Dust of Dreams (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #9)

by Steven Erikson

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.

Koryk arrived, in a sweat, scowling and grinding his teeth. ‘Miserable turds,’ he muttered. ‘What’s with this lust to spend coin? Markets are stupid.’ ‘Keeps people happy,’ said Bottle, ‘or if not exactly happy, then . . . temporarily satiated. Which serves the same function.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘Keeping them outa trouble. The disruptive kind of trouble,’ he added, seeing Koryk’s knotted forehead, his darting eyes. ‘The kind that comes when a population finds the time to think, really think, I mean—when they start realizing what a piece of shit all this is.’

‘Relax, lizard,’ said Banaschar, leaning over and reaching down for the whirling creature, ‘soon you’ll dance again. And,’ he added as he snatched up Curdle, ‘so will I.’ Holding the bony reptile in one hand, the leg in the other, Banaschar glanced over at his silent guest—who sat in shadows, lone eye glittering. ‘All right,’ said Banaschar, ‘I’ll listen to you now.’ ‘I am pleased,’ murmured the Errant, ‘for we have very little time.’

Once the introductions and acknowledgements had been made, the Bolkando raised their goblets, and everyone drank. The liquid was foul and Tanakalian fought down a gag. Seeing their expressions, the Chancellor smiled. ‘Yes, it is atrocious, is it not? Blood of the King’s fourteenth daughter, mixed with the sap of the Royal Hava tree—the very tree that yielded the spike thorn that opened her neck vein.’ He paused, and then added, ‘It is the Bolkando custom, in honour of a formal parley, that he sacrifice a child of his own to give proof to his commitment to the proceedings.’ Krughava set the goblet down with more force than was necessary, but said nothing.

Fiddler’s quiet challenge had halted the Errant, and Brys saw uncertainty stirred to life on the once-handsome features of Turudal Brizad. ‘For what it is worth,’ Brys Beddict said then, ‘you would not have made it past me anyway, Errant.’ The single eye flicked to him. ‘Ridiculous.’ ‘I have lived in stone, Elder One. I am written with names beyond counting. The man who died in the throne room is not the man who has returned, no matter what you see.’

Torrent had cast away his faiths, his certainties, his precious beliefs. He did nothing to resist the young ones losing their language. He saw the ochre paint on their faces, the spiked hair, and was indifferent to it. Yes, he was the leader of the Awl, the last there would ever be, and it was his task to oversee the peaceful obliteration of his culture. Ways will pass. He vowed he would not miss them. No, Torrent wore no copper mask. Not any more. And his face was clear as his eyes.

She bared her teeth but did not face him. ‘I have already told you, Great Warlock. Tell me, have you seen the green spears in the sky at night?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘What are they?’ ‘I don’t know. Things have been known to fall from the sky, whilst others simply pass by like wagons set ablaze, crossing the firmament night after night for weeks or months . . . and then vanishing as mysteriously as they arrived.’ ‘Uncaring of the world below.’ ‘Yes. The firmament is speckled with countless worlds no different from ours. To the stars and to the great burning wagons, we are as motes of dust.’ She turned to study him as he spoke these words. ‘That is . . . interesting. This is what the Barghast believe?’ ‘What do the wolves believe, Setoc?’ ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘when a hunter throws a javelin at a fleeing antelope, does the hunter aim at the beast?’ ‘Yes and no. To strike true, the hunter must throw into the space in front of the antelope—into the path it will take.’ He studied her. ‘Are you saying that these spears of green fire are the javelins of a hunter, and that we are the antelope?’ ‘And if the antelope darts this way, dodges that?’ ‘A good hunter will not miss.’

Later in the afternoon, during the worst of the heat, they spied a greyish cloud on the horizon ahead. The ribbers began howling, dancing in terror, and as the cloud rushed closer, the dogs finally fled. What looked like rain wasn’t rain. What looked like a cloud wasn’t a cloud. These were locusts, but not the normal kind of locusts. Wings glittering, the swarm filling half the sky, and then all the sky, the sound a clicking roar—the rasp of wings, the snapping open of jaws—each creature a finger long. Out from within the cloud, as it engulfed the column, lunged buzzing knots where the insects massed almost solid. When one of these hammered into a huddle of children, shrieks of pain and horror erupted—the flash of red meat, and then bone—and then the horde swept on, leaving behind clumps of hair and heaps of gleaming bone. These locusts ate meat. This was the first day of the Shards.

