Stormlord Rising Read online

  “Stay hidden for the rest of my life? They say Lord Taquar has a long memory.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I promise you. Trust me.”

  She stared at him and then at the tokens. “I’ve never seen so much money,” she whispered.

  “Let’s sit down, and you can tell me what you know.”

  With trembling hands, she tucked the tokens into her purse and sat on the edge of the divan. He sat beside her and smiled encouragingly.

  “The first time he came he just wanted to find out everything he could about Terelle. Who she was, where she was, what she was like. The second time was different. She’d just run away, and he was angry. Very, very angry. With her.” With an abrupt movement, she turned her back to him and pulled her robe down. Her back was scarred in parallel lines.

  Shale drew in a sharp breath; he knew those marks. He had scars of his own from beatings his father had given him. The central spike of a bab frond made a fine stick for beating once you removed all the leaves. It had serrated edges and they cut the skin if the beating was hard enough. “Taquar did that?” he asked.

  “He ordered it done. Not because he was mad at me, so much. It was because he wanted information. But I couldn’t tell him anything. Not really. I haven’t seen Terelle since she left the snuggery. She did send me a few notes, which I kept. He took those.” She kept looking at her hands, twisting her fingers.

  “Go on.”

  “He—he’s obsessed with her. I don’t think it’s because he thinks her beautiful or anything. It’s because she escaped him, and he didn’t like it. If he ever finds her…” She shook her head, distressed. “She’ll be a whore after all. His whore. She always wanted something else. Something better.” She looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. “She wouldn’t like him.” She did not add a plea, but he heard it, nonetheless.

  He took her hand in his. “I don’t think you need to worry about Taquar getting hold of her again. I don’t believe she’s even in Scarcleft now. But I do think she might be in trouble. It’s that old man she was staying with. The waterpainter, Russet Kermes. He has some sort of hold over her.”

  She looked puzzled, obviously not knowing what he meant.

  “He controls her. She doesn’t have enough faith in her own strength to resist. She thinks she’s weak, so she doesn’t try, not really. But you and I both know how strong she is.”

  He had Vivie’s full attention now. “That doesn’t sound like her. She was always as stubborn as a rock blocking a cistern pipe. She got out of Opal’s when she was fourteen!”

  “I know. She told me. Vivie, I believe I can get a message to her. In that message I want to say something that will make her resist. So she can be free of Russet. But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what the right words are to give her faith in herself. You do. You’re her sister.”

  She sat in silence for a long time. When she spoke it was with conviction. “That’s easy. But if she comes back here, Taquar…” She trailed off, suddenly aware she might have said too much. Taquar was the highlord of the city, after all.

  “I’ll look after her, I promise.” He clamped off the memory of his last failure to do just that. Next time he would keep her safe. He must.

  She looked at him again, assessing, then made up her mind. “She wrote me a note, about you, while you were staying with Russet. It was one of the ones taken by Taquar. She said she had a friend for the first time in her life, his name was Shale, and he was quiet and prickly like a sand urchin, but she really liked him. She said she thought she’d met the only man she could ever marry.” She met his eyes. “She’d come back for you.”

  The choking lump in Jasper’s throat stopped further conversation.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Scarpen Quarter

  Pebblebag Pass to Qanatend

  As dusk deepened along the floor of Pebblebag Pass, Ryka stood on the southern edge and grieved.

  Behind her, deeper inside the pass, was a Reduner tent settlement that had existed since the drovers of the dunes had besieged Qanatend. Ravard had declared they would join the camp there for the night, and the slave caravan was already settled in. From where Ryka stood, pedes and men were black silhouettes in front of the cooking fires and shadows danced on tent canvas, but she did not turn to look.

  She remained at the top of the slope they had climbed that afternoon, gazing back toward the south, torn with grief. Although she stood in the fast-deepening shade of one of the highest peaks of the Warthago Range and the sun had already slid out of her sight, the plains below and the sky above were still bright with sunshine.

  I must remember that, she thought. I am in darkness, but somewhere down there they can still see the sun. There was still light in the world. And life, too, like the one she had once known. Somewhere below, past the foothills and the more gentle incline of The Sweeping rising up from The Escarpment, were the four escarpment cities still free of the drover warriors—Scarcleft, Pediment, Denmasad and Breakaway—and, further away, the coastal cities of Portfillik and Portennabar.

