The Last Stormlord s-1 Read online

  "But it won't solve your problem, will it? You need more than that to separate yourself from the snuggery. For that, I can only offer advice. Look to making things, Terelle. That's where your destiny lies."

  "What-what sort of things?"

  "How should I know? Songs? Tunes? Pottery? Jewellery? Patterns for weavers or lace makers? Go and find out!" She sounded snappish but her next action belied her tone. She put an arm around Terelle as they went to the door, saying with a quiet passion, "Don't become a whore. It might make you a better artist in the end, but you will lose part of your soul."

  Jomat the steward was hovering outside the door, and the smirk he gave her made Terelle want to slap him. She was sure he had overheard.

  "Jomat," Amethyst said, "pay her five tokens and show her out. She will return in a quarter year; please admit her again then."

  At the front door Jomat disappeared into a side room for a moment and returned with the tokens, which he ostentatiously counted into Terelle's hand. "I'm sure you dance very prettily, my dear," he said. "You mustn't let these little setbacks get you down."

  He sounded sincere enough, and she tried not to step backwards as he patted her on the arm with a sweaty hand. She said, "The arta is a wonderful dancer, and she was very kind."

  "Oh yes, she's the best there ever was. A perfectionist, of course, and perfectionists are difficult to live with, aren't they? Not, of course, that we would ever have her any other way."

  He opened the door and Terelle slipped out, wondering if the way his arm brushed her chest as she went past was accidental or not.

  Her feelings in a turmoil, she started back to the thirty-second. Elation warred with despair. She had sold a dance to the famous Amethyst-there were five shiny tokens in her purse to prove it-but she herself would never make a dancer. So, she did have a talent for creation, but how was she going to put that to good use? She had just seen the country's most famous dancer perform something of hers, and do it beautifully, but it was something she herself would never do so well.

  And she came away convinced of two things about Amethyst that she had not known before. The dancer had been born waterless, and at one time in her life she had sold her body for water.

  Terelle knew the signs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Breccia Hall, Level 2, and outside the city walls "But I want to go!"

  Rainlord Senya, granddaughter of the Quartern Cloudmaster and eleven years old, came close to stamping her foot. She was stopped only by the memory of her grandmother telling her that when she behaved in such a manner she resembled a myriapede in heat. The comparison was unpleasant, so she tried not to stamp and not to grit her teeth, either. Her restraint, however, made no difference to her mood.

  "I am sick of being cooped up in the palace. It's been almost a year since Mama and Papa left, and in all that time you haven't allowed me to go anywhere. Papa would let me go if he was here."

  "I doubt it," her grandmother said evenly as she looked up from the gemstone she was carving. "Your father gave precise orders before he left for the Gibber. He said you weren't to be allowed out of Breccia Hall except under rainlord escort. None can be spared to take you to the Gratitudes festivities until we all go this evening. That will have to suffice."

  "But it's much more fun in the afternoon. They have a fair, and games. Tonight is just all the religious stuff." In parody, she mimicked the high-pitched wail of Lord Gold, the Quartern Sunpriest: " 'Praise be to the Watergiver for our water! Praise him, praise her, praise the whole darn parcel of sun-dried water prophets!' "

  Ethelva's face tightened, but she said nothing.

  "Why can't someone go with me this afternoon? Rainlord Merqual would take me."

  "Your grandfather has sent Lord Merqual to investigate a water theft from the tunnel that supplies the dye-makers' street on the twenty-eighth level. It is a very serious matter."

  Senya flounced into the chair next to Ethelva and glared at her. "Why do I have to be bothered with guards anyway? I can go with a servant. I am quite safe in Breccia, surely."

  "We do not know that." With a sigh Ethelva laid her carving aside and took her granddaughter's hands in hers. "Senya, my dear, it is time you started to think a little more deeply about things."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think: twenty or so years ago there were six other young rainlords or potential stormlords around your father's age, besides Taquar and Kaneth. None of them made it to twenty-two. Not one. I don't mean to scare you-no, I take that back. I do mean to scare you. I want to scare you silly because you don't seem to have the sense to know when you are threatened."