‘Desires should never be justified,’ Tehol said, wagging a finger. ‘All you end up doing is illuminating the hidden reasons by virtue of their obvious absence. Now, brother, you happen to be the most eligible Beddict—legitimately eligible, I mean—so why not cast wide your amorous net? Even if, by some peculiar quirk on your part, the Adjunct is not to your tastes, there is always her aide—what was that foreign-sounding name again, Bugg?’ ‘Blistig.’ Tehol frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Well done, Bugg. Now then, since I hear the Malazan entourage on its way in the hallway beyond: Brys, how big do you want to make your escort?’ ‘Two brigades and two battalions, sire.’ ‘Is that reasonable?’ Tehol asked, looking round. ‘I have no idea,’ Janath replied. ‘Bugg?’ ‘I’m no general, my Queen.’ ‘We need an expert opinion, then,’ said Tehol. ‘Brys?’

Yan Tovis was not surprised that King Tehol had begun challenging the fundamental principles and practices of Lether, but she suspected that he would soon find himself a solitary, beleaguered voice of reason. Even common sense was an enemy to the harvesters of the future. The beast that was civilization ever faced forward, and in making its present world it devoured the world to come. It was an appalling truth that one’s own children could be so callously sacrificed to immediate comforts, yet this was so and it had always been so. Dreamers were among the first to turn their backs on historical truths. King Tehol would be swept aside, drowned in the inexorable tide of unmitigated growth. No one, after all, can stand between the glutton and the feast. She wished him well, even as she knew he would fail.

‘Who’s your sergeant?’ Keneb asked the Dal Honese soldier. ‘Badan Gruk, sir. But he stayed back sick, sir, along with Sergeant Sinter and Kisswhere. Me and Vastly Blank here, we squadding up with Drawfirst and Shoaly, under Sergeant Primly, sir.’ ‘Very well. Go into the command tent and bring me the map.’ ‘Aye sir. You want the table with it?’ ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ As the soldier walked off, Fiddler said, ‘Coulda been there and back by now, sir. All by yourself.’ ‘I could have, yes. And just for that observation, Sergeant, go and get that map-table for me.’ ‘Thought it wasn’t necessary, sir?’ ‘I changed my mind. On your feet.’

She’d been told a story, once, although she could not recall who had told it to her, or where they had been. It was a tale about a girl who was a witch, though she didn’t know it yet. She was a seer of the Tiles long before she saw her first Tile. A gift no one thought to even look for in this small, wheat-haired child. Even before her first bloodflow, men had been after her. Not the tall grey-skinned ones, though the girl feared them the most—for reasons never explained—but men living in the same place as her. Letherii. Slaves, yes, slaves, just like she’d been. That girl. That witch. And there was one man, maybe the only one among them all, who did not look on her with hunger. No, in his eyes there had been love. That real thing, that genuine thing that girls dreamed of finding. But he was lowborn. He was nothing. A mender of nets, a man whose red hands shed fish scales when he returned from his day’s work. The tragedy was this, then. The girl had not yet found her Tiles. Had she done so early enough, she would have taken that man to her bed. She would have made him her first man. So that what was born between her legs was not born in pain. So that it would not become so dark in its delicious desires. Before the Tiles, then, she had given herself to other men, unloving men. She’d given herself over to be used. The same men who then in turn gave her a new name, one born of the legend of the White Crow, who once offered the gift of flight to humans, in the form of a single...

‘There are other kinds of pleasure, Shurq—’ ‘But none so readily at hand for each and every one of us. You don’t need coin. Errant fend, you don’t even need a partner! I tell you, excess is the path to contentment.’ ‘And have you found it? Contentment, I mean, since your excesses are not in question.’ ‘I have indeed.’ ‘What if you could live again?’ ‘I’ve thought about it. A lot, lately, in fact, since there’s a necromancer among the Malazans who says he can attempt a ritual that might return me to life.’ ‘And?’ ‘I’m undecided. Vanity.’ ‘Your ageless countenance.’ ‘The prospect of unending pleasure, actually.’ ‘Don’t you think you might tire of it someday?’ ‘I doubt it.’ Queen Janath pursed her lips. ‘Interesting,’ she murmured.

