Dust of Dreams

Pores?’
    The man’s eyes flickered in surprise. ‘You mistake me, Sergeant Sinter. I am Captain—’
    ‘Kindly was pointed out to us, sir.’
    ‘I thought I ordered you to cut your hair.’
    ‘We did,’ said Kisswhere. ‘It grew back. It’s a trait among Dal Honese, right in the blood, an aversion—is that the word, Sint? Sure it is. Aversion. To bad haircuts. We get them and our hair insists on growing back to what looks better. Happens overnight, sir.’
    ‘You might be comfortable,’ said Pores, ‘believing that I’m not Captain Kindly; that I’m not, in fact, the man who was pointed out to you. But can you be certain that the right one was pointed out to you? If Lieutenant Pores was doingthe pointing, for example. He’s one for jokes in bad taste. Infamous for it, in fact. He could have elected to take advantage of you—it’s a trait of his, one suspects. In the blood, as it were.’
    ‘So,’ asked Sinter, ‘who might he have pointed to, sir?’
    ‘Why, anyone at all.’
    ‘But Lieutenant Pores isn’t a woman now, is she?’
    ‘Of course not, but—’
    ‘It was a woman,’ continued Sinter, ‘who did the pointing out.’
    ‘Ah, but she might have been pointing to Lieutenant Pores, since you asked about whoever was your immediate superior. Well,’ said Pores, ‘now that that’s cleared up, I need to check if you two women have put on the weight you were ordered to.’
    Kisswhere and Sinter both leaned back to regard him.
    The man gave them a bright smile.
    ‘Sir,’ said Sinter, ‘how precisely do you intend to do that?’
    The smile was replaced by an expression of shock. ‘Do you imagine your captain to be some dirty old codger, Sergeant? I certainly hope not! No, you will come to my office at the ninth bell tonight. You will strip down to your undergarments in the outer office. When you are ready, you are to knock and upon hearing my voice you are to enter immediately. Am I understood, soldiers?’
    ‘Yes sir,’ said Sinter.
    ‘Until then.’
    The officer marched off.
    ‘How long,’ asked Kisswhere after he’d left the barracks, ‘are we going to run with this, Sint?’
    ‘Early days yet,’ she smiled, collecting the bones. ‘Badan, since you’re out of the game for being too obvious, I need you to do a chore for me—well, not much of a chore—anyway, I need you to go out into the city and find me two of the fattest, ugliest whores you can.’
    ‘I don’t like where this is all going,’ Badan Gruk muttered.
    ‘Listen to you,’ chided Sinter, ‘you’re getting old.’
     
    ‘What did she say?’
    Sandalath Drukorlat scowled. ‘She wondered why we’d waited so long.’
    Withal grunted. ‘That woman, Sand . . .’
    ‘Yes.’ She paused just inside the doorway and glared at the three Nachts huddled beneath the window sill. Their long black, muscled arms were wrapped about one another, forming a clump of limbs and torsos from which three blunt heads made an uneven row, eyes thinned and darting with suspicion. ‘What’s with them?’
    ‘I think they’re coming with us,’ Withal replied. ‘Only, of course, they don’t know where we’re going.’
    ‘Tie them up. Lock them up—do something. Just keep them here, husband. They’re grotesque.’
    ‘They’re not my pets,’ he said.
    She crossed her arms. ‘Really? Then why do they spend all their time under your feet?’
    ‘Honestly, I have no idea.’
    ‘Who do they belong to?’
    He studied them for a long moment. Not one of the Nachts would meet his eyes. It was pathetic.
    ‘Withal.’
    ‘All right. I think they’re Mael’s pets.’
    ‘
Mael!?
’
    ‘Aye. I was praying to him, you see. And they showed up. On the island. Or maybe they showed up before I started praying—I can’t recall. But they got me off that island, and that was Mael’s doing.’
    ‘Then send them back to him!’
    ‘That doesn’t seem to be the way praying works, Sand.’
    ‘Mother bless us,’ she sighed, striding forward. ‘Pack up—we’re leaving tonight.’
    ‘tonight? It’ll be dark, Sand!’
    She gave him the same glare she’d given Rind, Pule and Mape.
    Dark, aye. Never mind.
    The worst of it was, in turning away, he caught the looks of sympathy in the Nachts’ beady eyes, tracking him like mourners at a funeral.
    Well, a man learns to take sympathy where he can get it.
     
    ‘If this is a new warren,’ whispered Grub, ‘then I think I’d rather we kept the old ones.’
    Sinn was quiet, as