The complete malazan boo.., p.697
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 697
Nerek: a subjugated people of Lether
Nith’rithal: a Barghast tribe
Obsidian Throne: traditional throne of Bluerose
Onyx Wizards: Andii wizards ruling the Andara of Bluerose
Patriotists: Lether Empire’s secret police
Pamby Doughty: comic poem
Preda: equivalent of a general or commander in Letherii military
Quillas Canal: a main canal in Letheras
Rat Catchers’ Guild: a now outlawed guild in Lether
Refugium: a magical realm surrounded by Omtose Phellack
Rhinazan: a winged lizard
Rise (The): Shake title
Rygtha: Awl crescent axe
Scale House: centre of Rat Catchers’ Guild in Letheras
Senan: a Barghast tribe
Settle Lake: a decrepit lake in the centre of Letheras
Second Maiden Fort: a penal island now independent
Shake: a subjugated people in the Lether Empire
Shore (The): religion of the Shake
Sollanta: a Tiste Edur tribe
Thrones of War: Perish ships
Twilight: Shake title
Watch (The): Shake title
Verdith’anath: the Jaghut Bridge of Death
Zorala Snicker: comic poem
TOLL THE
HOUNDS
BOOK EIGHT 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.
TOLL THE HOUNDS: BOOK EIGHT OF THE MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN
Copyright © 2008 by Steven Erikson
Originally published in Great Britain in 2008 by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers.
All rights reserved.
Maps 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.
eISBN 9781429926997
Praise for Steven Erikson’s
Malazan Book of the Fallen series
“I stand slack-jawed in awe of The Malazan Book of the Fallen. This masterwork of the imagination may be the high-water mark of epic fantasy—accomplished with none of the customary riffs on Tolkein. This marathon of ambition has a depth and breadth and sense of vast reaches of inimical time unlike anything else available today.”
—Glen Cook
“Steven Erikson is an extraordinary writer…. My advice to anyone who might listen to me: Treat yourself.”
—Stephen R. Donaldson
“[Erikson’s] knack for drawing well-drawn exotic characters, no matter how fleeting, and mastery of world-building cannot be denied.”
—Booklist
“Gripping, fast-moving, delightfully dark, with a masterful and unapologetic brutality reminiscent of George R. R. Martin.”
—Elizabeth Haydon
“Erikson’s world is richly envisioned, dense and gritty, rife with magic, and filled with complex political and military intrigue.”
—Jacqueline Carey
“A multilayered tale of magic and war, loyalty and betrayal. Complexly drawn characters occupy a richly detailed world in this panoramic saga.”
—Library Journal
This novel is dedicated
to the memory of my father,
R. S. Lundin, 1931–2007.
You are missed.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude as always goes to my advance readers: Bowen, Rick, Mark, and Chris, with special thanks to Bill and Hazel for their kind words and support over the course of what proved to be a difficult year. Appreciation also goes to the staff of the Black Stilt Café and the Pacific Union Café for their generous loan of office space.
Love to Clare and Bowen, for everything.
Dramatis Personae
Cutter, an assassin
Scillara, his companion
Iskaral Pust, High Priest of Shadow, the Magi, God of the Bhokarala
Sister Spite, a Soletaken
Mogora, Iskaral’s occasional wife
Barathol Mekhar, a tourist
Chaur, a gentle man
Mappo Runt, a Trell
Picker, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar
Blend, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar
Antsy, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar
Mallet, a retired Bridgeburner and healer
Bluepearl, a retired Bridgeburner
Fisher, a bard, a regular at K’rul’s Bar
Duiker, once the Malazan Empire’s Imperial Historian
Bellam Nom, a young man
Rallick Nom, an awakened assassin
Torvald Nom, a cousin of Rallick
Tiserra, Torvald’s wife
Coll, a Council Member in Darujhistan
Estraysian D’Arle, a Council Member in Darujhistan
Hanut Orr, a Council Member in Darujhistan, nephew of the late Turban Orr
Shardan Lim, a Council Member in Darujhistan
Murillio, a consort
Kruppe, a round little man
Meese, proprietor of the Phoenix Inn
Irilta, a regular at the Phoenix Inn
Scurve, barkeep at the Phoenix Inn
Sulty, server at the Phoenix Inn
Challice, wife of Vidikas, daughter of Estraysian D’Arle
Gorlas Vidikas, newest Council Member in Darujhistan, past Hero of the Fete
Krute of Talient, an agent of the Assassins’ Guild
Gaz, a killer
Thordy, Gaz’s wife
Master Quell, Trygalle Trade Guild navigator and sorceror
Faint, a shareholder
Reccanto Ilk, a shareholder
Sweetest Sufferance, a shareholder
Glanno Tarp, a shareholder
Amby Bole, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder
Jula Bole, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder
Precious Thimble, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder
Gruntle, a caravan guard on extended leave
Stonny Menackis, owner of duelling school
Harllo, a child
Bedek, Harllo’s ‘uncle’
Myrla, Harllo’s ‘aunt’
Snell, a child
Bainisk, a worker in the mines
Venaz, a worker in the mines
Scorch, a newly hired bodyguard
Leff, a newly hired bodyguard
Madrun, a newly hired compound guard