  There was freedom, but she had lost something precious the night before: the ability to say no. The grieving time she had been allotted had passed, and Ravard had come to her pallet and taken what he thought he had a right to take. She had not fought him, nor had she killed him afterward as he lay beside her sleeping. She could have taken his scimitar, carelessly discarded in its scabbard, and slit his throat. She could have used her water-powers to escape, to steal a pede and thwart pursuit. She could have been halfway to another city by now. She would have been long gone except for the deep-rooted fear—no, the knowledge—that Kaneth would refuse to escape with her.

  Instead, she had lain in Ravard’s arms and wept as she lost the last of her innocence.

  And she would do it all again.

  I will not leave without you, Kaneth. Because that’s what loving is.

  There was a sound behind her and she turned.

  He was there, watching her, her husband who no longer knew her.

  “Kaneth?” she breathed, hoping, always hoping.

  “Why do I sense you in a strange way?” he asked, ignoring her use of his name as if he had never heard it before.

  She wanted to rush into his arms. She wanted to say, Because you love me. Because you are a very special rainlord and you know my water. But she dared not. He no longer knew her, no longer knew his loyalties, no longer recognized his abilities. His expression was confused, his gaze lacked desire, his words betrayed his fuddled wits.

  “Your memory will return,” she said gently. “And you will know who you are, and what you are. Be patient.”

  “Sometimes there are flashes of myself as a child. Children playing, but I cannot name them. Adults teaching, but I can’t remember what they said. A building, a place of learning where I was happy, yet I do not remember why.”

  “It will come,” she whispered. “It will all come back.”

  She stopped, aware of water moving through the shadows, reminding her of the danger of being overheard. Someone was coming through the gloom toward them, approaching from behind Kaneth to the right, treading the loose stones without sound. His stealth made the hair on her arms stand up. She stared short-sightedly, seeking him out, but he stalked them from within the darkest shadows clinging to the boulders and bushes lining the sides of the pass. There, even the twilight did not reach.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked more loudly. “I am sure the slaves will have cooked by now. You should go back.”

  Stones rattled down a slope behind him, this time to the left and above. Another stalker. Kaneth didn’t turn. He was still looking at her. It was she who shifted her senses from the still invisible watcher to the danger on the bluff above. She tilted her face upward, straining to see. At first, nothing. Then the danger had a shape, leaping feline-shaped water. She saw its silhouette against the dying light in the sky, and screamed a warning. The yowl of the horned cat came in answer as it plunged, fron
t paws aimed to break the neck of its chosen prey: Kaneth.

  Her power flashed outward to take its water. She thought to kill it in mid-leap. And in her panic, she misjudged. The blast of power flew past the animal, too high. Kaneth started to turn. And in the final splinter of time, just before the cat’s huge paws—backed by the force of its leap and its powerful shoulders—could hit him and snap his neck, the animal suddenly curled in on itself. Already falling, its force fading, it slammed Kaneth with its body, not its outstretched paws. Kaneth sprawled on the ground at Ryka’s feet, the cat motionless beside him.

  Her heart had stopped, then beat again as Kaneth winced and sat up. She stared at the cat, at the horns on its forehead, sharp and straight, at the thick fur richly marbled with color: brown, ochre, umber—and the scarlet splash of freshly spilled blood. It was dead, and the cause was easy enough to see. Buried deep in the side of its neck was the hilt of a knife. On its flank, a suppurating sore, remnant of an old injury.

  Her rational mind made sense of that. Wounded and starving, its usual animal victims chased away or killed by guards from the camp, it had hungered more than it had feared, and its hunger had been fuel for its fury.

  She raised her eyes to see who had thrown the knife, and out of the darkness stepped Ravard.

  “A horned mountain cat. Beautiful animal,” he said. “I have always coveted a pelt of one of these.”

  Ryka, still breathless and trying to still the wild beating of her heart, gathered her wits. When she spoke again, she concealed the remnants of her terror with sarcasm. “And I thought you did it to save a life.”

  He had no patience with her. “I gave you no permission t’come out here, let alone meet another man. Get back to the camp.”

  “There was no meeting,” Kaneth said, rising to his feet. “Or only an accidental one. That was a fine throw and I am grateful.” He casually dusted off his knees, and smiled up at Ravard.

  The innocence of his smile was breathtaking and Ryka’s fear returned in full measure. This man who had replaced Kaneth had no sense of self-preservation. He spoke as if the truth was all he needed.

