The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1001 page)

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Warleader Gall

Hanavat (Gall’s wife)

Jarabb

Shelemasa

Vedith

Mortal Sword Krughava

Shield Anvil Tanakalian

Destriant Run’Thurvian

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

Warleader Onos Toolan

Hetan

Stavi

Storii

Warchief Stolmen

Warlock Cafal

Strahl

Bakal

Warchief Maral Eb

Skincut Ralata

Awl Torrent

Setoc of the Wolves

Rutt

Held

Badalle

Saddic

Brayderal

Onrack

Kilava

Ulshun Pral

Lera Epar

Kalt Urmanal

Rystalle Ev

Brolos Haran

Ilm Absinos

Ulag Togtil

Nom Kala

Inistral Ovan

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)

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

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.

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 tree-fall 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.