The Malazan Empire, page 457
Tarthenal: an assimilated people in Lether
The Seregahl: the five gods of the Tarthenal
Mythos (Letherii, Edur and other)
(The) Black Winged Lord: divinity worshipped in Bluerose
Kilmandaros: an Elder Goddess
Mael: an Elder God
Menandore (Betrayer, Dawn)
Scabandari Bloodeye (Father Shadow, Emurlahnis)
Sheltatha Lore (Daughter Dusk)
Silchas Ruin (The Betrayer)
Sukul Ankhadu (The Fickle, Dapple)
The Holds
THE TILES
The Beast Hold
Bone Perch
Elder
Crone
Seer
Shaman
Hunter
Tracker
The Azath Hold
Heartstone
Keeper
Portal
Path
Mason
Tomb
Guest
Barrow
Root
Wall
The Dragon Hold
Queen
Consort
Liege
Knight
Gate
Wyval
The Lady
Blood-Drinker
Path-Shaper
The Ice Hold
Ice Throne
Walker
Huntress
Shaper
Bearer
Child
Seed
The Empty Hold
Empty Throne
Wanderer
Mistress
Watcher
Walker
Saviour
Betrayer
The Fulcra (unaligned)
Shapefinder
The Pack
The Errant
Axe (Eres)
Crow (White Crow)
Fire
Dolmen
Blade
Knuckles
THE
BONEHUNTERS
BOOK SIX OF THE
MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN
STEVEN ERIKSON
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE BONEHUNTERS: BOOK SIX OF THE MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN
Copyright © 2006 by Steven Erikson
All rights reserved.
Originally published in Great Britain in 2006 by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-4883-8
eISBN 9781429926973
To Courtney Welch.
Keep the music coming, friend.
For all that is made real
In this age descending
Where heroes leave naught
But the iron ring of their names
From bardic throats
I stand in this silent heart
Yearning the fading beat
Of lives fallen to dust
And the sifting whisper
Proclaims glory’s passing
As the songs fail
In dwindling echoes
For all that is made real
The chambers and halls
Yawn empty to my cries –
For someone must
Give answer
Give answer
To all of this
Someone
The Age Descending
Torbora Fethena
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the usual suspects, including my early-draft readers Chris, Mark, Rick, Courtney, and Bill Hunter who has proved invaluable on the mechanics and full listing of variants of the Deck of Dragons – but listen, Bill, no more walking miles through the rain, right? Cam Esslemont for a most diligent read-through – I’m glad at least one of us has got the timeline right. Clare and Bowen, as always. To the staff at Bar Italia for seeing me through another one – three novellas and four novels and twenty-two thousand lattes, that was quite a run, wasn’t it? Steve, Perry and Ross Donaldson, for the friendship. Simon Taylor, Patrick Walsh and Howard Morhaim, for the good work done each and every time.
Dramatis Personae
The Malazans
Empress Laseen, ruler of the Malazan Empire
Adjunct Tavore, commander of the Fourteenth Army
Fist Keneb, division commander
Fist Blistig, division commander
Fist Tene Baralta, division commander
Fist Temul, division commander
Nil, a Wickan warlock
Nether, a Wickan witch
T’amber, Tavore’s aide
Lostara Yil, aide to Pearl
Pearl, a Claw
Nok, Admiral of the Imperial Fleet
Banaschar, an ex-priest of D’rek
Hellian, a sergeant in the city guard of Kartool
Urb, a city guard in Kartool
Brethless, a city guard in Kartool
Touchy, a city guard in Kartool
Quick Ben, High Mage in the Fourteenth Army
Kalam Mekhar, an assassin
Grub, a foundling
Selected Soldiers in the Fourteenth Army
Captain Kindly, Ashok Regiment
Lieutenant Pores, Ashok Regiment
Captain Faradan Sort
Sergeant Fiddler/Strings
Corporal Tarr
Cuttle
Bottle
Koryk
Smiles
Sergeant Gesler
Corporal Stormy
Master Sergeant Braven Tooth
Maybe
Lutes
Ebron
Sinn
Crump
Sergeant Balm
Corporal Deadsmell
Throatslitter
Masan Gilani
Others
Barathol Mekhar, a blacksmith
Kulat, a villager
Nulliss, a villager
Hayrith, a villager
Chaur, a villager
Noto Boil, company cutter (healer) in Onearm’s Host
Hurlochel, an outrider in Onearm’s Host
Captain Sweetcreek, an officer in Onearm’s Host
Corporal Futhgar, an officer in Onearm’s Host
Fist Rythe Bude, an officer in Onearm’s Host
Ormulogun, artist
Gumble, his critic
Apsalar, an assassin
Telorast, a spirit
Curdle, a spirit
Samar Dev, a witch of Ugarat
Karsa Orlong, a Teblor warrior
Ganath, a Jaghut
Spite, a Soletaken and sister to Lady Envy
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas
Leoman of the Flails, last leader of the rebellion
Captain Dunsparrow, Y’Ghatan city guard
Karpolan Demesand, Trygalle Trade Guild
Torahaval Delat, a priestess of Poliel
Cutter, once Crokus of Darujhistan
Heboric Ghost Hands, Destraint of Treach
Scillara, refugee from Raraku
Felisin the Younger, refugee from Raraku
Greyfrog, a demon
Mappo Runt, a Trell
Icarium, a Jhag
Iskaral Pust, a priest of Shadow
Mogora, a D’ivers
Taralack Veed, a Gral and agent of the Nameless Ones
Dejim Nebrahl, a D’ivers T’rolbarahl of the First Empire
Trull Sengar, a Tiste Edur
Onrack the Broken, an unbound T’lan Imass
Ibra Gholan, a T’lan Imass
Monok Ochem, a T’lan Imass Bonecaster
Minala, commander of the Company of Shadow
Tomad Sengar, a Tiste Edur
Feather Witch, a Letherii slave
Atri-Preda Yan Tovis (Twilight), commander of Letherii forces
Captain Varat Taun, officer under Twilight’s Command
Taxilian, an interpreter
Ahlrada Ahn, a Tiste Andii spy among the Tiste Edur
Sathbaro Rangar, Arapay warlock
Prologue
1164 Burn’s Sleep
Istral’fennidahn, the season of D’rek, Worm of Autumn
Twenty-four days since the Execution of Sha’ik in Raraku
The webs between the towers were visible in glistening sheets far overhead, and the faint wind coming in from the sea shivered the vast threads so that a mist of rain descended on Kartool City, as it did every morning in the Clear Season.
