Dust of Dreams

of guano.
Of course, one man’s shit was another man’s . . . whatever.
    There was a hidden privilege in being a soldier, he decided. He had been pushed outside normal life, protected from the rigours of meeting most basic needs—food, drink, clothes, shelter: all of these were provided to him in some form or other.
And family—don’t forget that.
All in exchange for the task of delivering terrible violence; only every now and then to be sure, for such things could not be sustained over long periods of time without crushing the capacity for feeling, without devouring a mortal’s humanity.
    In that context, Bottle reconsidered—with a dull spasm of anguish deep inside—maybe the exchange wasn’t that reasonable after all. Less a privilege than a burden, a curse. Seeing the faces in this crowd flashing past, a spinning, whirling cascade of masks—each a faintly stunning alternative to his own—he felt himself not simply pushed outside, but estranged. Leaving him bemused, even perturbed, as he witnessed their seemingly mindless, pointless activities, only to find himself envious of these shallow, undramatic lives—wherein the only need was satiation. Possessions, stuffed bellies, expanding heaps of coin.
    What do any of you know about life?
he wanted to ask.
Try stumbling through a burning city. Try cradling a dying friend with blood like tattered shrouds on all sides. Try glancing to an animated face beside you, only to glance a second time and find it empty, lifeless.
    A soldier knew what was real and what was ephemeral. A soldier understood how thin, how fragile, was the fabric of life.
    Could one feel envy when looking upon the protected, ignorant lives of others—those people whose cloistered faith saw strength in weakness, who found hope in the false assurance of routine?
Yes, because once you become aware of that fragility, there is no going back. You lose a thousand masks and are left with but one, with its faint lines of contempt, its downturned mouth only a comment away from a sneer, its promise of cold indifference.
    Gods, we’re just going for a walk here. I don’t need to be thinking any of this.
    Ebron tugged at his arm and they edged into a narrow, high-walled alley. Twenty paces down, the well-swept corridor broadened out into a secluded open-air tavern shaded by four centuries-old fig trees, one at each corner.
    Deadsmell was already sitting at one of the tables, scraping chunks of meat and vegetable from copper skewers with his dagger and with a stab lifting morsels to his grease-stained mouth, a tall cup of chilled wine within reach.
    Leave it to necromancers to find pleasure in everything.
    He looked up as they arrived. ‘You’re late.’
    ‘See how you suffered for it?’ Ebron snapped, dragging out a chair.
    ‘Yes, well, one must make do. I recommend these things—they’re like Seven Cities tapu, though not as spicy.’
    ‘What’s the meat?’ Bottle asked, sitting down.
    ‘Something called orthen. A delicacy, I’m told. Delicious.’
    ‘Well, we might as well eat and drink,’ said Ebron, ‘while we discuss the miserable extinction of sorcery and the beginning of our soon-to-be-useless lives.’
    Deadsmell leaned back, eyes narrowing on the mage. ‘If you’re going to steal my appetite, you’re paying for it first.’
    ‘It was the reading,’ Bottle said, and oh, how that snared their attention, not to mention demolished the incipient argument between the two men. ‘What the reading revealed goes back to the day we breached the city wall and struck for the palace—do you recall those conflagrations? That damned earthquake?’
    ‘It was the dragon that showed up,’ said Deadsmell.
    ‘It was munitions,’ countered Ebron.
    ‘It was neither. It was Icarium Lifestealer. He was here, waiting in line to cross blades with the Emperor, but he never got to him, because of that Toblakai—who was none other than Leoman of the Flails’ old friend back in Raraku, by the way. Anyway, Icarium did something, right here in Letheras.’ Bottle paused and eyed Ebron. ‘What are you getting when you awaken your warren?’
    ‘Confusion, powers spitting at each other, nothing you can grasp tight, nothing you can use.’
    ‘And it’s got worse since the reading, hasn’t it?’
    ‘It has,’ confirmed Deadsmell. ‘Ebron will tell you about the mad house weunleashed the night of the reading—I could have sworn Hood stepped right into our room. But the truth was, the