Dust of Dreams: Book Nine of The Malazan Book of the Fallen - By Steven Erikson Page 0,371

pond, sir, one into which I could transplant the tiny minnows I was rescuing from the fouled river down past the sewage outlets—where we used to swim on cold days, warming up as it were, sir. Minnows, then, into my pond. Imagine my excitement—’

‘It is suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye, Master Sergeant.’

‘Wonderful. And yet, having deposited, oh, fifty of the tiny silver things, just the day before, imagine my horror and bafflement upon returning the very next morning to find not a single minnow in my pond. Why, what had happened to them? Some voracious bird, perhaps? The old woman from down the alley who kept her hair in a net? Are there perchance now glinting minnows adorning her coiffure? Insects? Rats? Unlikely to be either of those two, as they generally made up our nightly repast at the dinner table and so accordingly were scarce round our home. Well, sir, a mystery it was and a mystery it remains. To this very day and, I am certain, for the entirety of the rest of my life. Fifty minnows. Gone. Poof! Hard to believe, sir, and most crushing for that bright-eyed, zealous lad.’

‘And now, if I am to understand you, Master Sergeant, once more you find yourself victimized by inexplicable mystery.’

‘All those recruits, sir. Dispersed into the ranks. And then . . .’

‘Poof.’

‘As you say and say well, sir.’

‘Whatever happened to your pond, Master Sergeant?’

‘Well, my pet water snake thrived for a while longer, until the pond dried up. Children have such grand dreams, don’t they?’

‘That they do, Master Sergeant. Until it all goes wrong.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Until we meet again, Master Sergeant Pores.’

‘And a good night to you, too, Captain Kindly.’

It was him. I was fooling myself ever thinking otherwise. Who can explain love anyway? She slid the knife back into its sheath and pushed through the loose flaps of the tent, stepping outside and suddenly shivering as something cold slithered through the faint breeze.

The dark north flicks its tongue. Echoes of some unwanted rebirth—glad I’m not a mage. They had nothing to dance about this afternoon.

Lostara moved away from the command tent. The Adjunct sending her away this late at night was unusual—I was ready for bed, dammit— but having the guards roust and drive out a drunken Banaschar wasn’t just sweet entertainment. It was, on another level, alarming.

What did Quick Ben and Bottle tell you this night, Tavore? Is there any end to your secrets? Any breach in your wall of privacy? What’s so satisfying about being alone? Your love is a ghost. The empire you served has betrayed you. Your officers have stopped talking, even to each other.

O serpent of the north, your tongue does not lie. Draw closer. We’re barely breathing.

She was forced to halt as Banaschar reeled across her path. Seeing her, he managed to stop, tottering a moment before straightening. ‘Captain Yil,’ he said genially, taking a deep breath and then letting it loose in the way that drunks did when mustering sodden thoughts. ‘Pleasant evening, yes?’

‘No. It’s cold. I’m tired. I don’t know why the Adjunct cleared everyone out—it’s not as if she needs the extra room. For what?’

‘For what, indeed,’ he agreed, smiling as if his purse was full of sweets. ‘It’s the wardrobe, you see.’

‘What?’

He weaved back and forth. ‘Wardrobe. Yes, that’s the word? I think so. Not makes for easy travel, though. Doesn’t, rather. But . . . sometimes . . . where was I? Oh, sometimes the wardrobe’s so big the girl, she just runs away from it, fast and long as she can. Is that what I mean? Did I say it right?’

‘Wardrobe.’

Banaschar pointed at her, nodding. ‘Precisely.’

‘Who runs away from a wardrobe? Girls don’t do that—’

‘But women do.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘All those choices, right? What to put on. And when, and when not. If it’s this, but not if it’s that. What to put on, Captain Yil. Choices. Surrounding you. Closing in. Creeping. Girl’s got to run, and let’s hope she makes it.’

Sniffing, Lostara stepped round the fool and continued on between the tent rows.

It was him. But you let him go. Maybe you thought he’d come back, or you’d just find him again. You thought you had the time. But the world’s always armed and all it takes is a misstep, a wrong decision. And suddenly you’re cut, you’re bleeding, bleeding right out. Suddenly he’s gasping his last breaths and it’s time to put him away, just close him up, like a scroll bearing bad news.

What else