The Malazan Empire, page 819
‘Precisely my point. It was none of my business in the first place. I had no right to be irritated or impatient.’
‘You were both because you cared, and you barely know the man. You may not know it, but you made friends in that throne room, right then and right there. Korlat’s eyes shone. And the High Priestess actually smiled. Like a mother, both proud and indulgent. They are yours, Nimander.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘We all are.’
Nimander wasn’t ready to contemplate such notions. ‘How fares Nenanda?’
‘Recovering, as thin-skinned as ever.’
‘And Clip?’
Skintick shrugged. ‘I wish I could say humbled.’
‘I wish you could as well.’
‘He’s furious. Feels cheated, personally slighted. He’ll be trouble, I fear, an eternal thorn in your side.’
Nimander sighed. ‘They probably felt the same at the Andara, which was why they sent him to find us.’
‘On a wave of cheering fanfare, no doubt.’
Nimander turned. ‘Skin, I truly do not know if I can do this.’
‘Unlike Anomander Rake, you are not alone, Nimander. The burden no longer rests upon one person. She is with us now.’
‘She could have left us Aranatha.’
‘Aranatha was not Aranatha for some time – perhaps you don’t remember when she was younger. Nimander, our sister was a simpleton. Barely a child in her mind, no matter that she grew into a woman.’
‘I always saw it as…innocence.’
‘There again, your generosity of spirit.’
‘My inability to discriminate, you mean.’
They were silent for a time. Nimander glanced up at the spire. ‘There was a dragon up there.’
‘Silanah. Er, very close to Anomander Rake, I’m told.’
‘I wonder where she went?’
‘You could always awaken Tiam’s blood within you, and find out, Nimander.’
‘Ah, no thank you.’
Spinnock Durav had moved out past Night and had reached the razed stretch that had been a squalid encampment, where a monastery was now under construction, although for the moment a military tent was the temple wherein dwelt Salind, the High Priestess of the Redeemer.
Would she accept him?
Mother Dark, hear me please. For Spinnock Durav, who stood in your son’s place, again and again. Give him peace. Give him happiness.
At the Great Barrow there were other workers, pilgrims for the most part, raising a lesser burial mound, to hold the bones of someone named Seerdomin, who had been chosen to stand eternal vigilance at the foot of the Redeemer. It was odd and mysterious, how such notions came to pass. Nimander reminded himself that he would have to send a crew out there, to see if they needed any help.
‘What are you thinking, Lord Nimander?’
Nimander winced at the title. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘about prayers. How they feel…cleaner when one says them not for oneself, but on behalf of someone else.’ He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I was praying for Spinnock. Anyway, that’s what I was thinking. Well, the High Priestess says there are things we need to talk about. I’d best be off.’
As he turned, Skintick said, ‘It’s said that Anomander Rake would stand facing the sea.’
‘Oh, and?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that I’ve noticed that you’ve taken to staring out over land, out to that Great Barrow. Is there something about the Redeemer that interests you?’
And Nimander just smiled, and then he went inside, leaving Skintick staring after him.
In a chamber devoted to the most arcane rituals, forty-seven steps beneath the ground floor of the High Alchemist’s estate, two iron anvils had been placed within an inscribed circle. The torches lining the walls struggled to lift flames above their blackened mouths.
Sitting at a table off to one side was the witch, Derudan, a hookah at her side, smoke rising from her as if she steamed in the chilly air. At the edge of the circle stood Vorcan, who now called herself Lady Varada, wrapped tight inside a dark grey woollen cloak. The Great Raven, Crone, walked as if pacing out the chamber’s dimensions, her head crooking again and again to regard the anvils.
Baruk was by the door, eyeing Vorcan and Derudan. The last of the T’orrud Cabal. The taste in his mouth was of ashes.
There were servants hidden in the city, and they were even now at work. To bring about a fell return, to awaken one of the Tyrants of old. Neither woman in this room was unaware of this, and the fear was palpable in its persistent distraction.
The fate of Darujhistan – and of the T’orrud Cabal – was not their reason for being here, however.
The door swung open with a creak and in strode Caladan Brood, carrying in one hand the sword Dragnipur. He paused just inside and glowered across at Vorcan, and then Derudan. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he told them.
Vorcan bowed. ‘Forgive us, Warlord, but we will stay.’
Clearing his throat, Baruk said, ‘My fault, Warlord. It seems they do not trust me – not in such close proximity to that weapon.’
Brood bared his teeth. ‘Am I not guardian enough?’
Seeing Vorcan’s faint smile, Baruk said, ‘The lack of trust is mutual, I am afraid. I am more at ease with these two here in front of us, rather than, um, my starting at every shadow.’
The warlord continued staring at Vorcan. ‘You’d try for me, Assassin?’
Crone cackled at the suggestion.
