Free Dust of Dreams by Steven Erikson Page A

anybody—’
    ‘Whiskeyjack?’
    Hedge shifted uneasily, glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘Funny, that.’
    ‘What?’
    The sapper nodded towards the two caged birds. ‘Those are jaraks, aren’t they?’
    Quick Ben tilted his head downward and knuckled his brow with both hands. ‘Some kind of geas, maybe? Some curse of evasiveness? Or just the usual obstinate stupidity we all knew so well?’
    ‘There you go,’ said Hedge, reaching for his ale, ‘talkin’ to yourself again.’
    ‘You’re shying from certain topics, Hedge. There’s secrets you don’t want to spill, and that makes me nervous. And not just me—’
    ‘Fid always gets nervous round me. You all do. It’s just my stunning looks and charm, I figure.’
    ‘Nice try,’ drawled Quick Ben. ‘I was actually talking about the Adjunct.’
    ‘What reason’s she got to be nervous about me?’ Hedge demanded. ‘In fact, it’sthe other damned way round! There’s no making sense of that woman—you’ve said so yourself often enough, Quick.’ He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ‘You heard something new? About where we’re going? About what in Hood’s name we’re doing next?’
    The wizard simply stared.
    Hedge reached under a flap and scratched above his ear, and then settled back, looking pleased with himself.
    A moment later two people arrived to halt at their table. Glancing up, Hedge started guiltily.
    ‘High Mage, sapper,’ said Lostara Yil, ‘the Adjunct requests your immediate presence. If you will follow us.’
    ‘Me?’ asked Hedge, his voice almost a squeal.
    ‘First name on the list,’ said Faradan Sort with a hard smile.
    ‘Now you’ve done it,’ hissed Quick Ben.
     
    As the four foreigners left, one of the jarak birds said, ‘I smell death.’
    ‘No you don’t,’ croaked the other.
    ‘I smell death,’ the first one insisted.
    ‘No. You smell
dead
.’
    After a moment, the first bird lifted a wing and thrust its head underneath, and then withdrew and settled once more. ‘Sorry.’
     
    The matted wicker bars of the pen wall between them, Captain Kindly and the Wickan cattle-dog Bent glared at each other with bared teeth.
    ‘Listen to me, dog,’ said Kindly, ‘I want you to find Sinn, and Grub. Any funny business, like trying to rip out my throat, and I’ll stick you. Mouth to butt, straight through. Then I’ll saw off your head and sink it in the river. I’ll chop off your paws and sell ’em to ugly witches. I’ll strip your hide and get it cut up and made into codpieces for penitent sex-addicts-turned-priests, the ones with certain items hidden under their cots. And I’ll do all this while you’re still alive. Am I understood?’
    The lips on the beast’s scarred, twisted muzzle had if anything curled back even further, revealing blood-red lacerations from the splintered fangs. Crimson froth bubbled out between the gaps. Above that smashed mouth, Bent’s eyes burned like two tunnels into a demon lord’s brain, swirling with enraged madness. At the dog’s back end, the stub of the tail wagged in fits and starts, as if particularly pleasing thoughts spasmed through the beast.
    Kindly stood, holding a braided leather leash with one end tied into a noose. ‘I’m going to slip this over your head, dog. Make a fuss and I’ll hang you high and laugh at every twitch. In fact, I’ll devise a hundred new ways of killing you and I’ll use every one of them.’ He lifted the noose into view.
    A matted ball of twigs, hair and clumps of mud that had been lying off to one side of the pen—a heap that had been doing its own growling—suddenly launcheditself forward in a flurry of bounds until it drew close enough to fling itself into the air—sharp, tiny teeth aiming for the captain’s neck.
    He lashed out his left fist, intercepting the lapdog in mid-air. A muted crunching sound, and the clack of jaws snapping shut on nothing, as the Hengese lapdog named Roach abruptly altered course, landing and bouncing a