  "By who? No one has ever tried to hurt me! None of those people were murdered. They just had stupid accidents and things. Falling down stairs. Getting lost in the desert. Getting sick."

  "Let's just say that we don't want any of those things to happen to you."

  Senya pouted. "I am so bored! There is nothing to do here. I should have gone with Papa and Mama-"

  "That's a change," Ethelva remarked, releasing her hands. "Before your parents left, you said you wouldn't want to set foot on the Gibber Plains for all the water in a mother well."

  "I don't want to exactly, but anything would be better than sitting around doing nothing."

  "Then work on your water sensitivity. Senya, you are growing up to be a very indifferent rainlord. No one comes into full powers unless they work at it; you know that. You hardly ever do the exercises."

  "Oh, what's the point? I'll never be allowed to do any of the interesting things that a rainlord can do. If you are so worried about my safety, why don't you have someone teach me the rainlord way to kill? Then I could protect myself!"

  "It is no light thing to learn to kill, child. That is reserved for men and women who have proved they can control their talents and who understand the implications of using those same talents to destroy life."

  For once, Senya recognised that she had gone too far. Contritely she knelt on the tiles beside her grandmother's chair; sensibly she changed the subject. "Grandmama, Mama has always said that if they find a stormlord, I must marry him. Because there's only one other unmarried female rainlord, Ryka, and she's too old and useless anyway. Besides, she can't see past the end of her nose." She looked up woefully. "I won't have to marry someone from the Gibber, will I? They are horrid! I have seen them down in the market sometimes. They are always dirty and ragged and they have funny accents. Annas says that they beat their wives and get drunk on amber-"

  "Annas is very silly, my dear. You should listen to your teachers, not your maid. There are good men and bad men in every quarter, and you may rest assured that no one is going to marry you off to someone who will beat you."

  "I don't want to marry anyone who's dirty, either. In fact, I think I already know who I want to marry. I want to marry Taquar." She stood up and pranced around the room as if listening to music only she could hear.

  "Taquar?"

  "Yes. Why not? He's not married. I did think of Kaneth, because he's fun, but he's not really rich like Taquar. Taquar commands a city. I think I would like that. Everyone says Scarcleft is much more beautiful than Breccia. Besides, he is fearfully handsome, and… mysterious."

  "He's also older than your father."

  "Thirty-seven. That's not so very old."

  "Too old for you. Listen, Senya, if you go up on the roof you can watch the festivities from there. Ask the servants to rig up a piece of silk to keep off the sun."

  Senya pulled a sour face. "It won't be the same."

  "No, it won't. But it is all I can offer, and at least it is safe."

  Senya gave a heavy sigh and left the room dragging her feet, a picture of weary gloom.

  "Giving you problems?"

  Ethelva turned in her chair and smiled as her husband entered. It was an effort not to show her concern at his weakness, not to jump up and offer him an arm as he made his way carefully across to his chair. "Yes, in a way. I hav
e come to know her better, without her father or mother around."

  Granthon did not sit as much as lower himself into the chair. "And you find that upsetting?"

  "I'm afraid I do. I had no idea she was so-so manipulative. Or so, petty with it."

  He settled back into his seat. "She is beautiful. More so even than her mother. And like many beautiful people, she has been spoiled."

  "I fear it is more than that."

  He didn't answer, waiting for her to explain, but she said, "I can't explain it, Granthon, because I can't put my finger on it. There is just something lacking in her. And it disturbs me greatly."

  "She is a child yet. Younger perhaps than her years. Irresponsible. Sooner or later events will catch up with her and she will have to grow up. Then she will come into her own."

  "I hope you are right. Waterless soul, I hope so. The child wants to marry Taquar! The man would eat her for breakfast and not even hiccup."

  "I'm right. You'll see. It is not Senya we should worry about. It is who is going to sit in my place when I am gone."

