Dust of Dreams

through the drapery.
    Spax hummed softly to himself.
    Gaedis’s muffled voice invited him to enter the Royal Presence.
Naked in the bowl?
wondered Spax.
Bah, the gods are never so kind.
    She stood in her underquilting, armour discarded, her long hair still tousledfrom the ride. The quilting was tight against her curves. ‘If eyes were paint,’ Abrastal said, ‘I’d be dripping right now. Barbaric bastard. What’s so important you’d dare my ill humour?’
    ‘Just this, Highness,’ Spax replied. ‘She struck sparks from you and I want to know how, and why.’
    ‘Ah, you’re curious, then.’
    ‘That’s it, Firehair.’
    ‘If it wasn’t that your rabid warriors might complain, I’d see you strangled with your own entrails and perhaps—just perhaps—that would satisfy my desire in this moment. Arrogance is a strange thing, Spax. It amuses when it cannot reach, then stings to rage when it can. What in the Errant’s empty skull convinced you that I’d yield to your shit-fouled curiosity?’
    Spax glanced across at Gaedis, saw the man’s face and the expression that seemed carved from stone.
Coward.
‘Highness, I am Warchief of the Gilk. Each day I am under siege from the clan leaders, not to mention the bolder of the young warriors—who’d wage war on the wind if they had any chance of winning. They don’t complain of the coin, Highness. But they want a fight.’
    ‘Bolkando is at peace,’ Abrastal replied. ‘At least, it was when you were first hired, and now it is so again. If it was war you wanted, Spax, you should have stayed with the other White Faces, since they went and jumped with both feet on to a hornet’s nest.’ She faced him and he saw all the places he could put his hands, given the chance. Her expression darkened. ‘You are Warchief, as you say. A proud title, one with responsibility, one assumes. You are under siege, Spax? Deal with it.’
    ‘Not many arrows left in my quiver, Highness.’
    ‘Do I look like a fletcher?’
    ‘You look like someone with something on her mind.’ Spax spread his broad, scarred hands. ‘I don’t know these Perish Grey Helms, but I know of the order, Highness—’
    ‘What order?’
    ‘The warrior cult of the Wolves. A chapter of that cult defended at the siege of Capustan. The Grey Swords, they were called.’
    Abrastal studied him for a time, and then she sighed. ‘Gaedis, open us a jug of wine—but don’t even think of pouring yourself one. I’m still annoyed with you for letting this cattle-dog whine his way into my presence.’
    The lieutenant saluted and walked to the ornate wooden frame bearing a dozen or so amphorae, drawing a small knife as he scanned the stamps on the dusty necks.
    ‘Cults, Mortal Swords, Shield Anvils and wolf gods,’ Abrastal said in a mutter, shaking her head. ‘This has the stink of fanaticism—and that well matches my assessment after this evening’s parley. Is it simply war they seek, Spax? One where any face will do?’
    The Warchief watched as Gaedis selected a jug and then, with an expert hook and twist of his knife, deftly removed the cork. ‘Impressive, Lieutenant—you learn that between off-handed swordsmanship and riding backwards?’
    ‘Pay attention to me!’ barked Abrastal. ‘I asked you a question, you island of fleas!’
    Spax tilted his head in something between deference and amused insolence. When he saw the flaring of her eyes he bared his teeth and snapped out, ‘As long as you feel inclined to spit out insults, Highness, I will indeed stand as an island. Let the seas crash—the stones will not blink.’
    ‘Errant’s shit-hole throne—pour that wine, Gaedis!’
    Wine sloshed.
    Abrastal walked over to her cot and sat down. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, and then looked up in time to accept a goblet. She drank deep. ‘Another, damn you.’ Gaedis managed to get the second goblet into Spax’s hand before turning about to retrace his steps. ‘Never mind the Perish for now. You say you know these Malazans, Spax. What can you tell me of this Adjunct Tavore?’
    ‘Specifically? Almost nothing, Highness. Never met her, and the Barghast have never crossed her path. No, what I can do is tell you about the cant of the Malazan military—as it took shape at the hands of Dassem Ultor, and the way the command structure changed.’
    ‘It’s a start, but first, what does her title mean? Adjunct? To whom? To what?’
    ‘Not sure this time round,’ the Warchief