Dust of Dreams

like him collected fanatics the way a rich merchant collected coins, and then he spent them without a moment’s thought.
    No, the Adjunct was better, no matter what everyone said. They talked as if they wanted a Leoman, but Corabb knew how that was. They didn’t. If they got a Leoman, every one of them would end up getting killed. He believed the Adjunct cared about them, maybe even too much. But between the two, he’d stay with her every time.
    Dissatisfaction was a disease. It had ignited the Whirlwind and hundreds of thousands had died. Standing over grave pits, who was satisfied? Nobody. It had launched the Malazans into eating their own, and if every Wickan was now dead, who’d be so foolish as to believe the new land the settlers staked out for themselves wouldn’t exact its vengeance? Sooner or later, it would turn them into dust and the wind would just blow them away.
    Even here, in this camp, among the Bonehunters, dissatisfaction spread like an infection. No reason but boredom and not-knowing. What was so bad about that? Boredom meant nobody was getting chopped up. Not-knowing was the truth of life itself. His heart could burst in the next step, or a runaway horse could trample him down at the intersection just ahead. A blood vessel in his skull could explode. A rock could come down out of the sky. Everything was about not-knowing, the whole future, and who could even make sense enough of the past to think they really knew everything and so, knowing everything, know everything to come?
    Dissatisfied? See if this punch in the face makes you feel any better.
Aye, Cuttle was a sour one, but Corabb was starting to like him. Maybe he complained a lot, but that wasn’t the same as being dissatisfied. Clearly, Cuttle
liked
being able to complain. He’d be lost without it. That was why, no matter what, he looked comfortable. Rubbing grease into boiled leather, honing his short sword and the heads of his crossbow bolts. Counting and counting again his small collection of sharpers and smokers, his one cracker, his eyes straying to Fid’s pack in which was hidden at least one cusser. The man was happy. You could tell by his scowl.
    I like Cuttle. I know what to expect with him. He ain’t hot iron, he ain’t cold iron. He’s bitter iron. Me too. Bitter and getting bitterer. Just try me, Throatslitter.
     
    Captain Kindly ran a hand through the last few threads of hair on his head and leaned back in his folding chair. ‘Skanarow, what can I do for you?’
    ‘It’s Ruthan.’
    ‘Of course it is. Hardly a secret, Skanarow.’
    ‘Not that, well, some of that. Thing is, he’s not what I think he is.’
    ‘Early days, isn’t it?’
    ‘I don’t think he’s using his real name.’
    ‘Who is? Look at me. I earned mine over years of diligent deliberation. Now, even “Skanarow” isn’t what most people think, is it? Archaic Kanese for a female hill-dog, I believe.’
    ‘Not like that, Kindly. He’s hiding something—oh, his story works out, at least on the surface. I mean, his timeline makes sense—’
    ‘Excuse me, his what?’
    ‘Well, when he did what and where he did it. A proper course of events, but I figure that just means he’s worked it out to sound plausible.’
    ‘Or it sounds plausible because it is in fact his history.’
    ‘I don’t think so. That’s just it, Kindly. I think he’s lying.’
    ‘Skanarow, even if he is, that’s hardly a crime in the Malazan military, is it?’
    ‘It is if there’s a price on his head. If, say, the Claw get wet dreams thinking about killing him, or the Empress has a thousand spies out there looking for him.’
    ‘For Ruthan Gudd?’
    ‘For whoever he really is.’
    ‘And if they are? Does it even matter now, Skanarow? We’re all renegades these days.’
    ‘The Claw has a long memory.’
    ‘What’s left of them, after Malaz City. I think they’d save all their venom for the Adjunct and all of us traitorous officers of significance. Heroic veterans such as myself, not to mention the Fists, barring perhaps Blistig. Presumably,’ he continued, ‘you are thinking in the long term. The two of you settling down somewhere, a house overlooking the Kanese beaches, perhaps, with smoke rising from the chimney and a brood of bearded offspring playing with fire-ants and whatnot. For what it is worth, Skanarow, I believe you will face no challenge in sleeping peacefully at night.’
    ‘I’m beginning to understand how Lieutenant Pores felt when