Dust of Dreams

like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role.
Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.
    Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly
capable.
Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?
    She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.
    Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she . . . she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself:
capable of what? Will I ever find out?
    When is it my turn?
    She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.
    She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill.
But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.
    She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge—sticky as honey—that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.
    Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish . . .
     
    There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.
    She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet—Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.
    But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them—they’re all grown up, aren’t they?
    So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?
    But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?
    Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve