Dust of Dreams

‘You might know the answer to this,’ said Banaschar. ‘Listen, if life is a joke, what kind of joke? The funny ha ha kind? Or the “I’m going to puke” kind? Is it a clever joke or a stupid one that’s repeated over and over again so that even if it was funny to begin with it’s not funny any more? Is it the kind of joke to make you laugh or make you cry? How many other ways can I ask this simple question?’

‘I’m confident you can think of a few hundred more, good sir. Defrocked, detached, essentially castrated priest. Now, see those strands there? Near the unhinged leg-oh, Curdle, will you stop that spinning?’

‘I used to laugh,’ said Banaschar. ‘A lot. Long before I decided on becoming a priest, of course. Nothing amusing in that decision, alas. Nor in the life that followed. Years and years of miserable study, rituals, ceremonies, the rigorous exercises of magery. And the Worm of Autumn, well, she did abide, did she not? Delivered our just reward-too bad I missed out on the fun.’

‘Pitiful wretch of pointless pedantry, would you be so kind-yes, reach out and down, out and down, a little further, ah! You have it! The twine! The leg! Curdle, listen-see-stop, right there, no, there, yes, see? Salvation is in hand!’

‘I can’t! Everything’s sideways! The world pitches into the Abyss!’

‘Never mind that-see? He’s got your leg. He’s eyeing the twine. His brain stirs!’

‘There used to be drains,’ said Banaschar, holding up the skeletal leg. ‘Under the altar. To collect the blood, you see, down into amphorae-we’d sell that, you know. Amazing the stuff people will pay for, isn’t it?’

‘What’s he doing with my leg?’

‘Nothing-so far,’ replied Telorast. ‘Looking, I think. And thinking. He lacks all cleverness, it’s true. Not-Apsalar Apsalar’s left earlobe possessed more cleverness than this pickled grub. But never mind that! Curdle, use your forelimbs, your arms, I mean, and crawl closer to him-stop kicking in circles! Stop it!’

‘I can’t!’ came the tiny shriek.

And round and round Curdle went.

‘Old blood out, shiny coins in. We’d laugh at that, but it wasn’t the happy kind of laugh. More like disbelief, and yes, more than a little cynicism regarding the inherent stupidity of people. Anyway, we ended up with chests and chests of riches-more than you could even imagine. Vaults filled to bursting. You could buy a lot of laughs with that, I’m sure. And the blood? Well, as any priest will tell you, blood is cheap.’

‘Please oh please, show the mercy your ex-goddess so despised. Spit in her face with a gesture of goodwill! You’ll be amply rewarded, yes, amply!’

‘Riches,’ Banaschar said. ‘Worthless.’

‘Different reward, we assure you. Substantial, meaningful, valuable, timely.’

He looked up from his study of the leg and eyed Telorast. ‘Like what?’

The reptile’s skeleton head bobbed. ‘Power, my friend. More power than you can imagine-’

‘I doubt that most sincerely.’

‘Power to do as you please, to whomever or whatever you please! Power gushing out, spilling down, bubbling up and leaving potent wet spots! Worthy reward, yes!’

‘And if I hold you to that?’

‘As surely as you hold that lovely leg, and the twine, as surely as that!’

‘The pact is sealed,’ said Banaschar.

‘Curdle! You hear that!’

‘I heard. Are you mad? We don’t share! We never share!’

‘Shhh! He’ll hear you!’

‘Sealed,’ repeated Banaschar, sitting up.

‘Ohhh,’ wailed Curdle, spinning faster and faster. ‘You’ve done it now! Telorast, you’ve done it now! Ohhh, look, I can’t get away!’

‘Empty promises, Curdle, I swear it!’

‘Sealed,’ said Banaschar again.

‘Aaii! Thrice sealed! We’re doomed!’

‘Relax, lizard,’ said Banaschar, leaning over and reaching down for the whirling creature, ‘soon you’ll dance again. And,’ he added as he snatched up Curdle, ‘so will I.’

Holding the bony reptile in one hand, the leg in the other, Banaschar glanced over at his silent guest-who sat in shadows, lone eye glittering. ‘All right,’ said Banaschar, ‘I’ll listen to you now.’

‘I am pleased,’ murmured the Errant, ‘for we have very little time.’

Lostara Yil sat on the edge of her cot, a bowl filled with sand on her lap. She dipped her knife’s blade into the topped gourd to her right, to coat the iron in the pulp’s oil, and then slid the blade into the sand, and resumed scouring the iron.

She had been working on this one weapon for two bells now, and there had been other sessions before this one. More than she could count. Others swore that the dagger’s iron could not be cleaner, could not be more flawless, but she could still see the stains.

Her fingers were rubbed raw, red and cracked. The bones of her hands ached. They felt heavier these days, as if the sand had imparted something to her skin, flesh and bones, beginning the process of turning them to stone. There might come a time when she lost all feeling in them, and they would hang from her wrists like mauls. But not useless, no. With them she could well batter down the world-if that would do any good.