Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  Dust

  of Dreams

  Also by Steven Erikson

  Gardens of the Moon

  Dead house Gates

  Memories of Ice

  House of Chains

  Midnight Tides

  The Bonehunters

  Reaper’s Gale

  Toll the Hounds

  STEVEN ERIKSON

  Dust

  of Dreams

  BOOK NINE OF

  THE MALAZAN

  BOOK OF THE FALLEN

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  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

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  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.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  MAP

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE The Sea Does Not Dream Of You

  BOOK TWO Eaters of Diamonds and Gems

  BOOK THREE Only the Dust Will Dance

  BOOK FOUR The Path Forever Walked

  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

  Kil
ava

  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

  T

  here 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.

  Facing west, Rutt stood holding the baby he had named Held. The grasses were colourless. In places they had been scoured away by the dry wind, wind that had then carved the dust out round their roots to expose the pale bulbs so the plants withered and died. After the dust and bulbs had gone, sometimes gravel was left. Other times it was just bedrock, black and gnarled. Elan Plain was losing its hair, but that was something Badalle might say, her green eyes fixed on the words in her head. There was no question she had a gift, but some gifts, Rutt knew, were curses in disguise.

  Badalle walked up to him now, her sun-charred arms thin as stork necks, the hands hanging at her sides coated in dust and looking oversized beside her skinny thighs. She blew to scatter the flies crusting her mouth and intoned:

  ‘Rutt he holds Held

  Wraps her good

  In the morning

  And then up he stands—’

  ‘Badalle,’ he said, knowing she was not finished with her poem but knowing, as well, that she would not be rushed, ‘we still live.’

  She nodded.

  These few words of his had become a ritual between them, although the ritual never lost its taint of surprise, its faint disbelief. The ribbers had been especially hard on them last night, but the good news was that maybe they had finally left the Fathers behind.

  Rutt adjusted the baby he’d named Held in his arm, and then he set out, hobbling on swollen feet. Westward, into the heart of the Elan.

  He did not need to look back to see that the others were following. Those who could, did. The ribbers would come for the rest. He’d not asked to be the head of the snake. He’d not asked for anything, but he was the tallest and might be he was the oldest. Might be he was thirteen, could be he was fourteen.

  Behind him Badalle said,

  ‘And walks he starts

  Out of that morning

  With Held in his arms

  And his ribby tail

  It snakes out

  Like a tongue

  From the sun.

  You need the longest

  Tongue

  When searching for

  Water

  Like the sun likes to do …’

  Badalle watched him for a time, watched as the others fell into his wake. She would join the ribby snake soon enough. She blew at the flies, but of course they came right back, clustering round the sores puffing her lips, hopping up to lick at the corners of her eyes. She had been a beauty once, with these green eyes and her long fair hair like tresses of gold. But beauty bought smiles for only so long. When the larder gapes empty, beauty gets smudged. ‘And the flies,’ she whispered, ‘make patterns of suffering. And suffering is ugly.’

  She watched Rutt. He was the head of the snake. He was the fangs, too, but that last bit was for her alone, her private joke.

  This snake had forgotten how to eat.

  She’d been among the ones who’d come up from the south, from the husks of homes in Korbanse, Krosis and Kanros. Even the isles of Otpelas. Some, like her, had walked along the coast of the Pelasiar Sea, and then to the western edge of Stet which had once been a great forest, and there they found the wooden road, Stump Road they sometimes called it. Trees cut on end to make flat circles, pounded into rows that went on and on. Other children then arrived from Stet itself, having walked the old stream beds wending through the grey tangle of shattered treefall and diseased shrubs. There were signs that Stet had once been a forest to match its old name which was Forest Stet, but Badalle was not entirely convinced—all she could see was a gouged wasteland, ruined and ravaged. There were no trees standing anywhere. They called it Stump Road, but other times it was Forest Road, and that too was a private joke.

  Of course, someone had needed lots of trees to make the road, so maybe there really had once been a forest there. But it was gone now.

