearing the scrape of boots, and found himself looking up at Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. ‘Hood’s breath, soldier, stop sneaking up on me like that!’

‘What’re you doing?’ Corabb asked.

‘Me? What’re you doing? Don’t tell me the scrap’s already over-’

‘No. I lost my new sword. Sergeant got mad and sent me home.’

‘Bad luck, Corabb. No glory for you.’

‘Wasn’t looking for any-wasn’t real fighting, Bottle. I don’t see the point in that. They’d only learn anything if we could use our weapons and kill a few hundred of them.’

‘Right. That makes sense. Bring it up with Fiddler-’

‘I did. Just before he sent me back.’

‘He’s getting more unreasonable by the day.’

‘Funny,’ Corabb said, ‘that’s exactly what I said to him. Anyway, what’re you doing? This isn’t your bunk.’

‘You’re a sharp one all right, Corabb. See, it’s like this. Smiles is trying to murder me.’

‘Is she? Why?’

‘Women like her don’t need reasons, Corabb. She’s set booby traps. Poison, is my guess. Because I was staying behind, you see? She’s set a trap to kill me.’

‘Oh,’ said Corabb. ‘That’s clever.’

‘Not clever enough, friend. Because now you’re here.’

‘I am, yes.’

Bottle edged back from the lockbox. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he said, ‘so I want you to lift the lid.’

Corabb stepped past and flung the lid back.

After he’d recovered from his flinch, Bottle crawled up for a look inside.

‘Now what?’ Corabb asked behind him. ‘Was that practice?’

‘Practice?’

‘Aye.’

‘No, Corabb-gods, this is strange-look at this gear! Those clothes.’

‘Well, what I meant was, do you want me to open Smiles’s box next?’

‘What?’

‘That’s Cuttle’s. You’re at Cuttle’s bunk, Bottle.’ He pointed. ‘Hers is right there.’

‘Well,’ Bottle muttered as he stood up and dropped the lid on the lockbox. ‘That explains the codpiece.’

‘Oh… does it?’

They stared at each other.

‘So, just how many bastards do you think you’ve sired by now?’

‘What?’

‘What?’

‘You just say something, Corabb?’

‘What?’

‘Before that.’

‘Before what?’

‘Something about bastards.’

‘Are you calling me a bastard?’ Corabb demanded, his face darkening.

‘No, of course not. How would I know?’

‘How-’

‘It’s none of my business, right?’ Bottle slapped the man on one solid shoulder and set off to find his boots. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Thought you were sick.’

‘Better now.’

Once he’d made his escape-in all likelihood narrowly avoiding being beaten to death by the squad’s biggest fist over some pathetic misunderstanding-Bottle glared up at the mid-afternoon sun for a moment, and then set off. All right, you parasite, I’m paying attention now. Where to?

‘It’s about time. I was having doubts-’

Quick Ben! Since when were you playing around with Mockra? And do you have any idea how our skulls will ache by this evening?

‘Relax, I got something for that. Bottle, I need you to go to the Old Palace. I’m down in the crypts.’

Where you belong.