Dust of Dreams

High Mage to support eight thousand soldiers.’ She paused, and then said, ‘We won’t find ourselves another Beak hiding among the squads. We’ve had our miracle, Kindly.’
    ‘You’re starting to sound as grim as Blistig.’
    She shook herself. ‘You’re right. Apologies. I’m just worried about Sinn, that’s all.’
    ‘Then find Quick Ben. Get him looking into those closets or Whatever they’re called—’
    ‘Warrens.’
    ‘Right.’
    Sighing, she swung round and went to the door. ‘I’ll send Pores to you if I see him.’
    ‘You won’t,’ Kindly said. ‘He’ll come up for air sooner or later, Faradan. Leave the lieutenant to me.’
     
    Sergeant Sinter and her sister sat playing the Dal Honese version of bones with Badan Gruk. The human finger bones were polished with use, gleaming amber. The legend was that they’d belonged to three Li Heng traders who’d come to the village, only to be caught thieving. They’d lost more than their hands, naturally. Dal Honese weren’t much interested in delivering lessons; they preferred something more succinct and, besides, executing the fools just left the path open for more to come wandering in, and everyone liked a good torture session.
    That was before things got civilized, of course. Kellanved had put an end to torture. ‘A state that employs torture invites barbarism and deserves nothing better than to suffer the harvest of its own excesses.’ That was said to have been from the Emperor himself, although Sinter had her doubts. Sounded too . . . literate, especially for a damned Dal Honese thief.
    Anyway, life stopped being much fun once civilization arrived, or so the old ones muttered. But then, they were always muttering. It was the last career to take up before dying of oldness, the reward for living so long, she supposed. She didn’t expect to survive her career as a soldier. It was interesting to see how it was the green, fresh ones who did all the complaining. The veterans just stayed quiet. So maybe all that bitching was at both ends of life, the young and the old trapped inside chronic dissatisfaction.
    Kisswhere collected up the bones and tossed them again. ‘Hah! Poor Badan Gruk—you won’t ever match that, let’s see you try!’
    It was a pretty good cast, Sinter had to acknowledge. Four of the core patternswith only a couple of spars missing and one true bridge. Badan would need a near perfect throw to top Kisswhere’s run.
    ‘I’ll stop there, I said. Toss ’em, Badan. And no cheating.’
    ‘I don’t cheat,’ he said as he collected up the bones.
    ‘Then what’s that you just palmed?’
    Badan opened his hand and scowled. ‘This one’s gummed! No wonder you got those casts!’
    ‘If it was gummed,’ Kisswhere retorted, ‘then it was from my sister’s last throw!’
    ‘Hood’s breath,’ sighed Sinter. ‘Look, you fools, we’re all cheating. It’s in our blood. So now we’ve got to accept the fact that none of us is going to admit they were the one using the gum to get a stick. Clean the thing off and let’s get on with it.’
    The others subsided and Sinter was careful to hide her relief. That damned gum had been in her pouch too long, making it dirty, and she could feel the stuff on her fingers. She surreptitiously brought her hands down to her thighs and rubbed as if trying to warm up.
    Kisswhere shot her a jaded look. The damned barracks was hot as a head-shrinker’s oven.
    They made a point of ignoring the clump of boots as someone marched up to their table. Badan Gruk threw the bones—and achieved six out of six in the core.
    ‘Did you see that! Look!’ Badan’s smile was huge and hugely fake. ‘Look, you two, look at that cast!’
    But they were looking at him instead, because cheaters couldn’t stand that for long—they’d twitch, they’d bead up, they’d squirrel on the chair.
    ‘Look!’ he said again, pointing, but the command sounded more like a plea, and all at once he sagged back and raised his hands. ‘Fingers clean, darlings—’
    ‘That would be a first,’ said the man standing now at their table.
    Badan Gruk’s expression displayed hurt and innocence, with just a touch of indignation. ‘That wasn’t called for, sir. You saw my throw—you can see my fingers, too. Clean as clean can be. No gum, no tar, no wax. Soldiers can’t be smelly or dirty—it’s bad for morale.’
    ‘You sure about that?’
    Sinter twisted in her chair. ‘Can we help you, Lieutenant