Dust of Dreams

Mages finds him . . . how did he put it? Yes. “
Adorable
.” But then, Quick Ben is unusual and prone to peculiar, often sardonic assessments. Is the Chancellor a Ceda—if that is the proper term for High Mage?’
    ‘It would be best to view him as such, yes, Adjunct.’
    She seemed to consider the matter for a time, and then she said, ‘While I am confident in the abilities of my mages to defend against most threats . . . that of an Elder God is likely well beyond their capacities. What of your Ceda?’
    ‘Bugg? Uh, no, I do not think he’s much frightened by the Errant. Alas, he intends to take refuge tonight should you proceed with the reading. As I stated earlier, I am here to give caution and convey King Tehol’s genuine concern for your safety.’
    She seemed to find his words discomforting, for she turned away and walked slowly round to halt at one end of the rectangular table, whereupon she faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Brys Beddict,’ she said with stilted formality. ‘Unfortunately, I have delayed this reading too long as it is. Guidance is necessary and, indeed, pressing.’
    He cocked his head. What were these Malazans up to? A question often voiced in the Royal Court, and no doubt everywhere else in the city, for that matter. ‘I understand, Adjunct. Is there any other way we can assist?’
    She frowned. ‘I am not sure how, given your Ceda’s aversion to attending, even as a spectator.’
    ‘He does not wish his presence to deliver undue influence on the divination, I suspect.’
    The Adjunct opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. And it was possible her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away. ‘What other form of assistance is possible, then?’
    ‘I am prepared to volunteer myself, as the King’s Sword.’
    She shot him a glance, clearly startled. ‘The Errant would hesitate in crossing you, sir?’
    He shrugged. ‘At the very least, Adjunct, I can negotiate with him from a position of some knowledge—with respect to his history among my people, and so on.’
    ‘And you would risk this for us?’
    Brys hesitated, never adept at lying. ‘It is no risk, Adjunct,’ he managed.
    And saw his abysmal failure in her narrowed gaze. ‘Courtesy and decency demand that I reject your generous offer. However,’ she added, ‘I must descend to rudeness and say to you that your presence would be most appreciated.’
    He bowed again.
    ‘If you need to report back to your king,’ said the Adjunct, ‘there is still time—not much time, but sufficient for a brief account, I should think.’
    ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Brys.
    ‘Then please, help yourself to some wine.’
    He grimaced. ‘Thank you, but I have given up wine, Adjunct.’
    ‘There is a jug of ale, there, under that side table. Falari, I believe—a decent brew, I’m told.’
    He smiled and saw her start, and wondered, although not for long, as women often reacted that way when he smiled. ‘Yes, I would like to give that a try, thank you.’
    ______
    ‘What I can’t tolerate,’ he said, ‘is the very fact of your existence.’
    The man sitting opposite him looked up. ‘So it’s mutual.’
    The tavern was crowded, the clientele decidedly upscale, smug with privilege. Coins in heaps, dusty bottles and glittering glass goblets, and an eye-dazzling array of ostentatious attire—most of which suggested some version of the Royal Blanket, although this generally involved only a narrow wrap swathing the hips and groin. Here and there, some overscented young man also wore woollen pants with one trouser leg ending halfway down.
    In a cage near the table where the two Malazans sat, two strange birds exchanged guttural comments every now and then, in tones singularly unimpressed. Short-beaked, yellow-plumed and grey-hooded, they were the size of starlings.
    ‘Maybe it is,’ the first man said after taking a mouthful of the heady wine, ‘but it’s still different.’
    ‘That’s what you think.’
    ‘It is, you ear-flapped idiot. For one thing, you were dead. You hatched a damned cusser under your butt. Those clothes you’re wearing right now, they were in shreds. Fragments. Flecks of ash. I don’t care how good Hood’s seamstresses might be—or even how many millions of ’em he’s got by now,
nobody
could have stitched all that back together—of course, there are no stitches, not where they’re not supposed to be, I mean. So, your clothes are intact. Just like