‘I have seen death—it doesn’t haunt me.’ ‘That is irrelevant. The game is this: steal their lives—snatch them away from my reach. Curse these hands you now see, the nails black with death’s touch. Spit into this lifeless breath of mine. Cheat me at every turn. Heed this truth: there is no other form of service as honest as the one I offer you. To do battle against me, you must acknowledge my power. Even as I acknowledge yours. You must respect the fact that I always win, that you cannot help but fail. In turn, I must give to you my respect. For your courage. For the stubborn refusal that is a mortal’s greatest strength. ‘For all that, mortal, give me a good game.’ ‘And what do I get in return? Never mind respect, either. What do I get back?’ ‘Only that which you find. Undeniable truths. Unwavering regard of the sorrows that plague a life. The sigh of acceptance. The end of fear.’ The end of fear. Even for such a young man, such an inexperienced man, Deadsmell understood the value of such a gift. The end of fear. ‘Do not be cruel with Hester Vill, I beg you.’ ‘I am not one for wilful cruelty, mortal. Yet his soul will feel sorely abused, and for that I can do nothing.’ ‘I understand. It is Fener who should be made to answer for that betrayal.’ He sensed wry amusement in Hood. ‘One day, even the gods will answer to death.’

He brought his new sword round and set it across his thighs, and in his face was an expression Tarr had seen only on the faces of children on the Queen of Dreams’s Gift-Day, a brightness, flushed, eyes eager to see what waited beneath the dyed snakeskin wrappings. ‘It’s just a sword, Corabb,’ said Smiles. ‘Really.’ Tarr saw that wondrous expression in Corabb’s face fall away suddenly, slapped back into hiding.

Yedan urged his gelding into a thundering charge, but at an angle away from his attacker—in the direction of the fleeing scout. An instant’s assessment told him he would not catch the man. Instead he lifted himself upward, knees anchored tight to either side of the gelding’s spine. Drew back his arm and threw his sword. The point slammed up and under the rider’s right arm, driven a hand’s breadth between his ribs, deep enough to sink into the lung. He toppled from his horse.

She turned to see the Adjunct slowly drawing off her gauntlets. Tavore’s face was pale, a taut web of lines trapping her eyes. She’d lost weight, further reducing the few feminine traits she possessed. Beyond grief waited emptiness, a place where loneliness haunted in mocking company, and memories were entombed in cold stone. The woman that was the Adjunct had decided that no one would ever take T’amber’s place. Tavore’s last tie to the gentler gifts of humanity had been severed. Now there was nothing left. Nothing but her army, which looked ready to unravel all on its own—and even to this she seemed indifferent.

‘My predecessor, a woman named Lorn, was murdered in a street in Darujhistan. She had, by that point, completed her tasks, insofar as anyone can tell. Her death seemed to be little more than ill luck, a mugging or something similar. Her corpse was deposited in a pauper’s pit.’ ‘Forgive me, Adjunct, but what is this story in aid of?’ ‘Legacies are never what one would hope for, are they, Captain? In the end, it does not matter what was achieved. Fate holds no tally of past triumphs, courageous deeds, or moments of profound integrity.’ ‘I suppose not, Adjunct.’ ‘Conversely, there is no grim list of failures, moments of cowardice or dishonour. The wax is smooth, the past melted away—if it ever existed at all.’ Those snared eyes fixed briefly on Lostara before sliding away once more. ‘She died on a street, just one more victim of mischance. A death devoid of magic.’ Lostara’s attention dropped down to the sword strapped at Tavore’s hip. ‘Most deaths are, Adjunct.’

‘Life and death is such an old game. I’m too old to play. Did you know, these lips once touched those of the Son of Darkness? In our days of youth, in a world far from this one—far, yes, but little different in the end. But what value such grim lessons? We see and we do, but we know nothing.’ A desiccated hand made a fluttering gesture. ‘The fool presses a knife to his chest. He thinks it is done. He too knows nothing, because, you see, I will not let go.’

