Dust of Dreams

serving under you, Kindly. It all slides past, doesn’t it?’
    ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
    ‘Right,’ she drawled. ‘Consider this. Ruthan’s getting nervous. And it’s getting worse. He’s just about combed his beard off his chin. He has troubled dreams. He speaks in his sleep, in languages I’ve never heard before.’
    ‘Most curious.’
    ‘For example, have you ever heard of Ahkrast Korvalain?’
    Kindly frowned. ‘Can’t say I have, but it sounds Tiste. For example, the Elder Warrens of Kurald Galain and Emurlahn. Similar construction, I’d wager. You might mention it to the High Mage.’
    She sighed, looked away. ‘Right. Well, I’d best get back to my squads. The loss of Gesler and Stormy, so soon after Masan lit out—and that other one—well, things are fragile at the moment.’
    ‘That they are, Skanarow. On your way out, have Corporal Thews bring in my collection.’
    ‘Your collection?’
    ‘Combs, Skanarow, combs.’
    ______
    Master Sergeant Pores sat up, wiping the blood from his nose. Strange motes still floated and drifted in front of his eyes, but he could see that his personal wagon of stores had been ransacked. The two oxen harnessed to it were watching him as they gnawed on their bits. He wondered, briefly, if it was possible to train oxen as guard dogs, but the image of the beasts baring giant square teeth and moaning in a threatening fashion struck him as not quite frightening enough.
    As he was picking himself up, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, the sound of approaching footsteps made him flinch and then straighten, raising his hands defensively.
    But there was no need. The newcomers didn’t look particularly threatening. Hedge, and behind him four of his Bridgeburners. ‘What happened to you?’ Hedge asked.
    ‘Not sure, I’m afraid. Someone came by with a requisition I was, er, unable to fill.’
    ‘Wrong wax seal on the request?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    Hedge eyed the wagon. ‘Looks like he went and took what he wanted anyway.’
    ‘Capital offence,’ said one of Hedge’s corporals, shaking his head and frowning as if in disbelief. ‘You Bonehunters lack discipline, Master Sergeant.’
    Pores stared at the scrawny Letherii. ‘You know, I was just thinking the same thing, Corporal. It’s anarchy here. I truly feel under siege, a lone island of reason and order in a storm of rapacious chaos.’ He gestured behind him and said to Hedge, ‘If you’re here to request anything, as you can see you will have to wait until I reorganize things. Besides, my own supplies are not, strictly speaking, available for official restitution. I can, however, provide you with a writ giving you an audience with the Quartermaster.’
    ‘Kind of you,’ said Hedge. ‘Only we already been there.’
    ‘Without a writ? You had no joy, did you?’
    ‘No, funny that. Seems the only writs he’s looking at are the ones from you.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Pores. ‘As you might imagine, Commander—it is “commander”, isn’t it? As you might imagine, in the midst of the very chaos your corporal so sharply observed, it has been necessary to take it upon myself to enforce some measure of control on our dwindling supplies.’
    Hedge was nodding, eyes still on the wagon. ‘Thing is, Master Sergeant, what we’re hearing is that most of the chaos is due to the fact that everyone has to go through you. Now, I’m wondering if Fist Keneb is fully aware of the situation. As a commander, you see, I can just go straight and talk to him, as equals, I mean. None of your cronies to try to get through—aye, I marked ’em in that unofficial cordon round the HQ camp. Quite the organization you put together, Master Sergeant. Makes me wonder who got through to rearrange your nose like that.’
    ‘If I had memory of the incident, Commander, I’d tell you who—at least, after I’d hunted him down and crucified him for looting.’
    ‘Well,’ said Hedge, ‘I caught a rumour not fifty paces from here. It’s fresh as that dung behind them oxen.’
    ‘Splendid.’ Pores waited.
    ‘About that writ,’ Hedge said.
    ‘Coming right up—let me just find a spare wax tablet—’
    ‘Not using parchment? No, of course not. Parchment doesn’t melt, does it? Wax does. Evidence? What evidence? Clever, Master Sergeant.’
    Pores found a tablet and a stylus from his small portable desk close to the toppled-over folding chair where he’d—presumably—been sitting when