Dust of Dreams

then gone and showed enough of her talents to be made a sergeant. And although Kisswhere was more or less indifferent to Badan Gruk’s fate—the man so wretchedly ill cast as a soldier, still more so as a squad sergeant—it had become clear to her that Sinter had tightened some knots between them. Just as Sinter had followed Kisswhere, so Badan Gruk had followed Sinter. But the grisly yoke of responsibility proved not at the core of the ties between Sinter and Badan Gruk. There was something else going on. Did her sister in fact love the fool? Maybe.
    Life had been so much easier back in the village, despite all the sneaking round and frantic hip-locking in the bushes up from the river—at least then Kisswhere was on her own, and no matter what happened to her, her sister would have been free of it. And safe.
    Could she take it all back . . .
    This jaunt among the marines was likely to kill them all. It had stopped being fun long ago. The horrid voyage on those foul transports, all the way to Seven Cities. The march. Y’Ghatan. More sea voyages. Malaz City. The coastal invasion on this continent—the night on the river—chains, darkness, rotting cells and no food—
    No, Kisswhere could not look across at Sinter, and so witness her broken state. Nor could she meet Badan Gruk’s tortured eyes, all that raw grief and anguish.
    She wished she had died in that cell.
    She wished they had taken the Adjunct’s offer of discharge once the outlawing was official. But Sinter would have none of that. Of course not.
    They were riding in darkness, but Kisswhere sensed when her sister suddenly pulled up. Soldiers immediately behind them veered aside to avoid the horses colliding. Grunts, curses, and then Badan Gruk’s worried voice. ‘Sinter? What’s wrong?’
    Sinter twisted in her saddle. ‘Is Nep with us? Nep Furrow?’
    ‘No,’ Badan replied.
    Kisswhere saw real fear sizzle awake in her sister, and her own heart started pounding in answer. Sinter had sensitivities—
    ‘In the city! We need to hurry—’
    ‘Wait,’ croaked Kisswhere. ‘Sinter, please—if there’s trouble there, let them handle it—’
    ‘No—
we have to ride
!’
    And suddenly she drove heels into her horse’s flanks and the beast lunged forward. A moment later and everyone was following, Kisswhere in their company. Her head spun—she thought she might well be flung from her mount—too weak, too weary—
    But her sister. Sinter. Her damned sister, she was a marine, now. She was one of the Adjunct’s very own—and though that bitch had no idea, it was soldiers like Sinter—the quiet ones, the insanely loyal ones—who were the iron spine of the Bonehunters.
    Malice flashed through Kisswhere, ragged as a flag at midnight.
Badan knows it. I know it. Tavore—you’ve stolen my sister. And that, you cold bitch, I will not accept!
    I want her back, damn you.
    I want my sister back.
     
    ‘So where is the fool?’
    Fist Keneb shrugged. ‘Arbin prefers the company of heavies. The soldiers with dirt on their noses and dust storms in their skulls. The Fist plays knuckles with them, gets drunk with them, probably sleeps with some of them, for that matter.’
    Blistig grunted as he sat down. ‘And this is the proper way to earn respect?’
    ‘That depends, I suppose,’ Keneb said. ‘If Arbin wins at knuckles, drinks everyone else under the table, and wears out every lover brave enough to share a bed, then maybe it works.’
    ‘Don’t be a fool, Keneb. A Fist needs to keep distant. Bigger than life, and meaner besides.’ He poured himself another tankard of the foamy local beer. ‘Glad you’re sitting here, I’d imagine.’
    ‘I didn’t even belong at the last reading. I was there in Grub’s place, that’s all.’
    ‘Now the boy’s got to swallow his own troubles.’ Blistig leaned forward—they had found an upscale tavern, overpriced and so not likely to draw any Malazan soldiers below the rank of captain, and for a time over the past weeks the Fists had gathered here, mostly to drink and complain. ‘What’s one of those readings like? Y’hear all sorts of rumours. People spitting up newts or snakes slithering out of their ears, and woe betide any baby born at that moment anywhere in the district—three eyes and forked tongues.’ He shook his head, drank down three quick mouthfuls, and then wiped at his mouth. ‘It’s said that whatever happened at that last one—it made up the Adjunct’s mind, about