As he bowed again and turned away, Abrastal called out, ‘Warleader.’ He faced her again, a question in his eyes. The Queen hesitated, and then said, ‘When you spoke of your people’s opinions . . . of these marines of the Malazan Empire, was there truth to your words?’ He straightened. ‘Highness, although the great Coltaine of the Crow Clan had many Wickans with him, he also possessed marines. Together, they escorted thirty thousand refugees across a third of a continent, and each step of the journey was war.’ ‘Have I misunderstood then, Warleader? Did not Coltaine fail? Did he not die? And everyone with him?’ The warrior’s eyes were suddenly old. ‘He did. They all died—the Wickans, the marines.’ ‘Then I do not—’ ‘They died, Highness, even as they delivered those thirty thousand refugees to safety. They died, but they won.’

He seemed to study them, and Stavi caught an instant’s blurred spark of a single eye. ‘The boy, yes,’ he said in Daru—but it was Daru with a Malazan accent. ‘But not you two.’ A chill crept over Stavi, and she felt her twin’s hand slip into hers. ‘That,’ he said after a moment, ‘perhaps came out wrong. What I meant was, I see him in the boy, but not in you two.’ ‘You knew him,’ Storii accused. She pointed at the quiver. ‘He made those! You stole them!’ ‘He made them, yes, as a gift to me. But that was long ago. Before you were born.’ ‘Toc the Younger,’ whispered Stavi. ‘He spoke of me?’ That this warrior was undead did not matter. Both girls rushed forward, one to either side, to hug his withered thighs. At their touch, he might have flinched, but then he reached out with his hands. Hesitated, only to settle them on the heads of the girls. As they wept in relief. The son of Onos Toolan had not moved, but he watched, and he was still smiling.

The priest’s visage was furrowed in cuts—he had been clawing at his own face, Bakal realized. ‘Your dreams,’ he whispered, eyes widening. ‘You saw.’ ‘I saw.’ ‘Cafal . . .’ ‘But it’s not over. They don’t know that—none of them know that. Our gods are howling. In terror.’ He fixed wild eyes on Bakal. ‘Did they think they could get away with that? Did they forget what he was? Where he came from? He will take them into his hands and he will crush them!’ He bared his teeth. ‘And I will stand back—do you hear me? I will stand back, Bakal, and do nothing.’

‘Take them,’ the revenant said to Setoc, and the undead eyes he fixed upon her blazed—one human and wrinkled in death, the other bright and amber—the eye of a wolf. Setoc gasped. ‘You are not the Reaper’s servant!’ ‘It’s my flaw,’ he replied. ‘What is?’ ‘Cursed by . . . indecision. Take them, camp within the circle. Wait.’ ‘For what?’ The rider collected the reins and drew the beast round. ‘For his war to end, Destriant.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘We leave when I return.’

Knuckles eyed him, amused. Errastas made a fist. ‘What,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘is so funny?’ ‘The one who surrenders to his own delusions is, by your terms, no less a coward than any other.’ Kilmandaros straightened. She had taken upon herself the body of a Tel Akai, still towering above them but not quite as massively as before. She smiled without humour at the Errant. ‘Play no games with this one, Errastas. Not bones, not words. He will tie your brain in knots and make your head ache.’ Errastas glared at her. ‘Do you think me a simpleton?’ The smile vanished. ‘Clearly, you think that of me.’ ‘When you think with your fists, don’t complain when you appear to others as witless.’ ‘But I complain with my fists as well,’ she replied. ‘And when I do, even you have no choice but to listen, Errastas.

‘Who summoned us?’ One more time she cocked her head. ‘Trell-blood, this is our land. We have heard clear his cry. You cannot? We are summoned, T’lan Imass, by the First Sword. A legend among the Brold that, it seems, was not a lie.’ Ulag was rocked back as if struck a blow. ‘Onos T’oolan? But . . . why?’ ‘He summons us beneath the banner of vengeance,’ she replied, ‘and in the name of death. My new friends, the T’lan Imass are going to war.’

You did not understand—none of you did. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have changed us all.’

He pictured a Letherii soldier standing atop a heap of bones—a mountain of white that was all that remained of Torrent’s people. Beneath the rim of his helm, the soldier’s face was nothing but bone, leaving a smile that never wavered. Torrent realized that he had found a lover, and her name was hate. The Letherii details were almost irrelevant—it could be any soldier, any stranger.

I wish Torrent was here. I wish he’d never left me. I see him in my mind even now. I see him standing atop a mountain of bones, his eyes dark beneath the rim of his helm. Torrent, where are you?

