Dust of Dreams

does you a good job.’
    ‘Aye, Sergeant Sinter. Half of half. Agreed. Where’s the kitty?’
    ‘Everybody spill now,’ said Rim, collecting a helm. ‘In here, pass it around.’
    ‘Scam,’ said Drawfirst. ‘Lookback, we all been taken.’
    ‘What’s new about that? Marines never play fair—’
    ‘They just play to win,’ Drawfirst finished, scowling at the old Bridgeburner adage.
    Sinter rose and walked from the camp. Numb and restless at the same time, what kind of state was that to be in? After a few strides she realized she had company and glanced over to see Badan Gruk.
    ‘Sinter, you look . . . different. Sick? Listen, Kisswhere—’
    ‘Never mind my sister, Badan. I know her best, remember.’
    ‘Exactly. She was going to run, we all knew it. You must’ve known it too. What I don’t get is that she didn’t try to get us to go with her.’
    Sinter glanced at him. ‘Would she have convinced you, Badan?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘And then the two of you would have ganged up on me, until I relented.’
    ‘Could be like that, aye. Point is, it didn’t happen. And now she’s somewhere and we’re stuck here.’
    ‘I’m not deserting, Badan.’
    ‘Ain’t you thought about it, though? Going after Kisswhere?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘She’s all grown up now. I should have seen that long ago, don’t you think? I don’t have to take care of her any more. Wish I’d realized that the day she joined up.’
    He grimaced. ‘You ain’t the only one, Sinter.’
    Ah, Badan, what am I to do with you? You keep breaking my heart. But pity and love don’t live together, do they?
    Was it pity? She just didn’t know. Instead, she took his hand as they walked.
     
    The soft wind on his face woke him. Groggy, thick-tongued and parched, Gesler blinked open his eyes. Blue sky, empty of birds, empty of everything. He groaned, struggling to work out the last thing he remembered. Camp, aye, some damned argument with Stormy. The bastard had been dreaming again, some demonic fist coming down out of the dark sky. He’d had the eyes of a hunted hare.
    Did they drink? Smoke something? Or just fall back to sleep, him on one side of the tent, Stormy on the other—one side neat and ordered, the other a stinking mess. Had he been complaining about that? He couldn’t remember a damned thing.
    No matter. The camp wasn’t moving for some reason—and it was strangely quiet, too, and what was he doing outside? He slowly sat up. ‘Gods below, they left us behind.’ A stretch of broken ground, odd low mounds in the distance—had they been there last night? And where were the hearths, the makeshift berms? He heard a scuffing sound behind him and twisted round—the motion rocking the brain in his skull fierce enough to make him gasp.
    A woman he’d never seen before was crouched at a small fire. Just to her right was Stormy, still asleep. Weapons and their gear were stacked just beyond him.
    Gesler squinted at the stranger. Dressed like some damned savage, all colourless gum-gnawed deerhide and bhederin leather. She wasn’t a young thing either. Maybe forty, but it was never easy to tell with plainsfolk, for that she surely was, like an old-fashioned Seti. Her features were regular enough; she’d probably been good-looking once, but the years had been hard since then. When his assessing gaze finally lifted to her dark brown eyes he found her studying him with something like sorrow.
    ‘Better start talking,’ Gesler said. He saw a waterskin and pointed at it.
    She nodded.
    Gesler reached over, tugged loose the stopper and drank down three quick mouthfuls. An odd flavour came off his lips and his head spun momentarily. ‘Hood’s knocker, what did I do last night?’ He glared at the woman. ‘You understanding me?’
    ‘Trader tongue,’ she said.
    It was a moment before he comprehended her words. Her accent was one he’d never heard before. ‘Good, there’s that at least. Where am I? Who are you? Where’s my damned army?’
    She gestured.
Gone.
And then said, ‘You are for me, with me. By me?’ She shook her head, clearly frustrated with her limited knowledge of the language. ‘Kalyth my name.’ Her eyes shifted away. ‘Destriant Kalyth.’
    ‘Destriant? That’s not a title people just throw around. If it doesn’t belong to you, you and your whole damned line are cursed. For ever more. You don’t use titles like that—Destriant, to what god?’
    ‘God no. No god. K’Chain Che’Malle.