Dust of Dreams

trouble on the way—Bottle was sure those two marines had more than just gold-hued skin setting them apart from everyone else. Clearly, whatever fates existed displayed a serious lack of discrimination when choosing to single out certain people from the herd. Gesler and Stormy barely had one brain between them.
    Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb—he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember—most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.
    ‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle—what’re you sensing? Truth now.’
    ‘You want the truth? Really?’
    ‘Bottle.’
    ‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there—this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s . . . things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’
    ‘But now they’re awake.’
    ‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’
    ‘You think I don’t know that?’
    ‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’
    ‘Not likely. It just . . . takes over.’
    ‘And then there’s no stopping it.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Sergeant.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever—and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’
    Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ—they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’
    ‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’
    Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.
    ‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’
    ‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but—’
    ‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’
    ‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.
     
    When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.’ And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.
    She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’
    Bugg was grimacing. ‘Acquitor, these are Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.’
    ‘I don’t need a cup,’ Seren said to the woman who was rummaging through a cupboard.
    ‘As you like,’ replied Pinosel. ‘But you won’t be no fun at this party. Tha’s typical. Pregnant women ain’t no fun at all—always struttin’ around like a god’s gift. Smug cow—’
    ‘I don’t need this rubbish. Bugg, get them out of here. Now.’
    Ursto walked up to Pinosel and clopped her on the side of the head. ‘Behave, you!’ Then he smiled again at Seren. ‘She’s jealous, y’see. We bin tryin and, uh, tryin. Only, she’s this wrinkled up bag and I ain’t no better. Soft as a teat, I am, and no amount a lust makes no diff’rence. All I do is dribble dribble dribble.’ He winked. ‘O’course, iffin it wuz you now, well—’
    Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’
    Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’
    ‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer