The Last Stormlord Read online

  Garri, on the other side of the courtyard,

  yelled “Zigger!”

  He dropped the bundle of dirty tablecloths he had been carrying and ran towards Donnick. “Close the gate! Close the blasted gate!”

  But Donnick stood rooted, his mouth gaping foolishly at Garri, as if the danger was coming from his direction.

  And the zigger flew into his mouth.

  Terelle glimpsed it as a black blur the size of a man’s thumb. The keening stopped abruptly, replaced by the shriek of Donnick’s agony. He clutched at his throat and a gush of blood spewed from his mouth like water from an opened spigot. His screams faded into a choking gurgle. He fell to his knees, staring at Terelle, begging her for help she could not render. He clawed at his face, jammed his hand into his mouth, clutching for something he could not reach. She stared, appalled. His blood was splattered over her feet but she couldn’t move.

  Praise for Glenda Larke:

  “A magnificent gift for world-building… one of the best imaginations in the business.”

  — specusphere.com

  By Glenda Larke

  ISLES OF GLORY

  The Aware

  Gilfeather

  The Tainted

  THE MIRAGE MAKERS

  Heart of the Mirage

  The Shadow of Tyr

  Song of the Shiver Barrens

  STORMLORD

  The Last Stormlord

  Stormlord Rising

  WRITING AS GLENDA NORAMLY

  Havenstar

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Glenda Larke

  Excerpt from Stormlord Rising copyright © 2009 by Glenda Larke All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/orbitbooks

  First published in Australia in 2009 by HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited.

  Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group USA. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

  First eBook Edition: March 2010

  ISBN: 978-0-316-07590-9

  Contents

  GARRI, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COURTYARD, YELLED “ZIGGER!”

  PRAISE FOR GLENDA LARKE:

  COPYRIGHT

  PART ONE: PRISONS WITHOUT WALLS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART TWO: ESCAPE WITHOUT FREEDOM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  EXTRAS

  MEET THE AUTHOR

  A PREVIEW OF STORMLORD RISING

  for

  Sam Griffiths

  May you always know the joy of reading

  The Quartern

  PART ONE

  PRISONS

  WITHOUT

  WALLS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scarpen Quarter

  Scarcleft City

  Opal’s Snuggery, Level 32

  It was the last night of her childhood.

  Terelle, unknowing, thought it just another busy evening in Opal’s Snuggery, crowded and noisy and hot. Rooms were hazed with the fumes from the keproot pipes of the addicted and fuggy with the smell of the resins smouldering in the censers. Smoky blue tendrils curled through the archways, encouraging a lively lack of restraint as they drifted through the air.

  Everything as usual.

  Terelle’s job was to collect the dirty plates and mugs and return them to the kitchen, in an endless round from sunset until the dark dissolved under the first cold fingering of a desert dawn.

  Her desire was to be unnoticed at the task.

  Her dream was to escape her future as one of Madam Opal’s girls.

  Once she’d thought the snuggery a happy place, the outer courtyard always alive with boisterous chatter and laughter as friends met on entry, the reception rooms bustling with servants fetching food from the kitchens or amber from the barrels in the cellar, the stairs cluttered with handmaidens as they giggled and flirted and smiled, arm in arm with their clients. She’d thought the snuggery’s inhabitants lived each night adrift on laughter and joy and friendship. But she had only been seven then, and newly purchased. She was twelve now, old enough to realise the laughter and the smiles and the banter were part of a larger game, and what underlay it was much sadder. She still didn’t understand everything, not really, even though she knew now what went on between the customers and women like her half-sister, Vivie, in the upstairs rooms.

  She knew enough to see the joy was a sham.

  She knew enough to know she didn’t want any part of it.

  And so she scurried through the reception rooms with her laden tray, hugging the walls on her way to the kitchen. A drab girl with brown tunic, brown skin, brown hair so dark it had the rich depth of rubies, a timid pebblemouse on its way back to its lair with a pouch-load of detritus to pile around its burrow entrance, hoping to keep a hostile world at bay. She kept her gaze downcast, instinctively aware that her eyes, green and intelligent, told another story.

  The hours blurred into one another. Laughter devoid of subtlety drowned out the lute player’s strumming; vulgar banter suffocated the soft-sung words of love. As the night wore on, Scarcleft society lost its refinement just as surely as the desert night lost its chill in the packed reception rooms.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Terelle noted Vivie flirting with one of the younger customers. The man had a sweet smile, but he was no more than an itinerant seller of scent, a street peddler. Madam Opal wanted Vivie to pay attention to Kade the waterlender instead, Kade who was fat and had hair growing out of his nose. He’d come all the way downhill from the twentieth level of the city because he fancied the Gibber woman he knew as Viviandra.

  Behind the ped
dler’s slender back, Terelle made a face at Vivie to convey her opinion of her sister’s folly with the peddler, then scurried on.

  Back in the main reception room a few moments later, she heard nervous laughter at one of the tables. A man was drunk and he’d lost some sort of wager. He wasn’t happy and his raised voice had a mean edge to it.

  Trouble, she thought. Rosscar, the oil merchant’s son. His temper was well known in the snuggery. He was jabbing stiffened fingertips at the shoulder of one of his companions. As she gathered mugs onto her tray, Terelle overheard his angry accusation: “You squeezed the beetle too hard!” He waved his mug under the winner’s nose and slopped amber everywhere. “Cheat, you are, Merch Putter—”

  Hurriedly one of the handmaidens stepped in and led him away, giggling and stroking his arm.

  Poor Diomie, Terelle thought as she wiped the stickiness of the alcohol from the agate inlay of the stone floor. He’ll take it out on her. And all over a silly wager on how high a click beetle can jump. As she rose wearily to her feet, her gaze met the intense stare of a Scarperman. He sat alone, a hungry-eyed, hawk-nosed man dressed in a blue tunic embroidered with the badge of the pedemen’s guild.

  “This is empty,” he growled at her, indicating the brass censer in the corner of the room. “Get some more resin for it, girl, and sharp about it. You shouldn’t need to be told.”

  She ducked her head so that her hair fell across her face and mumbled an apology. Using her laden tray as a buffer, she headed once more for the safety of the kitchens, thinking she could feel those predatory eyes sliding across her back as she went. She didn’t return to replenish the censer; she sent one of the kitchen boys instead.

  Half the run of a sandglass later, she saw Vivie and Kade the fat waterlender heading upstairs, Madam Opal nodding her approval as she watched. The sweet-smiling, sweet-smelling peddler was nowhere in evidence. Terelle snorted. Vivie had sand for brains if she’d thought Opal would allow her to dally with a scent seller when there was a waterlending upleveller around. A waterlender, any waterlender, was richer than Terelle could even begin to imagine, and there was nothing Opal liked better than a rich customer.

  Terelle stacked another tray and hurried on.

  Some time later the bell in Viviandra’s room was ringing down in the kitchen, and Madam Opal sent Terelle up to see what was needed. When she entered the bedroom, Vivie was reclining on her divan, still dressed. The waterlender was not there.

  “Where’s the merch?” Terelle asked.

  “In the water-room,” Vivie said and giggled. “Sick as a sand-flea that’s lost its pede. Drank too much, I suspect. I was bored, so I rang down to the kitchen. Now you can have a rest, too.” She patted the divan and flicked her long black hair over her shoulder. “And Kade’s not a merchant, you know. He lends people water tokens. Which means you should address him as Broker Kade. Terelle, you have to learn that sort of thing. It’s important. Keeps the customers happy.”

  “Vivie, if Opal catches us doing nothing, she’ll be spitting sparks.”

  “Don’t call me Vivie! You know I hate it. It’s not a proper name for a Scarpen snuggery girl.”

  “It’s your name. And you’re not Scarpen. You’re Gibber, like me.”

  “Not any more. Opal’s right when she says ‘Viviandra’ has class and ‘Vivie’ doesn’t. And why shouldn’t we be lazy occasionally? I deserve a rest! You think it’s easy pandering to the tastes of the men who come here? You’ll find out when your turn comes.”

  “I’m not going to be a handmaiden,” Terelle said. “I’m going to be an arta. A dancer, like the great Arta Amethyst. In fact, I am going to be greater than Amethyst.” To demonstrate her skill, she bounced to her feet, undulated her hips in a slow figure of eight and then did the splits.

  Vivie groaned. “You are such a child! You won’t have any choice in the matter, you know. Why in all the Sweepings do you think Madam Opal paid Pa for the two of us? So as you could be a dancer? Not weeping likely!”

  All hope vanished as Terelle glimpsed the darkness of her future, crouching in wait just around a corner not too far away. “Oh, Vivie! What sort of handmaiden would I make? Look at me!”

  She hadn’t meant to be literal, but Vivie sat up and ran a critical gaze over her. “Well,” she said, “it’s true that you’re nothing much to look at right now. But you’re only twelve. That will change. Look at how scrawny Diomie was when she first came! And now…” She sketched curves with her hands. “That jeweller from Level Nine called her luscious last night. A plum for the picking, he said.”

