Dust of Dreams

‘It looks to me as though you don’t have enough things to do, Healer. Therefore, proceed through the squads of your company to mend any and every ailment they describe. Oh, delouse the lot besides, and check for blood blisters on the testicles of the men-I am certain that’s a dread sign of something awry.’

‘Blood blisters, sir? On the testicles?’

‘The flaw in hearing seems to be yours, not mine.’

‘Uh, nothing dread or awry, sir. Just don’t pop ’em, they bleed like demons. Comes with too much riding, sir.’

‘Indeed.’

…

‘Healer, why are you still standing there?’

‘Sorry, sir, on my way!’

‘I shall expect a detailed report on the condition of your fellow soldiers.’

‘Aye, sir! Testicular inspection, here I go.’

Kindly leaned forward again and studied Pores. ‘You can’t even talk, can you? Unexpected mercy there. Six black wasp stings. You should be dead. Why aren’t you? Never mind. Presumably, you’ve lost the two runts. Now I’ll need to unchain that cattle-dog to find them. Tonight of all nights. Recover quickly, Lieutenant, so I can thrash your hide.’

Outside the dormitory, Mulvan Dreader paused for a moment, and then set off at a swift pace to rejoin his companions in an adjoining dorm. He entered the chamber, scanned the various soldiers lounging on cots or tossing knuckles, until he spied the wizened black face of Nep Furrow barely visible between two cots,

whereupon he marched up to the Dal Honese shaman, who was sitting crosslegged with a nasty smile on his lips.

‘I know what you done, Nep!’

‘Eh? Eggit’way fra meen!’

‘You’ve been cursin’ Kindly, haven’t you? Blood blisters on his balls!’

Nep Furrow cackled. ‘Black blibbery spoots, hah!’

‘Stop it-stop what you’re doing, damn you!’

‘Too laber! Dey doan gee’way!’

‘Maybe he should find out who’s behind it-’

‘Doan deedat! Pig! Nathii frup pahl! Voo booth voo booth!’

Mulvan Dreader stared down at the man, uncomprehending. He cast a beseeching glance over at Strap Mull the next cot along. ‘What did he just say?’

The other Dal Honese was lying on his back, hands behind his head. ‘Hood knows, some shaman tongue, I expect.’ And then added, ‘Curses, I’d wager.’

The Nathii glared back down at Nep Furrow. ‘Curse me and I’ll boil your bones, y’damned prune. Now, leave off Kindly, or I’ll tell Badan.’

‘Beedan nar’ere, izzee?’

‘When he gets back.’

‘Pahl!’

No one could claim that Preda Norlo Trumb was the most perceptive of individuals, and the half-dozen Letherii guards under his command, who stood in a twitching clump behind the Preda, were now faced with the very real possibility that Trumb’s stupidity was going to cost them their lives.

Norlo was scowling belligerently at the dozen or so riders. ‘War is war,’ he insisted, ‘and we were at war. People died, didn’t they? That kind of thing doesn’t go unpunished.’

The black-skinned sergeant made some small gesture with one gloved hand and crossbows were levelled. In rough Letherii he said, ‘One more time. Last time. They alive?’

‘Of course they’re alive,’ Norlo Trumb said with a snort. ‘We do things properly here. But they’ve been sentenced, you see. To death. We’ve just been waiting for an officer of the Royal Advocate to come by and stamp the seal on the orders.’

‘No seal,’ said the sergeant. ‘No death. Let them go. We take now.’

‘Even if their crimes were commuted,’ the Preda replied, ‘I’d still need a seal to release them.’

‘Let them go now. Or we kill you all.’

The Preda stared, and then turned back to his unit. ‘Draw your weapons,’ he snapped.

‘Not a chance,’ said gate-guard Fifid. ‘Sir. We even twitch towards our swords and we’re dead.’

Norlo Trumb’s face darkened in the lantern light. ‘You’ve just earned a court-martial, Fifid-’

‘At least I’ll be breathing, sir.’

‘And the rest of you?’

None of the other guards spoke. Nor did they draw their swords.

‘Get them,’ growled the sergeant from where he sat slouched on his horse. ‘No more nice.’

‘Listen to this confounded ignorant foreigner!’ Norlo Trumb turned back to the Malazan sergeant. ‘I intend to make an official protest straight to the Royal Court,’ he said. ‘And you will answer to the charges-’

‘Get.’

And to the left of the sergeant a young, oddly effeminate warrior slipped down from his horse and settled hands on the grips of two enormous falchions of some sort. His languid, dark eyes looked almost sleepy.

At last, something shivered up Trumb’s spine to curl worm-like on the back of his neck. He licked suddenly dry lips. ‘Spanserd, guide this Malazan, uh, warrior, to the cells.’

‘And?’ the guard asked.

‘And release the prisoners, of course!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Sergeant Badan Gruk allowed himself the barest of sighs-not enough to be visible to anyone-and watched with relief as the Letherii guard led Skulldeath towards the gaol-block lining one wall of the garrison compound.