Dust of Dreams

tree—something he’d likely regret as it was leaking sap, but he was making such an effort with the pose no one was going to warn him off. Thom Tissy had brought up a salted slab of some local beast’s flank and was carving it into slices. Hellian was staring fixedly at the jug in Fiddler’s hands and Urb was staring fixedly at Hellian. The three others, the two South Dal Honese—Badan Gruk and Sinter—and Primly, were showing old loyalties by sitting close together on an old boom log and eyeing everyone else.
    Fiddler wanted maybe five more sergeants here but finding anyone in the chaotic sprawl that was a camp about to march was just about impossible. He lifted the jug. ‘Cups ready, everyone,’ and he set out to make the round. ‘You only get half, Hellian,’ he said when he came opposite her, ‘since I can see you’re already well on your way.’
    ‘On my way where? Fillitup and don’ be cheap neither.’
    Fiddler poured. ‘You know, you ain’t treating Beak’s gift with much respect.’
    ‘What giff? He never give me nothing but white hair and thank the gods that’s gone.’
    When he had filled the other cups he returned to the rotted tree-stump and sat down once more. Fifty paces directly opposite was the river, the air above it swirling with swallows. After a moment he dropped his gaze and studied the soldiers arrayed round the old fisher’s campfire. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is the kind of meeting sergeants used to do back in the days of the Bridgeburners. It was a useful tradition and I’m thinking it’s time it was brought back. Next time we’ll get the rest of the company’s sergeants.’
    ‘What’s the point of it?’ Sinter asked.
    ‘Every squad has its own skills—we need to know what the others can do, and how they’re likely to do it. We work through all this and hopefully there won’t be any fatal surprises in a scrap.’
    After a moment, Sinter nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
    Cord asked, ‘You’re expecting us to run into trouble any time soon, Fid? That what your deck told you? Has this trouble got a face?’
    ‘He’s not saying,’ said Gesler. ‘But it’s a fair guess that we’ll know it when we see it.’
    ‘Bolkando,’ suggested Badan Gruk. ‘That’s the rumour anyway.’
    Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, we might have a bump or two with them, unless the Burned Tears and the Perish slap them into submission first. The Saphii seem to be the only ones happy to have us pay a visit.’
    ‘It’s pretty isolated, ringed in mountains,’ said Cord, crossing his arms. ‘Probably starving for a few fresh faces, even ones as ugly as ours.’
    ‘Thing is, I don’t know if we’re even heading into Saphinand,’ Fiddler pointed out. ‘From the maps I’ve seen it’s well to the north of the obvious route across the Wastelands.’
    Cord grunted. ‘Crossing any place named the Wastelands seems like a bad idea. What’s in this Kolanse anyway? What’s driving the Adjunct? Are we heading into another war to right some insult delivered on the Malazan Empire? Why not just leave it to Laseen—it’s not like we owe the Empress a damned thing.’
    Fiddler sighed. ‘I’m not here to chew on the Adjunct’s motives, Cord. Speculation’s useless. We’re her army. Where she leads, we follow—’
    ‘Why?’ Sinter almost barked the word. ‘Listen. Me and my sister half starved in a Letherii cell waiting on execution. Now, maybe the rest of you thought it was all fucking worth it taking down these Tiste Edur and their mad Emperor, but a lot ofmarines died and the rest of us are lucky to be here. If it wasn’t for that Beak you’d all be dead—but he’s gone. And so is Sinn. We got one High Mage and that’s it, and how good is he? Fiddler—can Quick Ben do what Beak did?’
    Fiddler unstrapped his helm and drew it off. He scratched at his sweat-matted hair. ‘Quick Ben doesn’t work that way. Used to be he was more behind-the-scenes, but Hedge tells me it’s been different lately, maybe ever since Black Coral—’
    ‘Oh great,’ cut in Cord, ‘where the Bridgeburners were wiped out.’
    ‘That wasn’t his fault. Anyway, we all saw what he could do against the Edur mages off the coast of Seven Cities—he made them back down. And then, in Letheras, he chased off a damned dragon—’
    ‘I’m sure the cussers stuffed up its nose helped,’ Cord muttered.
    Gesler grunted a sour laugh. ‘Well, Fid, Bridgeburner sergeants we ain’t, and I guess that’s