‘I assume,’ Vorcan said, ‘there will be no need.’
Brood glanced at Baruk. ‘What a miserable nest you live in, High Alchemist. Never mind, it’s time.’
They watched him walk into the circle. They watched him set Dragnipur down, bridging the two anvils. He took a single step back, then, and grew still as he stared down at the sword.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Fine craftsmanship.’
‘May you one day be able to compliment its maker in person,’ Vorcan said. ‘Just don’t expect me to make the introduction. I don’t know where they will all spill out, so long as it isn’t in my city.’
Brood shrugged. ‘I am the wrong one from whom to seek reassurance, Assassin.’ He drew the huge hammer from his back and readied the weapon. ‘I’m just here to break the damned thing.’
No one spoke then, and not one of the watchers moved a muscle as the warlord took a second step back and raised the hammer over his head. He held it poised for a moment. ‘I’d swear,’ he said in a low rumble, ‘that Burn’s smiling in her sleep right now.’
And down came the hammer.
Fisher was waiting in the garden, strangely fresh, renewed, when Lady Envy returned home. She had walked in the midst of thousands, out to a barrow. She had watched, as had all the others, as if a stranger to the one fallen. But she was not that.
She found a delicate decanter of the thinnest Nathii greenglass, filled with amber wine, and collected two goblets, and walked out to join the bard. He rose from the bench he had been sitting on and would have taken a step closer to her, but then he saw her expression.
The bard was wise enough to hide his sigh of relief. He watched her fill both goblets to the brim. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
She would not speak of her time at the barrow. She would, in fact, never speak of it. Not to this man, not to anyone. ‘Caladan Brood,’ she replied, ‘that’s what happened. And there’s more.’
‘What?’
She faced him, and then drained her goblet. ‘My father. He’s back.’
Oh frail city…
An empty plain it was, beneath an empty sky. Weak, flickering fire nested deep in its ring of charred stones, now little more than ebbing coals. A night, a hearth, and a tale now spun, spun out.
‘Has thou ever seen Kruppe dance?’
‘No. I think not. Not by limb, not by word.’
‘Then, my friends, settle yourselves for this night. And witness…’
And so they did. Bard and Elder God, and oh how Kruppe danced. Blind to the threat of frowns, blind to dismay, rolling eyes, blind even to contempt – although none of these things came from these two witnesses. But beyond this frail ring of warm light, out in that vast world so discordant, so filled with tumult, judgement harsh and gleeful in cruelty, there can be no knowing the cast of arrayed faces.
No matter.
One must dance, and dance did Kruppe, oh, yes, he did dance.
The night draws to an end, the dream dims in the pale silver of awakening. Kruppe ceases, weary beyond reason. Sweat drips down the length of his ratty beard, his latest affectation.
A bard sits, head bowed, and in a short time he will say thank you. But for now he must remain silent, and as for the other things he would say, they are between him and Kruppe and none other. Fisher sits, head bowed. While an Elder God weeps.
The tale is spun. Spun out.
Dance by limb, dance by word. Witness!
This ends the Eighth Tale of the
Malazan Book of the Fallen
DUST OF DREAMS
BOOK NINE OF THE
MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN
STEVEN ERIKSON
Dust
of Dreams
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.
DUST OF DREAMS: BOOK NINE OF THE MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN
Copyright © 2009 by Steven Erikson
First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers
All rights reserved.
Map by Neil Gower
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.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Erikson, Steven.
Dust of dreams / Steven Erikson. — 1st ed.
p. cm. —(The Malazan book of the fallen ; bk. 9)
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-1009-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-1655-4 (trade paperback)
I. Title.
PR9199.4.E745D87 2010
813'.6—dc22
2009040411
First U.S. Edition: January 2010
eISBN 9781429969550
Ten years ago I received an endorsement from a most
unexpected source, from a writer I respected and admired.
The friendship born in that moment is one I deeply treasure.
With love and gratitude, I dedicate this novel
to Stephen R. Donaldson.
Acknowledgments
Commenting on the first half of a very long, two-volume novel is not an easy task. My thanks (and sympathy) go to William Hunter, Hazel Kendall, Bowen Thomas-Lundin, and Aidan-Paul Canavan for their percipience and forbearance. Appreciation also goes to the staff at The Black Stilt and Café Macchiato in Victoria who were very understanding in my surrender to caffeine-free coffee. Thanks too to Clare Thomas; and special gratitude goes to my students in the writing workshop I have been conducting for the past few months. Shannon, Margaret, Shigenori, Brenda, Jade, and Lenore: you have helped remind me what fiction writing is all about.