Most things a person could get used to, eventually, and since the yellow-banded paralt spiders had been the first to occupy the once infamous towers following the Malazan conquest of the island, and that was decades past now, there had been plenty of time to become inured to such details. Even the sight of gulls and pigeons suspended motionless between the score of towers every morning, before the fist-sized spiders emerged from their upper-floor dens to retrieve their prey, yielded little more than faint revulsion among the citizens of Kartool City.
Sergeant Hellian of the Septarch District city guard, alas, was an exception to this. There were gods, she suspected, convulsed in perpetual hilarity at her wretched fate, for which they were no doubt responsible. Born in the city, cursed with a fear of all manner of spiders, she had lived the entirety of her nineteen years in unrelieved terror.
Why not just leave? A question asked by comrades and acquaintances more times than she cared to count. But it wasn’t that simple. It was impossible, in fact. The murky waters of the harbour were fouled with moult-skins and web-fragments and sodden, feather-tufted carcasses bobbing here and there. Inland, things got even worse. The young paralt, upon escaping their elders in the city, struggled to maturity among the limestone cliffs ringing Kartool. And though young, they were no less aggressive or virulent. While traders and farmers told her that one could walk the trails and roads all day without encountering a single one, Hellian didn’t care. She knew the gods were waiting. Just like the spiders.
When sober, the sergeant noticed things, in a proper and diligent manner suited to a city guard. And while she was not consistently drunk, cold sobriety was an invitation to hysteria, so Hellian endeavoured to proceed steadily on the wobbly rope of not-quite-drunk. Accordingly, she had not known of the odd ship now moored in the Free Docks, that had arrived before sunrise, its pennons indicating that it had come from Malaz Island.
Ships hailing from Malaz Island were not of themselves unusual or noteworthy; however, autumn had arrived, and the prevailing winds of the Clear Season made virtually all lanes to the south impossible to navigate for at least the next two months.
Were things less bleary, she might also have noticed – had she taken the time to head down to the docks, which perhaps could have been managed at sword-point – that the ship was not the usual barque or trader, nor a military dromon, but a sleek, gracile thing, styled in a manner not employed in the past fifty years by any shipbuilders of the empire. Arcane carvings adorned the blade-like prow, minuscule shapes detailing serpents and worms, the panels sweeping back along the gunnels almost halfway down the length of the ship. The stern was squared and strangely high, with a side-mounted steering oar. The crew numbered about a dozen, quiet for sailors, and disinclined to leave the ship as it lolled alongside the dock. A lone figure had disembarked as soon as the gangplank had settled, shortly before dawn.
For Hellian, these details came later. The runner that found her was a local brat who, when he wasn’t breaking laws, loitered around the docks in the hopes of being hired as a guide for visitors. The fragment of parchment he handed her was, she could feel, of some quality. On it was written a terse message, the contents of which made her scowl.
‘All right, lad, describe the man gave this to you.’
‘I can’t.’
Hellian glanced back at the four guards standing behind her on the street corner. One of them stepped behind the boy and picked him up, one-handed, gripping the back of the ratty tunic. A quick shake.
‘Loosed your memory some?’ Hellian asked. ‘I hope so, because I ain’t paying coin.’
‘I can’t remember! I looked right into his face, Sergeant! Only…I can’t remember what it looked like!’
She studied the boy for a moment, then grunted and turned away.
The guard set the lad down but did not release his grip.
‘Let him go, Urb.’
The lad scampered away.
With a vague gesture for her guards to follow, she set off.