  “Even if I burst out of my dresses like Diomie, my face will still be the same,” Terelle pointed out. “I think I have nice eyes, but Madam Opal says green is unnatural. And my skin’s too brown, even browner than yours. And my hair’s too straight and ordinary, not wavy and black like yours. No load of powder and paint is going to change any of that.” She was not particularly upset at the thought. “I can dance, though. Or so everyone says. Besides, I don’t want to be a whore.”

  “Opal will stick a pin in your backside if you use that word around here. Whores sell their bodies on the street for water. We are trained snuggery handmaidens. We are Opal’s girls. We do much more than—well, much more than whores do. We are, um, companions. We speak prettily, and tell stories and sing and recite and dance, and we listen to the men as though they are the wisest sages in the city. We entertain and make them laugh. Do it properly, like I do, and no one cares if we don’t have fair skin and blue eyes and straw hair like Scarpen Quarter folk.”

  “Opal says I’m the best fan dancer she’s seen for my age.”

  “Maybe, but she can’t teach you, not properly, you know that. You’d have to go to a professional dancer for lessons, and that’d cost tokens we don’t have. Opal’s not going to pay for it. She doesn’t want a dancer, or a musician, or a singer—she just wants handmaidens who can also dance and sing and play the lute. There’s a difference. Forget it, Terelle. It’s not going to happen. When your bleeding starts, the law says you are old enough to be a handmaiden and Opal will make sure that’s what happens.”

  Terelle lifted her chin. “I won’t be a whore, Vivie. I won’t.”

  “Don’t say things like that, or Opal will throw you out.”

  “I wish she would. Ouch!”

  Vivie, irritated, had leaned across and yanked a lock of her hair. “Terelle, she’s given you water for more than five whole years, just on the strength of what you will become after your bleeding starts. You know that. Not to mention what she paid Pa. She invested in you. She will spit more than sparks if she thinks she’s not going to get a return on her investment. She won’t let you get away with it. Anyway, it’s not such a bad life, not really.”

  But the crouching shape of her unwanted future grew in Terelle’s mind. “It’s—it’s horrible! Like slavery. And even barbarian Reduners don’t own slaves any more. We were sold, Vivie. Pa sold us to those men knowing we would end up in a brothel.” The bitterness spilled over into her voice.

  “This is not a brothel. It’s a snuggery. A house for food and entertainment and love. We have style; a brothel is for lowlifes with hardly any tokens. And I am not a slave—I am paid, and paid well. One day I shall have enough to retire.” She picked up her hand mirror from the divan and fluffed up her hair. The reddish highlights in the black gleamed in the lamplight. “I think I need another ruby rinse.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Vivie smiled at her kindly. “Terelle, you’re not a slave, either. For the odd jobs you do, you have water and food and clothes and a bed, not to mention the dancing and singing lessons. You’ve been taught to read and write and recite. When you start working properly, you’ll be paid in tokens like the rest of us. You can leave any time you want, once you pay back what you owe.”

  “Leave? How can I leave unless I have somewhere else to go? I’d die of thirst!”

  “Exactly. Unless you save enough tokens first.”r />
  Terelle slumped, banging her heels against the legs of the divan in frustration.

  Vivie laid her mirror aside. “Terelle, Terelle, don’t you remember what it was like in the Gibber Quarter before we came here? I do. It was horrid.” She shuddered. “The only time we had enough water was when we stole it. I was glad when Pa sold us to the Reduner caravanners—”

  She broke off as they heard footsteps in the passageway outside. Terelle jumped off the divan and grabbed up her tray. When the waterlender entered, she was picking up the empty mugs on the low table. She bobbed and scuttled past him. When she glanced back from the doorway, she saw Vivie smile shyly at Kade from under her lashes. One bare shoulder, all invitation, had slipped from the confines of her robe.

  Terelle pulled the door shut.

  Back in the main reception room, the crowd had thinned. Most of the handmaidens had gone upstairs with their first customers of the night. Men who had not secured a girl waited their turn. Opal, plump and painted, flirted shamelessly as she bargained prices with latecomers. Servants brought more amber, keproot and pipes. The air was thicker now, yet there was an edginess to the atmosphere. Terelle scanned the crowd, seeking the cause.

  The pedeman in the blue tunic sat alone, and his eyes, still sheened with feral hunger, sought her—but he wasn’t causing any trouble. On the other side of the room, Merch Rosscar glowered at Merch Putter, the man he had earlier called a cheat. He began another drunken tirade, his speech slurred, his words threatening, his nastiness growing more and more overt. Putter stirred uneasily. Terelle glanced at Opal, who gave the merest of nods. Terelle dumped her tray and slipped out of the room. She went straight to the unroofed courtyard where Garri the steward and Donnick the doorman controlled entry to the snuggery via a gate to South Way.

  “Trouble,” she told them. “Madam Opal wants Merch Rosscar removed.”