Dust of Dreams

Adjunct. She remembered Masan Gilani’s fierce expression the moment before the Adjunct sent her off. There had been no hesitation in Tavore’s response to what Sinter said what was needed, and not a single objection to any one of her suggestions. The only visible reaction had preceded all that.
Betrayal. Yes, that word hurt her. It’s the one thing she cannot face. The one thing, I think, that devours her courage. What happened to you, Tavore Paran? Was it something in your childhood, some terrible rejection, a betrayal that stabbed to the deepest core of you, of the innocent child you once were?
    When does it happen? All those wounds that ended up making us the adults we are?
A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never findlove or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound—even as they ceaselessly pick at it. She thought of all the careless acts and indifferent, impatient gestures she’d seen among parents in civilized places, as if they had no time for their own children. Too busy, too full of themselves, and all of that was simply passed on to the next generation, over and over again.
    Among the Dal Honese, in the villages of both the north and the south, patience was the gift returned to the child who was itself a gift. Patience, the full weight of regard, the willingness to listen and the readiness to teach—were these not the responsibilities of parenthood? And what of a civilization that could thrive only by systematically destroying that precious relationship?
Time to spend with your children? No time. Work to feed them, yes, that is your responsibility. But your loyalty and your strength and your energy, they belong to us.
    And we, who are we? We are the despoilers of the world. Whose world? Yours. Hers—the Adjunct’s, aye. And even Skulldeath’s. Poor, lost Skulldeath. And Hellian, ever bathed in the hot embrace of alcohol. You and that wandering ex-priest with his smirk and broken eyes. Your armies, your kings and queens, your gods, and, most of all, your children.
    We kill their world before they even inherit it. We kill it before they grow old enough to know what it is.
    She rubbed at her face again. The Adjunct was so alone, aye.
But I tried. I think I did, anyway. You’re not quite as alone as you think, Tavore Paran. Did I leave you with that much? When I was gone, when you stood there in your tent, in the silence—when Lostara Yil left and not one set of eyes was upon you . . . what did you do? What did you free from chains inside yourself?
    If Bottle watched through the eyes of one of his rats, what did he see? There in your face?
    Anything? Anything at all?
    ‘What’s burning?’
    ‘You are, Shoaly.’
    The heavy made no move. His boots were now peeling off black threads of smoke. ‘Am I done yet, Primly?’
    ‘Crispy bacon, I’d wager.’
    ‘Gods, I love bacon.’
    ‘You gonna move your feet, Shoaly?’ Mulvan Dreader demanded.
    ‘Got bids, all you bastards?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Pravalak Rim.
    ‘Who’s counting tens?’
    ‘I am,’ said Rim. ‘Got an order, doing rounds. We got ten in all, counting Skulldeath and Ruffle, though they ain’t counted in personally, being busy and all.’
    ‘Sinter bet?’
    ‘Aye,’ said Sinter.
    ‘What number?’
    ‘Seven.’
    ‘Rim, where you at now?’
    ‘Three.’
    ‘Out loud.’
    ‘Five, six, se—’
    Shoaly pulled his feet from the fire and sat up.
    ‘Now that’s loyalty,’ Sinter said, grinning.
    ‘De ain feer! De ain feer! I eed farv! Farv! Erim, de ain feer!’
    ‘It’s Shoaly’s feet,’ said Mulvan, ‘he can do what he wants with them. Sinter wins the pot, cos she’s so pretty, right, Shoaly?’
    The man smiled. ‘Right. Now, Sint, you like me?’
    ‘By half,’ she replied.
    ‘I’ll need it. Nep Furrow, what’ll a quick heal cost me?’
    ‘Ha! Yar half! Yar half! Ha ha!’
    ‘Half of my half—’
    ‘Nad! Nad!’
    ‘It’s either that or the sergeant orders you to heal me and you get nothing.’
    ‘Good point,’ said Sinter, glancing over to Badan Gruk. ‘Got need for your healer, Badan, you all right with that?’
    ‘Of course,’ he replied.
    ‘This was all a set-up,’ Primly muttered. ‘I’m smelling more than bacon right now.’
    ‘Arf ad yar arf! Shably! Arf ad yar arf!’
    ‘Be kind to him, Shoaly, so he