The Septarch District was the city’s most peaceful area, not through any particular diligence on Hellian’s part, however. There were few commercial buildings, and those residences that existed served to house acolytes and support staff of the dozen temples commanding the district’s main avenue. Thieves who wanted to stay alive did not steal from temples.
She led her squad onto the avenue, noting once again how decrepit many of the temples had become. The paralt spiders liked the ornate architecture and the domes and lesser towers, and it seemed the priests were losing the battle. Chitinous rubbish crackled and crunched underfoot as they walked.
Years ago, the first night of Istral’fennidahn, just past, would have been marked with an island-wide fete, filled with sacrifices and propitiations to Kartool’s patron goddess, D’rek, the Worm of Autumn, and the archpriest of the Grand Temple, the Demidrek, would lead a procession through the city on a carpet of fecund rubbish, his bared feet sweeping through maggot- and worm-ridden refuse. Children would chase lame dogs down the alleys, and those they cornered they would stone to death whilst shrieking their goddess’s name. Convicted criminals sentenced to execution would have their skins publicly flailed, their long-bones broken, then the hapless victims would be flung into pits aswarm with carrion beetles and red fireworms, that would devour them over the course of four or five days.
All of this was before the Malazan conquest, of course. The Emperor’s principal target had been the cult of D’rek. He’d well understood that the heart of Kartool’s power was the Grand Temple, and the island’s master sorcerors were the priests and priestesses of D’rek, ruled over by the Demidrek. Further, it was no accident that the night of slaughter that preceded the naval battle and the subsequent invasion, a night led by the infamous Dancer and Surly, Mistress of the Claw, had so thoroughly obliterated the cult’s sorcerors, including the Demidrek. For the archpriest of the Grand Temple had only recently gained his eminence via an internal coup, and the ousted rival had been none other than Tayschrenn, the Emperor’s new – at the time – High Mage.
Hellian had but heard tales of the celebrations, since they had been outlawed as soon as the Malazan occupiers settled the imperial mantle upon the island, but she had been told often enough about those glorious days of long ago, when Kartool Island had been at the pinnacle of civilization.
The present sordid condition was the fault of the Malazans, everyone agreed. Autumn had in truth arrived upon the island and its morose inhabitants. More than the cult of D’rek had been crushed, after all. Slavery was abolished, the execution pits had been scoured clean and permanently sealed. There was even a building hosting a score of misguided altruists who adopted lame dogs.
They passed the modest temple of the Queen of Dreams and, squatting on the opposite side, the much-hated Temple of Shadows. There had once been but seven religions permitted upon Kartool, six subservient to D’rek – hence the district’s name. Soliel, Poliel, Beru, Burn, Hood and Fener. Since the conquest, more had arrived – the two aforementioned, along with Dessembrae, Togg and Oponn. And the Grand Temple of D’rek, still the largest of all the structures in the city, was in a pathetic state of disrepair.
The figure standing before the broad-stepped entrance wore the garb of a Malazan sailor, faded waterproofed leathers, a worn shirt of thin, ragged linen. His dark hair was in a queue, hanging down between his shoulders and otherwise unadorned. As he turned at their approach, the sergeant saw a middle-aged face with even, benign features, although there was something odd about the man’s eyes, something vaguely fevered.
Hellian drew a deep breath to help clear her sodden thoughts, then raised the parchment between them. ‘This is yours, I presume?’
The man nodded. ‘You are the guard commander in this district?’
She smiled. ‘Sergeant Hellian. The captain died last year of a septic foot. We’re still waiting for a replacement.’
Brows rose with irony. ‘Not a promotion, Sergeant? One presumes, therefore, that sobriety would be a decisive virtue for a captain.’
‘Your note said there’s trouble at the Grand Temple,’ Hellian said, ignoring the man’s rudeness and turning to study the massive edifice. The double doors, she noted with a frown, were closed. On this day of all days, this was unprecedented.
‘I think so, Sergeant,’ the man said.
‘Had you come to pay your respects to D’rek?’ Hellian asked him, as faint unease struggled through the alcoholic haze. ‘Are the doors locked? What’s your name and where are you from?’
‘I am named Banaschar, from Malaz Island. We arrived this morning.’
A grunt from one of the guards behind her, and Hellian thought about it. Then she shot Banaschar a more careful look. ‘By ship? At this time of year?’
‘We made what haste we could. Sergeant, I believe we need to break into the Grand Temple.’
‘Why not just knock?’
‘I have tried,’ Banaschar replied. ‘No-one comes.’
Hellian hesitated. Break into the Grand Temple? The Fist will have my tits on a fry pan for this.
‘There are dead spiders on the steps,’ Urb said suddenly.
They turned.
‘Hood’s blessing,’ Hellian muttered, ‘lots of them.’ Curious now, she walked closer. Banaschar followed, and after a moment the squad fell in.
‘They look…’ She shook her head.
‘Decayed,’ Banaschar said. ‘Rotting. Sergeant, the doors, please.’
Still she hesitated. A thought occurred to her and she glared at the man. ‘You said you made all haste to get here. Why? Are you an acolyte of D’rek? – You don’t look it. What brought you here, Banaschar?’
