Dust of Dreams

Brys.’
    After the two had left, Tehol glanced at Janath, and then at Rucket, and found them both still frowning. ‘What?’
    ‘Something we should know?’ Janath asked.
    ‘Yes,’ added Rucket, ‘on behalf of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, I mean.’
    ‘Not really,’ Tehol replied. ‘A minor matter, I assure you. Something to do with threatened gods and devastating divinations. Now, I’m ready to try for my kiss and squeeze—no, wait. Some deep breathing first. Give me a moment—yes, no, wait.’
    ‘Shall I talk about my embroidery?’ Janath asked.
    ‘Yes, that sounds perfect. Do proceed. Be right there, Rucket.’
     
    Lieutenant Pores opened his eyes. Or tried to, only to find them mostly swollen shut. But through the blurry slits he made out a figure hovering over him. A Nathii face, looking thoughtful.
    ‘You recognize me?’ the Nathii asked.
    Pores tried to speak, but someone had bound his jaw tight. He nodded, only to find his neck was twice the normal size. Either that, he considered, or his head had shrunk.
    ‘Mulvan Dreader,’ the Nathii said. ‘Squad healer. You’ll live.’ He leaned back and said to someone else, ‘He’ll live, sir. Won’t be much use for a few days, though.’
    Captain Kindly loomed into view, his face—consisting entirely of pinched features—its usual expressionless self. ‘For this, Lieutenant Pores, you’re going up on report. Criminal stupidity unbecoming to an officer.’
    ‘Bet there’s a stack a those,’ muttered the healer as he moved to depart.
    ‘Did you say something, soldier?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Must be my poor hearing, then.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Are you suggesting I have poor hearing, soldier?’
    ‘No, sir!’
    ‘I am certain you did.’
    ‘Your hearing is perfect, Captain, I’m sure of it. And that’s, uh, a healer’s assessment.’
    ‘Tell me,’ said Captain Kindly, ‘is there a cure for thinning hair?’
    ‘Sir? Well, of course.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Shave your head. Sir.’
    ‘It looks to me as though you don’t have enough things to do, Healer. Therefore, proceed through the squads of your company to mend any and every ailment they describe. Oh, delouse the lot besides, and check for blood blisters on the testicles of the men—I am certain that’s a dread sign of something awry.’
    ‘Blood blisters, sir? On the testicles?’
    ‘The flaw in hearing seems to be yours, not mine.’
    ‘Uh, nothing dread or awry, sir. Just don’t pop ’em, they bleed like demons. Comes with too much riding, sir.’
    ‘Indeed.’
     . . .
    ‘Healer, why are you still standing there?’
    ‘Sorry, sir, on my way!’
    ‘I shall expect a detailed report on the condition of your fellow soldiers.’
    ‘Aye, sir! Testicular inspection, here I go.’
    Kindly leaned forward again and studied Pores. ‘You can’t even talk, can you? Unexpected mercy there. Six black wasp stings. You should be dead. Why aren’t you? Never mind. Presumably, you’ve lost the two runts. Now I’ll need to unchain that cattle-dog to find them. Tonight of all nights. Recover quickly, Lieutenant, so I can thrash your hide.’
     
    Outside the dormitory, Mulvan Dreader paused for a moment, and then set off at a swift pace to rejoin his companions in an adjoining dorm. He entered the chamber, scanned the various soldiers lounging on cots or tossing knuckles, until he spied the wizened black face of Nep Furrow barely visible between two cots,
    whereupon he marched up to the Dal Honese shaman, who was sitting crosslegged with a nasty smile on his lips.
    ‘I know what you done, Nep!’
    ‘Eh? Eggit’way fra meen!’
    ‘You’ve been cursin’ Kindly, haven’t you? Blood blisters on his balls!’
    Nep Furrow cackled. ‘Black blibbery spoots, hah!’
    ‘Stop it—stop what you’re doing, damn you!’
    ‘Too laber! Dey doan gee’way!’
    ‘Maybe he should find out who’s behind it—’
    ‘Doan deedat! Pig! Nathii frup pahl! Voo booth voo booth!’
    Mulvan Dreader stared down at the man, uncomprehending. He cast a beseeching glance over at Strap Mull the next cot along. ‘What did he just say?’
    The other Dal Honese was lying on his back, hands behind his head. ‘Hood knows, some shaman tongue, I expect.’ And then added, ‘Curses, I’d wager.’
    The Nathii glared back down at Nep Furrow. ‘Curse me and I’ll boil your bones, y’damned prune. Now, leave off Kindly, or I’ll tell Badan.’
    ‘Beedan nar’ere, izzee?’
    ‘When he gets