Dust of Dreams

and yet Badan Gruk suspected it was the sliver of jagged iron lodged in the heart of the Bonehunters, and the bleeding never slowed.
We did everything she asked of us. The Adjunct followed her orders and got it done. The rebellion crushed, the leaders dead or scattered. Seven Cities brought under the imperial heel once again. In the name of order and law and smiling merchants. But none of it mattered. The Empress twitched a finger and the spikes were readied for our heads.
    Anger burned for only so long. Enough to cut a messy path through the Empire of Lether. And then it was done. That ‘then’ was now. What did they have to take anger’s place?
We are to be Unwitnessed, she said. We must fight for each other and ourselves and no one else. We must fight for survival, but that cannot hold us together—it’s just as likely to tear us apart.
    The Adjunct held to an irrational faith—in her soldiers, in their resolve.
We’re a fragile army and there are enough reasons for that being true. That sliver needs to be pulled, the wound needs to knit.
    We’re far from the Malazan Empire now, but we carry its name with us. It’s even what we call ourselves. Malazans. Gods below, there’s no way out of this, is there?
    He turned away from the inky river carrying them along, scanned the huddled, sleeping forms of his fellow soldiers. Covering every available space on the deck, motionless as corpses.
    Badan Gruk fought off a shiver and turned back to the river, where nothing could resist the current for long.
     
    It was an old fancy, so old he’d almost forgotten it. A grandfather—it hardly mattered whether he’d been a real one or some old man who’d thrown on that hat for the duration of the memory—had taken him to the Malaz docks, where they’d spent a sunny afternoon fishing for collar-gills and blue-tube eels. ‘
Take a care on keeping the bait small, lad. There’s a demon at the bottom of this harbour. Sometimes it gets hungry or maybe just annoyed. I heard of fishers snapped right off this dock, so keep the bait small and keep an eye on the water.
’ Old men livedfor stories like that. Putting the fright into wide-eyed runts who sat with their little legs dangling off the edge of the pier, runts with all the hopes children have and wasn’t that what fishing was all about?
    Fiddler couldn’t remember if they’d caught anything that day. Hopes had a way of sinking fast once you stepped out of childhood. In any case, escaping this motley throng of soldiers, he’d scrounged a decent line and a catfish-spine hook. Using a sliver of salted bhederin for bait and a bent, holed coin buffed to flash, he trailed the line out behind the barge. There was always the chance of snagging something ugly, like one of those crocodiles, but he didn’t think it likely. He did, however, make a point of not dangling his legs over the edge. Wrong bait.
    Balm wandered up after a time and sat down beside him. ‘Catch anything?’
    ‘Make one of two guesses and you’ll be there,’ Fiddler replied.
    ‘Funny though, Fid, seen plenty jumping earlier.’
    ‘That was dusk—tomorrow round that time I’ll float something looking like a fly. Find any of your squad?’
    ‘No, not one. Feels like someone cut off my fingers. I’m actually looking forward to getting back on land.’
    ‘You always were a lousy marine, Balm.’
    The Dal Honese nodded. ‘And a worse soldier.’
    ‘Now I didn’t say—’
    ‘Oh but I am. I lose myself. I get confused.’
    ‘You just need pointing in the right direction, and then you’re fine, Balm. A mean scrapper, in fact.’
    ‘Aye, fighting my way clear of all that fug. You was always lucky, Fid. You got that cold iron that makes thinking fast and clear easy for you. I ain’t neither hot or cold, you see. I’m more like lead or something.’
    ‘No one in your squad has ever complained, Balm.’
    ‘Well, I like them and all, but I can’t say that they’re the smartest people I know.’
    ‘Throatslitter? Deadsmell? They seem to have plenty of wits.’
    ‘Wits, aye. Smart, no. I remember when I was a young boy. In the village there was another boy, about my age. Was always smiling, even when there was nothing to smile about. And always getting into trouble—couldn’t keep his nose out of anything. Some of the older boys would pick on him—I saw him punched in the face once, and he stood there bleeding, that damned smile on his face. Anyway, one day he stuck his nose into the