Author’s Note
While I am, of course, not known for writing door-stopper tomes, the conclusion of ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’ was, to my mind, always going to demand something more than modern bookbinding technology could accommodate. To date, I have avoided writing cliff-hangers, principally because as a reader I always hated having to wait to find out what happens. Alas, Dust of Dreams is the first half of a two-volume novel, to be concluded with The Crippled God. Accordingly, if you’re looking for resolutions to various story-threads, you won’t find them. Also, do note that there is no epilogue and, structurally, Dust of Dreams does not follow the traditional arc for a novel. To this, all I can ask of you is, please be patient. I know you can do it: after all, you have waited this long, haven’t you?
Steven Erikson
Victoria, B.C.
Dramatis Personae
The Malazans
Adjunct Tavore
High Mage Quick Ben
Fist Keneb
Fist Blistig
Captain Lostara Yil
Banaschar
Captain Kindly
Captain Skanarow
Captain Faradan Sort
Captain Ruthan Gudd
Captain Fast
Captain Untilly Rum
Lieutenant Pores
Lieutenant Raband
Sinn
Grub
The Squads
Sergeant Fiddler
Corporal Tarr
Koryk
Smiles
Bottle
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas
Cuttle
Sergeant Gesler
Corporal Stormy
Shortnose
Flashwit
Mayfly
Sergeant Cord
Corporal Shard
Limp
Ebron
Crump (Jamber Bole)
Sergeant Hellian
Corporal Touchy
Corporal Brethless
Balgrid
Maybe
Sergeant Balm
Corporal Deadsmell
Throatslitter
Galt
Lobe
Widdershins
Sergeant Thom Tissy
Tulip
Gullstream
Sergeant Urb
Corporal Reem
Masan Gilani
Saltlick
Scant
Sergeant Sinter
Corporal Pravalak Rim
Honey
Strap Mull
Shoaly
Lookback
Sergeant Badan Gruk
Corporal Ruffle
Skim
Nep Furrow
Reliko
Vastly Blank
Sergeant Primly
Corporal Kisswhere
Hunt
Mulvan Dreader
Neller
Skulldeath
Drawfirst
Dead Hedge
Alchemist Bavedict
Sergeant Sunrise
Sergeant Nose Stream
Corporal Sweetlard
Corporal Rumjugs
The Khundryl
Warleader Gall
Hanavat (Gall’s wife)
Jarabb
Shelemasa
Vedith
The Perish Grey
Helms
Mortal Sword Krughava
Shield Anvil Tanakalian
Destriant Run’Thurvian
The Letherii
King Tehol
Queen Janath
Chancellor Bugg
Ceda Bugg
Treasurer Bugg
Yan Tovis (Twilight)
Yedan Derryg (the Watch)
Brys Beddict
Atri-Ceda Aranict
Shurq Elalle
Skorgen Kaban
Ublala Pung
Witch Pully
Witch Skwish
Brevity
Pithy
Rucket
Ursto Hoobutt
Pinosel
The Barghast
Warleader Onos Toolan
Hetan
Stavi
Storii
Warchief Stolmen
Warlock Cafal
Strahl
Bakal
Warchief Maral Eb
Skincut Ralata
Awl Torrent
Setoc of the Wolves
The Snake
Rutt
Held
Badalle
Saddic
Brayderal
Imass
Onrack
Kilava
Ulshun Pral
T’lan Imass
Lera Epar
Kalt Urmanal
Rystalle Ev
Brolos Haran
Ilm Absinos
Ulag Togtil
Nom Kala
Inistral Ovan
K’Chain Che’malle
Matron Gunth’an Acyl
J’an Sentinel Bre’nigan
K’ell Hunter Sag’Churok
One Daughter Gunth Mach
K’ell Hunter Kor Thuran
K’ell Hunter Rythok
Shi’Gal Assassin Gu’Rull
Sulkit
Destriant Kalyth (Elan)
Others
Silchas Ruin
Rud Elalle
Telorast
Curdle
The Errant (Errastas)
Knuckles (Sechul Lath)
Kilmandaros
Mael
Olar Ethil
Udinaas
Sheb
Taxilian
Veed
Asane
Breath
Last
Nappet
Rautos
Sandalath Drukorlat
Withal
Mape
Rind
Pule
Bent
Roach
Dust
of Dreams
Prologue
Elan Plain, west of Kolanse
There was light, and then there was heat.
He knelt, carefully taking each brittle fold in his hands, ensuring that every crease was perfect, that nothing of the baby was exposed to the sun. He drew the hood in until little more than a fist-sized hole was left for her face, her features grey smudges in the darkness, and then he gently picked her up and settled her into the fold of his left arm. There was no hardship in this.
They’d camped near the only tree in any direction, but not under it. The tree was a gamleh tree and the gamlehs were angry with people. In the dusk of the night before, its branches had been thick with fluttering masses of grey leaves, at least until they drew closer. This morning the branches were bare.