She lifted a hand and pointed at the city. ‘But this temple is different. It was not built for adoration. It was built to warn us. Remember the cities, Saddic? Cities exist to gather the suffering beneath the killer’s sword. Swords—more than anyone could even count. So many swords. In the hands of priests and Quitters and merchant houses and noble warriors and slavers and debt-holders and keepers of food and water—so many. Cities are mouths, Saddic, filled with sharp teeth.’ She snapped another fly from the air. Chewed. Swallowed.

“Commander” or “sir” will do. In fact, when it’s just the two of us, “Brys” ’. She wondered if he caught her faint gasp, or noted the momentary wobble in her knees as she moved up alongside him. ‘Assuming,’ he continued, ‘you will permit me to call you Aranict.’ ‘Of course, sir.’ She hesitated, could feel him waiting, and then said, ‘Brys.’ A wave of lightheadedness followed, as if she’d quaffed a tumbler of brandy. Her mind spun wildly for a moment and she drew a deep breath to calm herself. This was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Infuriating. She itched to light a smoker, but that would likely breach protocol. ‘At ease, Aranict.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Relax. Please—you’re starting to make me jumpy. I don’t bite.’ Try the right nipple. Oh gods, shut up, woman. ‘Sorry.’

The Bridgeburners had singlehandedly won the Blackdog Campaign. Sent the Crimson Guard and the Mott and Genabarii legions reeling in retreat. Kicked in the front gates of a dozen cities from Nathilog to One Eye Cat. And before that, they’d conquered all of Seven Cities. He’d never heard of any of these places but he liked the names. Seven Cities sounded simple and obvious. Place got seven cities? Call it Seven Cities. Straight thinking, that was.

Masan drank, then squatted before them—taking the pose of the teller of tales, one they knew well—and both sisters followed suit. ‘He didn’t ask for it. But he’s been making trouble ever since. Quick Ben met him face to face. So, we worked out, did that Meckros weaponsmith, Withal. He’s poison and he knows it and he can’t help it, because he doesn’t belong here. There are pieces of him scattered over half the world, but the biggest one is sitting in this place called Kolanse—and it’s being . . . used.’ ‘We’re going to kill the Crippled God.’ Kisswhere shot her sister a wild look. ‘But who’d want to stop us doing that?’ Sinter shook her head. Her face was wretched with confusion. Masan was eyeing them and when she spoke her voice was flat, ‘You jumped the wrong way, Sinter, like a one-eyed mongoose.’ She drank again, sloshed the skin and then scowled. ‘Should’ve brought two. We don’t think we’re off to kill the Chained One. In fact, it’s those chains we’re after. Well, the Adjunct, I mean. What she’s after.’ She lifted her head and fixed on Sinter’s eyes, and then Kisswhere’s. ‘We’re going to set the bastard free.’

Silchas said, ‘Torrent of the Awl. I grieve for the passing of your people. Their memory rests with you now. Cherish it but do not let it destroy you.’ ‘An interesting distinction,’ Torrent said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I am past such things, since I now cherish destruction. I would slay my slayers. I would end the lives of those who have ended mine.’ He glanced across at Olar Ethil. ‘Perhaps this is the coin between me and this undead witch.’ Sorrow tinged Ruin’s face but he said nothing. Ryadd’s smile was gone. ‘Look around then, warrior. This is the home you would make for your enemies and for yourself. Does it please you?’ ‘I think it does, Ryadd Eleis.’ The young man’s displeasure and disappointment at that answer was plain to see.

As the sun painted gold the brutal facing of the stone tower, a figure of gold and bronze stood above another who knelt, bowed forward over his thighs with his face in his hands. Neither moved until long after the sun set and darkness claimed the sky.

There is a scholar who states that we possess every language, deep within our minds, and that the potential exists for perhaps ten thousand languages in all. She would have delighted in witnessing your feat. Then there is a dystigier, a dissector of human corpses, living in Ehrlitan, who claims that the brain is nothing more than a clumped mass of snarled chains. Most links are fused, but some are not. Some can be prised open and fitted anew. Any major head injury, he says, can result in a link breaking. This is usually permanent, but on rare occasions a new link is forged. Chains, Faint, packed inside our skull.’