Dust of Dreams

be the right word? Emasculate? Everything seems designed to imprison you, your spirit, as if a woman’s freedom was some kind of threat.’
    ‘All self-imposed, sweetie,’ she replied, clasping her weapon belt and then collecting her cape from where it lay in a heap on the floor. She shook it out. ‘Take ten women, all best friends. Watch one get married. Before you know it she’s top of the pile, sitting smug and superior on her marital throne. And before long every woman in that gaggle’s on the hunt for a husband.’ She swung the cape behind her and fastened the clasps at her shoulders. ‘And Queen Perfect Bitch sits up there nodding her approval.’
    ‘History? My my. Anyway, that doesn’t last.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Sure. It’s sweet blossoms until her husband runs off with one of those best friends.’
    She snorted and then cursed. ‘Damn you, I told you not to make me laugh.’
    ‘Nothing will crack the perfection of your face, Shurq Elalle.’
    ‘You know what they say—age stalks us all, Ruthan Gudd.’
    ‘Some old hag hunting you down? No sign of that.’
    She made her way to the door. ‘You’re lovely, Ruthan, even when you’re full of crap. My point was, most women don’t like each other. Not really, not in the general sense. If one ends up wearing chains, she’ll paint them gold and exhaust herself scheming to see chains on every other woman. It’s our innate nasty streak. Lock up when you leave.’
    ‘As I said—I intend staying the night.’
    Something in his tone made her turn round. Her immediate reaction was to simply kick him out, if only to emphasize the fact that he was a guest, not an Errant-damned member of the household. But she’d heard a whisper of iron beneath the man’s words. ‘Problems in the Malazan compound, Captain?’
    ‘There’s an adept in the marines . . .’
    ‘Adept at what? Should you introduce him to me?’
    His gaze flicked away, and he slowly edged up in the bed to rest his back against the headboard. ‘Our version of a caster of the Tiles. Anyway, the Adjunct has ordered a . . . a casting. Tonight. Starting about now.’
    ‘And?’
    The man shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just superstitious, but the idea’s given me a state of the nerves.’
    No wonder you were so energetic.
‘And you want to stay as far away as possible.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘All right, Ruthan. I should be back before dawn, I hope. We can breakfast together.’
    ‘Thanks, Shurq. Oh, have fun and don’t wear yourself out.’
    Little chance of that, love.
‘Get your rest,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Come the morning you’ll need it.’
    Always give them something before leaving. Something to feed anticipation, since anticipation so well served to blind a man to certain obvious discrepancies in, uh, appetite. She descended the stairs.
Cloves. Ridiculous.
Another visit to Selush was required. Shurq Elalle’s present level of maintenance was proving increasingly complicated, not to mention egregiously expensive.
    Stepping outside, she was startled as a huge figure loomed out from the shadows of an alcove. ‘Ublala! Shades of the Empty Throne, you startled me. What are you doing here?’
    ‘Who is he?’ the giant demanded. ‘I’ll kill him for you if you like.’
    ‘No, I don’t like. Have you been following me around again? Listen, I’ve explained all this before, haven’t I?’
    Ublala Pung’s gaze dropped to his feet. He mumbled something inaudible.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Yes. I said “yes”, Captain. Oh, I want to run away!’
    ‘I thought Tehol had you inducted into the Palace Guard,’ she said, hoping to distract him.
    ‘I don’t like polishing boots.’
    ‘Ublala, you only have to do that once every few days—or you can hire someone—’
    ‘Not my boots. Everyone else’s.’
    ‘The other guards’?’
    He nodded glumly.
    ‘Ublala, walk with me—I will buy you a drink. Or three.’ They set off up the street towards the canal bridge. ‘Listen, those guards are just taking advantage of your kindness. You don’t have to polish their boots.’
    ‘I don’t?’
    ‘No. You’re a guardsman. If Tehol knew about it . . . well, you should probably tell your comrades in the Guard that you’re going to have a word with your best friend, the King.’
    ‘He is my best friend, isn’t he? He gave me chicken.’
    They crossed the bridge, waving at swarming sludge flies, and made their way on to an avenue flanking one of the night markets. More than the