Lazan Door, a newly hired compound guard
Studlock (or Studious Lock), a castellan
Humble Measure, a mysterious presence in Darujhistan’s criminal underworld
Chillbais, a demon
Baruk, a member of the T’orrud Cabal
Vorcan, Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild
Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild
Apsal’ara, one of the Slain in Dragnipur
Kadaspala, one of the Slain in Dragnipur
Derudan, a witch of Tennes
K’rul, an Elder God
Draconus, one of the Slain within Dragnipur
Korlat, a Tiste Andii Soletaken
Orfantal, a Tiste Andii Soletaken, Korlat’s brother
Kallor, a challenger
Lady Envy, a bystander
Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness, Knight of Darkness, Ruler of Black Coral
Spinnock Durav, a Tiste Andii
Endest Silann, a Tiste Andii wizard
Caladan Brood, a warlord
Hood, the God of Death
Ditch, one of the Slain in Dragnipur
Samar Dev, a witch
Karsa Orlong, a Teblor Toblakai warrior
Traveller, a stranger
Shadowthrone, the God of Shadow
Cotillion, The Rope, Patron God of Assassins
Prophet Seech, the High Priest of the Fallen One, once a middling artist named Munug
Silanah, an Eleint
Crone, a Great Raven
Raest, a Jaghut Tyrant (retired)
Clip, Mortal Sword of Darkness
Nimander Golit, a Tiste Andii
Skintick, a Tiste Andii
Nenanda, a Tiste Andii
Aranatha, a Tiste Andii
Kedeviss, a Tiste Andii
Desra, a Tiste Andii
Sordiko Qualm, a High Priestess
Salind, a High Priestess
Seerdomin, a resident of Black Coral
Gradithan, a thug
Monkrat, a mage
Baran, a Hound of Shadow
Gear, a Hound of Shadow
Blind, a Hound of Shadow
Rood, a Hound of Shadow
Shan, a Hound of Shadow
Pallid, a new Hound of Shadow
Lock, a new Hound of Shadow
Edgewalker, a wanderer
Dog walkers, two witnesses
Prologue
Speak truth, grow still, until the water is clear between us.
Meditations of the Tiste Andii
‘I have no name for this town,’ the ragged man said, hands plucking at the frayed hems of what had once been an opulent cloak. Coiled and tucked into his braided belt was a length of leather leash, rotting and tattered. ‘It needs a name, I think,’ he continued, voice raised to be heard above the vicious fighting of the dogs, ‘yet I find a certain failing of imagination, and no one seems much interested.’
The woman standing now at his side, to whom he companionably addressed these remarks, had but newly arrived. Of her life in the time before, very little remained. She had not owned a dog, yet she had found herself staggering down the high street of this decrepit, strange town clutching a leash against which a foul-tempered brute tugged and lunged at every passer-by. The rotted leather had finally parted, freeing the beast to bolt forward, launching an attack upon this man’s own dog.
The two animals were now trying to kill each other in the middle of the street, their audience none but their presumed owners. Dust had given way to blood and tufts of hide.
‘There was a garrison, once, three soldiers who didn’t know each other,’ the man said. ‘But one by one they left.’
‘I never owned a dog before,’ she replied, and it was with a start that she realized that these were the first words she had uttered since…well, since the time before.
‘Nor I,’ admitted the man. ‘And until now, mine was the only dog in town. Oddly enough, I never grew fond of the wretched beast.’
‘How long have you…er, been here?’
‘I have no idea, but it seems like for ever.’
She looked round, then nodded. ‘Me too.’
‘Alas, I believe your pet has died.’
‘Oh! So it has.’ She frowned down at the broken leash in her hand. ‘I suppose I won’t be needing a new one, then.’
‘Don’t be too certain of that,’ the man said. ‘We seem to repeat things here. Day after day. But listen, you can have mine – I never use it, as you can see.’
She accepted the coiled leash. ‘Thank you.’ She took it out to where her dead dog was lying, more or less torn to pieces. The victor was crawling back towards its master leaving a trail of blood.
Everything seemed knocked strangely askew, including, she realized, her own impulses. She crouched down and gently lifted her dead dog’s mangled head, working the loop over until it encircled the torn neck. Then she lowered the bloody, spit-lathered head back to the ground and straightened, holding the frayed leash loose in her right hand.
The man joined her. ‘Aye, it’s all rather confusing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we thought life was confusing.’
She shot him a glance. ‘So we are dead?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then I don’t understand. I was to have been interred in a crypt. A fine, solid crypt – I saw it myself. Richly appointed and proof against thieves, with casks of wine and seasoned meats and fruit for the journey—’ She gestured down at the rags she was wearing. ‘I was to be dressed in my finest clothes, wearing all my jewellery.’
He was watching her. ‘Wealthy, then.’
‘Yes.’ She looked back down at the dead dog on the end of the leash.
‘Not any more.’
She glared across at him, then realized that such anger was, well, pointless. ‘I have never seen this town before. It looks to be falling apart.’
‘Aye, it’s all falling apart. You have that right.’