  She stared at him, and her heart plunged. She knew him well enough to know she would not like whatever he was about to tell her.

  "I had another letter from Nealrith today. They still haven't found a child who shows stormlord promise. There's not going to be a stormlord ready to step into my shoes, Ethelva, even if we find a youngster who could become one with training. Someone has to rule this land in the interim."

  "Granthon, we both know there won't be a Quartern if there is no stormlord. How can any of us live if there is no water? And how can there be water if there is no stormlord to bring it? If you die, we all die."

  "No. That's an oversimplification." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "If there is no stormlord calling up storms and placing them exactly where they are needed, there will be rogue storms instead, dropping rain at random, the way it used to be. Without a stormlord, there will still be rain, sometimes, in some places, and rainlords can track it. Some people will survive."

  "But not all," she said flatly.

  "No. As far as I can discover from my reading, our population is about twenty times larger than it used to be in the Time of Random Rain."

  "You're telling me nineteen in every twenty will die?"

  He did not answer.

  "And what happens on the route to such a catastrophe? Can you imagine it, Granthon? People will not go willingly to their deaths. It will be hell, and it won't be the gentle who survive."

  He gave a grim smile. "Not a place I would want to live in."

  She failed to appreciate the humour in his irony. "So-who?"

  "Nealrith is not up to it," he said bluntly.

  She was silent.

  "I love our son; you know that. But I can't blind myself to what will be. Nealrith is a good man, a gentle man. But the time after I have gone will not be a place for gentle men. Decisions will have to be made about the water we have in storage. About who will live and who will die. It will be the time for a hard man who has to make hard decisions. Nealrith… is not that man."

  She felt the space inside her body contract, as if her own water was already disappearing. This is a mistake, she thought. Don't make it, Granthon. Don't destroy our son.

  "Taquar Sardonyx," he said, answering her unspoken question.

  She shrivelled still further. "Nealrith doesn't deserve that. You know they hate one another. Taquar lusted after Laisa, but Nealrith was the one who married her." Her thoughts added an uncharitable: Because Laisa thought Nealrith, not Taquar, would be the heir to the Quartern.

  "I know."

  "Have you mentioned this to Senya, by any chance?"

  "No, of course not. Why?"

  "She-she has her eye on that man."

  "I would not wish Taquar on any woman, let alone a child."

  "But you would wish him on the land?"

  "He's the only person I can think of who could pull it through the turmoil to come. He has vision, Ethelva. And courage. He sees reality, not dreams. We need his pragmatism and the wisdom of his solutions."

  "Have you told him?"

  "Not yet. But I have left documents in case I fade out before they all return from the Gibber."

  She paled but continued the conversation doggedly. "As a matter of interest, what makes you think that once Taquar held administrative power he would ever relinquish it to a new stormlord?" Can't you see what kind of man he is?

  "Perhaps he wouldn't have to. He could continue to rule, and the stormlord-please Sunlord that we find one-could bring rain. Ethelva, I can't ask Nealrith to take on a cloudmaster's task. It would kill him. He hasn't the… the cruelty for it."

  Incredulous, she asked in dismay, "You'd put your land in the hands of a man you believe to be cruel?"

  His answer was barely above a whisper. "Yes. Taquar is not gratuitously cruel, you know; just sufficiently callous to enact the solutions needed for some to be saved."

  Before she could answer, the Breccia Hall seneschal, Mikael, entered the room and cleared his throat. They turned to look at him, relieved at the interruption, knowing it had saved them from a bitter argument that might have scarred their affection for each other.

  "Your pardon, master," he said, "but there is a delegation of Reduners at the gates. They have set up camp outside the walls and sent you this." He held out a scroll cylinder.

  Ethelva and Granthon exchanged glances.

  "Doubtless it is just an update of the places in need of rain," Ethelva said, not believing her own words.

  Granthon scanned it quickly and then started to translate it aloud for the benefit of Ethelva and the seneschal. "The representative of the Sandmaster of the Tribes of the Scarmaker bids the esteemed Cloudmaster of Quartern greetings and may his water be plentiful, with-"

  "Yes, yes," Ethelva said. "Let's dispense with the flowery bits."

