Dust of Dreams

pretty obvious. Can you imagine Whiskeyjack and Brackle and Picker and the rest moaning over every damned thing the way you got here? I can’t and I never even met them.’
    Fiddler shrugged. ‘I wasn’t a sergeant back then, so I really can’t say. But something tells me they did plenty of chewing. Don’t forget from about Blackdog all the way down to Darujhistan somebody in the empire wanted them dead. Now, maybe they never had much to complain about when it came to Dujek Onearm, but at the same time it’s not like they knew what their High Fist was up to—it wasn’t their business.’
    ‘Even when that business killed soldiers?’ Sinter asked.
    Fiddler’s laugh was harsh and cutting. ‘If that isn’t a commander’s business, what is? The Adjunct’s not our Hood-damned mother, Sinter. She’s the will behind the fist and we’re the fist. And sometimes we get bloodied, but that’s what comes when you’re hammering an enemy in the face.’
    ‘It’s all those teeth,’ added Gesler, ‘and I should know.’
    But Sinter wasn’t letting go. ‘If we know what we’re getting into, we’ve got a better chance of surviving.’
    Fiddler rose, his right hand slamming the helm on to the ground where it bounced and rolled into the firepit’s ashes. ‘Don’t you get it? Surviving isn’t what all this is about!’
    As those words shot out bitter as a dying man’s spit, the gathered sergeants flinched back. Even Gesler’s eyes widened. The lizard took that moment to pull free and scamper away.
    In the shocked silence Fiddler half-snarled and clawed at his beard, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes.
Hood’s breath, Fid—you’re a damned fool. You let her get to you. That look in her eyes—she’s no natural soldier—what in Fener’s name is she even doing here? And how many more like her are there in this army?
    ‘Well,’ said Cord in a flat voice, ‘that must have been one Hood’s piss of a reading.’
    Fiddler forced out a ragged breath. ‘Not a piss, Cord, a fucking deluge.’
    And then Sinter surprised them all. ‘Glad that’s cleared up. Now, let’s talkabout how we’re going to work together to make us the meanest Hood-shitting fist the Adjunct’s got.’
     
    Lying flat behind a tangle of brush, Throatslitter struggled to swallow. His mouth and throat were suddenly so dry and hot he thought he might cough flames. He cursed himself for being so damned nosy. He spied to feed his curiosity and—he had to admit—to give himself an advantage on his fellow soldiers, reason for his sly expression and sardonic, knowing smile, and a man like him wasn’t satisfied if it was all just for show.
    Well, now he knew.
    Fid’s been dragged low. He says he doesn’t know Tavore’s business but he just showed them he was lying. He knows and he’s not telling. Aye, he’s not telling but he just told them anyway. Who needs details when we’re all ending up crow meat?
    He might cough flames, aye, or laugh out a cloud of ashes. He needed to talk to Deadsmell, and he needed to find that other Talon hiding among the marines—there’d been markers, every now and then, calls for contact only a fellow Talon would recognize. He’d done a few of his own, but it seemed they were dancing round each other—and that had been fine, until now.
If we’re heading for Hood’s grey gate, I want allies. Deadsmell for certain. And whoever my hidden dancer happens to be.
    The sergeants were talking back and forth now, cool and calm as if Fiddler hadn’t just sentenced them all, and Throatslitter wasn’t paying much attention until he heard his name.
    ‘He can guard our backs if we need it,’ Balm was saying, not a hint of confusion in his voice.
    ‘I don’t think we will,’ Fiddler said. ‘When I spoke of betrayal I wasn’t meaning within our ranks.’
    Betrayal? What betrayal? Gods, what have I missed?
    ‘Our allies?’ Cord asked. ‘I can’t believe it, not from the Perish or the Burned Tears. Who else is there?’
    ‘There’s the Letherii,’ said Sinter. ‘Our oversized escort.’
    ‘I can’t be any more specific,’ Fiddler responded. ‘Just make sure we keep our noses in the air. Badan Gruk, what’s your mage capable of?’
    ‘Nep Furrow? Well, he’s a bush warlock, mostly. Good at curses.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen much else, though he once conjured up a seething ball of spiders and threw it at Skim—they looked real and bit hard enough to make Skim shriek.’
    ‘Could