‘I don’t know where I live – oh, that sounds odd, doesn’t it?’ She looked round again. ‘It’s all dust and rot, and is that a storm coming?’ She pointed down the main street towards the horizon, where heavy, strangely luminous clouds now gathered above denuded hills.
They stared at them for a time. The clouds seemed to be raining tears of jade.
‘I was once a priest,’ the man said, as his dog edged up against his feet and lay there, gasping, with blood dripping from its mouth. ‘Every time we saw a storm coming, we closed our eyes and sang all the louder.’
She regarded him in some surprise. ‘You were a priest? Then…why are you not with your god?’
The man shrugged. ‘If I knew the answer to that, the delusion I once possessed – of enlightenment – would in truth be mine.’ He suddenly straightened. ‘Look, we have a visitor.’
Approaching with a hitched gait was a tall figure, so desiccated that its limbs seemed little more than tree roots, its face naught but rotted, weathered skin stretched over bone. Long grey hair drifted out unbound from a pallid, peeling scalp.
‘I suppose,’ the woman muttered, ‘I need to get used to such sights.’
Her companion said nothing, and they both watched as the gaunt, limping creature staggered past, and as they turned to follow its progress they saw another stranger, cloaked in frayed dark grey, hooded, of a height to match the other.
Neither seemed to take note of their audience, as the hooded one said, ‘Edgewalker.’
‘You have called me here,’ said the one named Edgewalker, ‘to…mitigate.’
‘I have.’
‘This has been a long time in coming.’
‘You might think that way, Edgewalker.’
The grey-haired man – who was clearly long dead – cocked his head and asked, ‘Why now?’
The hooded figure turned slightly, and the woman thought he might be looking down on the dead dog. ‘Disgust,’ he replied.
A soft rasping laugh from Edgewalker.
‘What ghastly place is this?’ hissed a new voice, and the woman saw a shape – no more than a smeared blur of shadows – whisper out from an alley, though he seemed to be hobbling on a cane, and all at once there were huge beasts, two, four, five, padding out around the newcomer.
A grunt from the priest beside the woman. ‘Hounds of Shadow. Could my god but witness this!’
‘Perhaps it does, through your eyes.’
‘Oh, I doubt that.’
Edgewalker and his hooded companion watched the shadowy form approach. Short; wavering, then growing more solid. Black-stick cane thumping on the dirt street, raising puffs of dust. The Hounds wandered away, heads lowered as they sniffed the ground. None approached the carcass of the woman’s dog, nor the gasping beast at the feet of her newfound friend.
The hooded one said, ‘Ghastly? I suppose it is. A necropolis of sorts, Shadowthrone. A village of the discarded. Both timeless and, yes, useless. Such places,’ he continued, ‘are ubiquitous.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘Look at us, waiting. Waiting. Oh, if I were one for decorum and propriety!’ A sudden giggle. ‘If any of us were!’
All at once the Hounds returned, hackles raised, gazes keen on something far up the main street.
‘One more,’ whispered the priest. ‘One more and the last, yes.’
‘Will all this happen again?’ the woman asked him, as sudden fear ripped through her. Someone is coming. Oh, gods, someone is coming. ‘Tomorrow? Tell me!’
‘I would imagine not,’ the priest said after a moment. He swung his gaze to the dog carcass lying in the dust. ‘No,’ he said again, ‘I imagine not.’
From the hills, thunder and jade rain slashing down like the arrows from ten thousand battles. From down the street, the sudden rumble of carriage wheels.
She turned at that latter sound and smiled. ‘Oh,’ she said in relief, ‘here comes my ride.’
He had once been a wizard of Pale, driven by desperation into betrayal. But Anomander Rake had not been interested in desperation, or any other excuse Ditch and his comrades might have proffered. Betrayers of the Son of Darkness kissed the sword Dragnipur, and somewhere among this legion toiling in the perpetual gloom there were faces he would recognize, eyes that could meet his own. And what would he see in them?
Only what he gave back. Desperation was not enough.
These were rare thoughts, no more or less unwelcome than any others, mocking him as in their freedom they drifted in and out; and when nowhere close, why, they perhaps floated through alien skies, riding warm winds soft as laughter. What could not escape was Ditch himself and that which he could see on all sides. This oily mud and its sharp black stones that cut through the rotted soles of his boots; the deathly damp air that layered a grimy film upon the skin, as if the world itself was fevered and slick with sweat. The faint cries – strangely ever distant to Ditch’s ears – and, much nearer, the groan and crunch of the massive engine of wood and bronze, the muted squeal of chains.
Onward, onward, even as the storm behind them drew closer, cloud piling on cloud, silver and roiling and shot through with twisting spears of iron. Ash had begun to rain down on them, unceasing now, each flake cold as snow, yet this was a sludge that did not melt, instead churning into the mud until it seemed they walked through a field of slag and tailings.
Although a wizard, Ditch was neither small nor frail. There was a roughness to him that had made others think of thugs and alley-pouncers, back in the life that had been before. His features were heavy, angular and, indeed, brutish. He had been a strong man, but this was no reward, not here, not chained to the Burden. Not within the dark soul of Dragnipur.