  At the northern edge of Stet, facing out on to the Elan Plain, they had come upon another column of children, and a day later yet another one joined them, down from the north, from Kolanse itself, and at the head of this one there had been Rutt. Carrying Held. Tall, his shoulders, elbows, knees and ankles protruding and the skin round them slack and stretched. He had large, luminous eyes. He still had all his teeth, and when the morning arrived, each morning, he was there, at the head. The fangs, and the rest just followed.

  They all believed he knew where he was going, but they didn’t ask him since the belief was more important than the truth, which was that he was just as lost as all the rest.

  ‘All day Rutt holds Held

  And keeps her

  Wrapped

  In his shadow.

  It’s hard

  Not to love Rutt

  But Held doesn’t

  And no one loves Held

  But Rutt.’

  Visto had come from Okan. When the starvers and the bone-skinned inquisitors marched on the city his mother had sent him running, hand in hand with his sister who was two years older than he was, and they’d run down streets between burning buildings and screams filled the night and the starvers kicked in doors and dragged people out and did terrible things to them, while the bone-skins watched on and said it was necessary, everything here was necessary.

  They’d pulled his sister out of his grip, and it was her scream that still echoed in his skull. Each night since then, he had ridden it on the road of sleep, from the moment his exhaustion took him until the moment he awoke to the dawn’s pale face.

  He ran for what seemed forever, westward and away from the starvers. Eating what he could, savaged by thirst, and when he’d outdistanced the starvers the ribbers showed up, huge packs of gaunt dogs with red-rimmed eyes and no fear of anything. And then the Fathers, all wrapped in black, who plunged into the ragged camps on the roads and stole children away, and once he and a few others had come upon one of their old night-holds and had seen for
themselves the small split bones mottled blue and grey in the coals of the hearth, and so understood what the Fathers did to the children they took.

  Visto remembered his first sight of Forest Stet, a range of denuded hills filled with torn-up stumps, roots reminding him of one of the bone-yards that ringed the city that had been his home, left after the last of the livestock had been slaughtered. And at that moment, looking upon what had once been a forest, Visto had realized that the entire world was now dead. There was nothing left and nowhere to go.

  Yet onward he trudged, now just one among what must be tens of thousands, maybe even more, a road of children leagues long, and for all that died along the way, others arrived to take their place. He had not imagined that so many children existed. They were like a great herd, the last great herd, the sole source of food and nourishment for the world’s last, desperate hunters.

  Visto was fourteen years old. He had not yet begun his growth-spurt and now never would. His belly was round and rock hard, protruding so that his spine curved deep just above his hips. He walked like a pregnant woman, feet splayed, bones aching. He was full of Satra Riders, the worms inside his body endlessly swimming and getting bigger by the day. When they were ready—soon—they would pour out of him. From his nostrils, from the corners of his eyes, from his ears, from his belly button, his penis and his anus, and from his mouth. And to those who witnessed, he would seem to deflate, skin crinkling and collapsing down into weaving furrows running the length of his body. He would seem to instantly turn into an old man. And then he would die.

  Visto was almost impatient for that. He hoped ribbers would eat his body and so take in the eggs the Satra Riders had left behind, so that they too would die. Better yet, Fathers—but they weren’t that stupid, he was sure—no, they wouldn’t touch him and that was too bad.

  The Snake was leaving behind Forest Stet, and the wooden road gave way to a trader’s track of dusty, rutted dirt, wending out into the Elan. So, he would die on the plain, and his spirit would pull away from the shrunken thing that had been its body, and begin the long journey back home. To find his sister. To find his mother.

  And already, his spirit was tired, so tired, of walking.

  At day’s end, Badalle forced herself to climb an old Elan longbarrow with its ancient tree at the far end—grey leaves fluttering—from which she could turn and look back along the road, eastward, as far as her eyes could retrace the day’s interminable journey. Beyond the mass of the sprawled camp, she saw a wavy line of bodies stretching to the horizon. This had been an especially bad day, too hot, too dry, the lone waterhole a slough of foul, vermin-ridden mud filled with rotting insect carcasses that tasted like dead fish.