Dust of Dreams

‘We done found the other army.’
    ‘Nobody can hide from the Bonehunters,’ intoned Drawfirst.
     
    Koryk stood in darkness, a hundred paces out from the nearest picket. He had a memory that might be real or invented—he could not be certain. A dozen youths commandeered to dig a latrine trench for some garrison troop out on manoeuvres. Seti and Seti half-bloods, back when they were young enough to see no difference between the two, no reason yet for contempt, envy and all the rest.
    He’d been one of the runts, and so his friends set him against a boulder at the far end of the pit, where he could strain and sweat and fail. Blistered hands struggling with the oversized pick, he had worked the whole morning trying to dislodge that damned boulder—with the others looking over every now and then with jeers and laughter.
    Failure wasn’t a pleasant notion. It stung. It burned like acid. On that day, he now believed, young Koryk had decided he would never again accept failure. He’d dislodged that boulder in the end, with dusk fast coming on, the other boys long gone and that troop of riders—their little exercise in independence done—riding off in a cloud that hung like a god’s mocking breath of gold dust.
    That rock had been firmly lodged in place. It had hidden a cache of coins. As twilight crept in, he found himself on his knees at one end of the trench, with a vast treasure cupped in his hands. Mostly silver, a few tiny gold clips, not one recognizable to Koryk’s pathetically limited experience—this was a spirit hoard, straight out from Seti legends. ‘
Under any stone, lad
 . . . ’ Yes, the whores who’d raised him had plenty of tales. Could be the whole memory was just one of those tales. A pathetic story, but . . .
    He’d found a treasure, that was the meaning of it. Something precious, wonderful, rare.
    And what did he do with his spirit hoard?
    Squandered it. Every last fucking coin. Gone, and what was left to show for it?
    Whores are warm to the touch, but they hide their souls inside a cold keep. It’s when you surrender to that world that you know you are truly lost, you are finally . . . alone.
    It’s all cold to the touch these days. Everything. And now I spend the rest of my years blaming every damned coin.
    But nobody’s fooled. Except me. Always me. Forever me.
    He longed to draw his sword, to vanish into the mad mayhem of battle. He could then cut in two every face on every coin, howling that it made a difference, that a life wasn’t empty if it was filled with detritus. He could scream and curse and see not a single friend—only enemies. Justifying every slice, every lash of blood. At the very least, he vowed, he’d be the last one standing.
    Smiles said the fever had scarred him. Perhaps it had. Perhaps it would from now on. It had done one thing for certain: it had shown him the truth of solitude. And that truth was seared into his soul. He listened to Fiddler going on and on about this so-called family of companions, and he believed none of it. Betrayals stalked the future—he felt it in his bones. There was coming a time when everything would cut clear, and he could stand before them all and speak aloud the fullest measure of his distrust.
We are each of us alone. We always were. I am done with all your lies. Now, save yourselves. As I intend to do for myself.
    He wasn’t interested in any last stands. The Adjunct asked for faith, loyalty. She asked for honesty, no matter how brutal, how incriminating. She asked for too much. Besides, she gave them nothing in return, did she?
    Koryk stood, facing the empty land in the empty night, and contemplated deserting.
    Everything they gave me was a lie, a betrayal. It was the spirit hoard, you see. Those coins. Someone put them there to lure me in, to trap me. They poisoned me—not my fault, how could it be?
    ‘Look at him under that boulder! Careful, Koryk, playing under there will get you crushed!’
    Too late.
It was all those fucking coins that did me in. You can’t fill a boy’s hands like that. You just can’t.
    It was a memory. Maybe real, maybe not.
    The whores, they just wink.
     
    Skanarow’s lithe form rippled with shadows as someone outside the tent walked past bearing a lantern. The light coming through the canvas was cool, giving her sleeping form a deathly hue. Chilled by the vision, Ruthan Gudd looked away. He sat up, moving slowly to keep her from waking.
    The sweat that had sheathed him earlier