  "Then there's nothing much else. He wants me to grace his encampment, being reluctant to cause me any discomposure by venturing to Breccia Hall, and so on, and so on." He gave a cynical laugh. "They care little for my discomposure, of course; they just hate to enter anything with solid walls and a roof."

  "Oh, my dear," Ethelva said in concern, "for you to go all that way, when you have to sit through the religious ceremonies this evening-"

  "I am not decrepit yet," he said mildly. He turned to Mikad. "Have a pede and driver made ready for me, with a chair saddle. I'll take ten men from the guard. In the meantime, send water to the Reduner camp. One dayjar for each man and beast. Do that every day they are our guests."

  The seneschal bowed and retreated.

  Ethelva looked at her husband in concern. "You didn't even ask how many of them there were before ordering the water! Granthon, we cannot spare-"

  "Hush, Ethelva. Apart from our duty as hosts, we can ill afford to offend them now. I have been short-sending their storms for several years. They will have no reserves. All their waterholes will be operating at the bare minimum."

  "Was that… wise?"

  "Wise?" He snorted. "Wise to cut the allotment of a volatile quadrant of nomads who live just to the north of us, all well armed with ziggers, scimitars and spears, warriors renowned for their ferocity, mounted on the best pedes in the Quartern?" Troubled, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. "So far they have enough, but the cuts will have worried them."

  He closed his eyes briefly. "It will be an awkward meeting at best. Fortunately for me it is the Scarmakers who have come and not that young hothead Davim from Dune Watergatherer. That lot would feed my eyeballs to their ziggers as an appetiser." He levered himself to his feet.

  Ethelva rose immediately as well. "I wish one of the rainlords was available to accompany you."

  He looked at her in affection. "I am hardly in danger from these men. And I am not defenceless, either. Not yet. I feel sure I can still take a man's water."

  "I'll see that your clothes are laid out." She walked out without waiting for him, knowing he
would bless her for it. He hated her to see just how slow he was nowadays. How old. There was a strong smell in the nomad tent.

  It wasn't that the Reduners never washed-they did in fact, often, because they liked to swim and had no qualms about doing so in the same waterhole that supplied their drinking water. The smell was exuded not by people but by the ziggers in their cages.

  Granthon had long since had them banned from Breccia City. If he'd had his way, they would have been banned throughout the Quartern, but the Reduners regarded them as part of their heritage and would never have countenanced limitations on what they called their ancestral right to own and travel with ziggers. They had a point. As a hunting people, they might have starved without the use of their traditional hunting weapon.

  Some cities of the Scarpen Quarter allowed ziggers to be carried for protection or used for hunting for sport, even though the number of citizens who died as a consequence of zigger accidents was, to Granthon, astonishingly high. They also fell into the hands of criminals from time to time, and then there would be a spate of robberies where victims were threatened or killed by zigger-carrying bandits.

  The smell of them in the tent was strong but not all that unpleasant, except that it reminded Granthon of his reluctance to impose his will on the Red Quarter.

  He avoided looking at the cages and glanced around the tent. The man who came forward to greet him he knew: Tribemaster Bejanim, who carried the title Drover Son with the honorific Kher, because he was responsible for Dune Scarmaker's pedes. He was also the younger brother of the Scarmaker sandmaster and he spoke the language of the Quartern fluently. Granthon was pleased to see him and acknowledged his gesture of salutation before turning his attention to the rest of the tent. The usual mats and cushions: basic colour, red. Refreshments laid out. Four other tribemasters (he knew them all). At least they were still smiling. As he returned their greetings and spoke the usual Reduner set phrases of hospitality, he reflected that Nealrith wasn't the only one who was too weak to rule the Quartern; he himself had displayed weakness and a deeply rooted disinclination to do anything that would result in confrontation. He should have banned ziggers from the Scarpen Quarter at the very least.