Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9)

Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) Page 355

Kisswhere snorted. ‘You ain’t that big,’ and then she looked away, as she realized how petty that sounded.

But Gilani’s smile had simply broadened. ‘The only real problem with you southerners is that you’re barely passable on horseback. I’d not count on you to ride hard as me, ever. So it’s a good thing you’re marines. Me, I could be either and to be honest, I’d have jumped over to the scouts long ago-’

‘So why didn’t you?’ Kisswhere asked.

She shrugged. ‘Scouting’s boring. Besides, I’m not interested in always being the one delivering bad news.’

‘Expecting bad news?’

‘Always.’ And her teeth gleamed.

Kisswhere turned away. She was done with this conversation. Sinter was welcome to it.

‘So,’ Masan Gilani said after a moment, ‘Sergeant Sinter. Rumour has it you’re a natural, a talent. Tell me if that’s true or not, since it’s the only thing that brought me out here-the chance that you are, I mean. If you’re not, then this meeting is over.’

‘Listen to her!’ Kisswhere sneered. ‘The Empress commands!’

Masan blinked. ‘You still here? Thought you went to pick flowers.’

Kisswhere reached for her knife but Sinter’s hand snapped out and closed on her wrist. Hissing, Kisswhere yielded, but her eyes remained fixed on Gilani’s.

‘Oh, it’s all so amusing to you, isn’t it?’

‘Kisswhere, yes? That’s your name? I’ll say this once. I don’t know what’s got the stoat in your breeches so riled, since as far as I know I ain’t never done anything to cross you. Leaves me no choice but to assume it’s just some kind of bizarre bigotry-what happened, lose a lover to a willowy northerner? Well, it wasn’t me. So, why not drop the hackles? Here, will this help?’ And she drew out a Dal Honese wineskin. ‘Not wild grape from our homeland, alas-’

‘It ain’t that rice piss from Lether, is it?’

‘No. It’s Bluerose-an Andiian brew, originally, or so the trader claimed.’ She shrugged and held out the skin. ‘It’s drinkable enough.’

Kisswhere accepted the skin. She knew overtures when they arrived, and she knew that Masan had given her a way through without too much damage to her pride, so it’d be stupid not to take that path. She tugged loose the gum stopper and took a mouthful. Swallowed and then gasped. ‘That’ll do,’ she said in a suddenly husky voice.

Sinter finally spoke: ‘Everyone’s claws retracted? Good. Masan, you want to know if I’m a talent. Well, not in the way of Dal Honese witches. But I’ve got something, I suppose.’

‘All right. So what’s that “something” telling you?’

Sinter hesitated, and then reached out to intercept the wineskin. She took two deep draughts. ‘Aye, you’re a northerner and we’re not, but we’re all still Dal Honese. So we understand each other, and when I say I’m going to give you something I don’t need to add that I expect something back.’

Masan Gilani laughed, but it was not a mocking laugh. Not quite. ‘You just did.’

‘You been a soldier longer than us,’ Sinter countered, ‘so I was just reminding you of the ways you’ve maybe forgotten, or at least not used in a while.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘I get senses of things about to happen, or maybe could happen-if we don’t do something to make sure they don’t.’

‘You’re a seer.’

But Sinter shook her head. ‘Not so clear as that.’

‘What is about to happen to us, Sergeant?’

‘We’re about to be abandoned.’

Kisswhere joined Masan Gilani in regarding Sinter with alarm. What was all this? ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘what does that mean? Abandoned? By who? Do you mean just us? Or the Bonehunters?’

‘Yes,’ answered Sinter. ‘Bonehunters. All of us, the Adjunct included.’

Masan Gilani was frowning. ‘You’re talking about the Burned Tears? The Perish? Or the Letherii escort?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe all of them.’

‘So wherever we end up,’ Masan said slowly, ‘we’ll be fighting on our own. No one guarding our backs, no one on our flanks. Like that?’

‘I think so.’

Masan rubbed at her neck. When Kisswhere offered her the skin she shook her head. ‘Hard to know, Sinter, how much shit should be freezing with that, since nobody has a clue about who we’ll be fighting. What if it’s some noseplug savages cowering behind a bamboo palisade throwing rocks at us? We’d hardly need help knocking on that door, would we?’