Dust of Dreams

Tavore hesitated. ‘Sire, we have no desire to embroil your kingdom in a war, should Saphinand or Bolkando attempt to betray the passage agreements.’
    ‘It will be our very presence,’ said Brys, ‘that will ensure nothing so overt on their part, Adjunct. Please understand, if we do not escort you and you subsequently find yourselves in a vicious war with no retreat possible, then we in turn will have no choice but to march to your rescue.’
    ‘Just so,’ agreed the King. ‘So accept the escort, Adjunct, or I shall hold my breath until I achieve a most royal shade of purple.’
    Tavore bowed her head in acquiescence. ‘I withdraw all objections, sire. Thank you for the escort.’
    ‘That’s better. Now, I must now seek reassurance from my staff on three distinct issues. Chancellor, are you content with everything pertaining to outfitting the Adjunct’s forces?’
    ‘I am, sire,’ said Bugg.
    ‘Excellent. Royal Treasurer, are you confident that the Malazans have sufficient funds for this enterprise?’
    ‘So I am assured, sire,’ said Bugg.
    ‘Good. Ceda, do you concur that the departure of the Malazans will hasten the healing that has befallen the city?’
    ‘I do, sire,’ said Bugg.
    ‘Consensus at last! How delightful! Now what should we do?’
    Queen Janath stood. ‘Food and wine awaits us in the dining hall. Allow me to lead our guests.’ And she stepped down from the dais.
    ‘Darling wife,’ said Tehol, ‘for you I make all manner of allowances.’
    ‘I am relieved that you so willingly assume such a burden, husband.’
    ‘So am I,’ he replied.

Chapter Six
    The beetle that walks slowly has nothing to fear.
    S APHII SAYING

    C
oated in dust-spattered blood, Vedith rode out of the billowing smoke, in his wake piteous screams and the raucous roar of flames as they engulfed the three-storey government building in the town’s centre. Most of the other structures lining the main street were already gutted, although fires still licked the blackened frames and the foul smoke lifted pillars skyward.
    Four other riders emerged behind Vedith, scimitars unsheathed, the Aren steel blades streaked with gore.
    Hearing their wild whoops, Vedith scowled. The mangled round shield strapped to his right forearm had driven splinters through the wrist and that hand could not grip the reins. In his left hand he held his own scimitar, the blade snapped a hand’s-width above the hilt—he would have thrown it away but he valued the hilt, grip and pommel too much to part with it.
    His horse’s reins dragged between the beast’s front legs and at any moment the galloping mount, in her fear and pain, might slam a hoof down on them, which would snap her neck down and send her rider tumbling.
    He rose in his stirrups, leaned forward—pounded by the horse’s pitching neck—and bit the animal’s left ear, tugging backwards. Squealing, the beast’s head lifted, her plunging hoofs slowing, drawing up. This gave Vedith time to sheathe what was left of his father’s sword and then slip his arm round the horse’s neck, easing the pressure of his teeth.
    Moments later, the wounded mare pitched and wobbled down off the cobbled road into the high grasses of the ditch and clumped to a halt, body trembling.
    Murmuring calming words, the warrior released the animal’s ear and settled back on the saddle, collecting the reins with his one usable hand.
    His four companions rode up and, beasts jostling on the road, they held their swords high in triumph, even as they spat dust and blood from their mouths.
    Vedith felt sick. But he understood. The growing list of proscriptions, the ever-dwindling freedom, the indignities and undisguised contempt. Each day in the past week more Bolkando soldiers had arrived, fortlets springing up round the Khundryl encampment like mushroom knuckles on dung. And tensions twisted ever tighter. Arguments burst to life like spotfires, and then, all at once—
    He guided his horse back on to the road and glared back at the burning town.And then scanned the horizons to either side. Columns of coiling black smoke rose everywhere like crooked spears—yes, the patience of the Burned Tears was at an end, and he knew that a dozen villages, twice as many hamlets, scores of farms and, now, one town, had felt the wrath of the Khundryl.
    Vedith’s raiding party, thirty warriors—most of them barely into their third decade—had clashed with a garrison. The fighting had been ferocious. He’d