  Ravard stared at him, momentarily thrown by his simplistic sincerity. “You’re a slave,” he said, his tone scathing. “D’you think I need your thanks? Now carry the cat carcass back t’the fires, you witless waste of water. I want t’have it skinned.” He snatched the knife out of the animal’s neck, grabbed Ryka by the arm and pulled her with him toward the camp, leaving Kaneth to lift and carry the animal alone. She wanted to protest, to say he still wasn’t well, but she quelled the desire. It would make no difference.

  “What makes you so sure he won’t escape?” she asked, both curious and trying to divert the anger she felt in him.

  He laughed, his mockery clear. “Why should he? He was probably sand-witted before he was captured—a hulking laborer from one of your low-life city levels, at a guess. Such men always lead miserable lives without hope. Before this he worked for money and probably never had enough t’eat. Or drink. Now he works f’r us and he’ll eat well. He’s better off here and men like him know it. Folk like you, you despise slavery, think it unjust and cruel. Ask yourself if the poverty of your cities in the Scarpen or the settles of the Gibber is not far worse than any slavery. Sometimes seems t’me like freedom t’starve.”

  “You’ve been to the Gibber?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said grimly.

  Watergiver help me, she thought, he was one of the Reduner raiders. Probably been at it since he was old enough to own a pede. One of the marauders who pillaged and razed Gibber villages and stole their youngsters for slaves and warriors. No wonder he spoke the language of the Scarpen so well.

  “If this burnt man is a mere lowlife as you say, why do your men treat him as if he is somehow special? As though they are half-afraid of him? Why is he not chained like the others?”

  “None of your withering business,” he growled. “And let me make one thing clear, woman. You have certain privileges ’cause you’re my chosen bed mate. Abuse the freedom you got, then you’ll be roped like the rest of the men till we get t’Dune Watergatherer. Understand?”

  So much for the goodness of slavery. “What did I do wrong?”

  His grip tightened on her arm. “If men see you wander off like that, they’ll think you want t’escape and they’ll bring you back for punishment, and I’ll have t’order your lashing. Or they’ll think you’re off t’meet a lover. And I’ll have t’order your death. Understand?” He stopped dead, his grip swinging her into his chest. “I would have t’do it, or lose the respect of my men. I can’t have you mock me.”

  She could feel the heat coming from him as clearly as she felt his need to hurt her. He was angry and he knew no other way to handle his ire. And side by side with the anger was a hot-blooded desire he found difficult to control. He lusted after her. He was so weeping young.

  She nodded, placating, then wasn’t sure he would see the movement in the dark, so she raised her hand and pressed her fingers gently to his mouth, as if she could keep his rage within. “I understand. I won’t do it again. But remember this: to be a leader of men, you must first learn to lead your own passions, not to be led by them,” she said.

  “Gods, woman, you’re lucky I don’t break your bleeding neck!”

  “I meant to advise—”

  “You are a slave! Slaves obey, nothing else. I am no child t’be advised by a woman.”

  “And I am no slave. You can put me in chains, but you can’t make me a slave.”

  “I could break you into a hundred pieces and make you come groveling t’my feet!”

  “Perhaps, if you want the wreckage of a woman in your bed. But even so, my mind will always be free. You can never rope my thoughts, Kher Ravard. Or my spirit.”

  For a moment he stayed still and silent. Then, sounding more exasperated than furious, he asked, “You sun-fried female, have you no fear?”

  “You gave your word. You said you would protect the child I carry. You may be young, but you are a man of your word.” She had no idea if that was true, but something told her he was fond of the idea of honor.

  He kissed her then, grabbing her and pressing her to him, his mouth roughly plundering, his hands roving over her back and buttocks. Her response was muted, poised somewhere between acquiescence and passivity.

  Stung, he flung her from him. “Go get your meal,” he snarled and strode off to join the other Reduners at the fires.

  She sighed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went to join the other slave women.

  The following day they rode on toward Qanatend—what was left of it.

  The small free-standing hill, separated from the last of the northern slopes of the Warthago Range by a mile or two of grassy plains, was covered by buildings. Qanatend: a city that tumbled down the slopes to the encircling bastion walls and its external ring of bab groves, liveries and iron works. Connecting Qanatend to its mother cistern in the Warthago, the water tunnel left its spoor of brick towers, one at each inspection shaft. The caravan trail ran parallel to the tunnel. Both plunged in straight lines into the bab groves.

  Once inside the groves, the Scarpen slaves stared in horror at the sight of trees wantonly hacked to death. The ancient irrigation system was in ruins, deliberately destroyed. Patches of heaped bab charcoal scattered throughout the groves marked the remains of funeral pyres and when Ryka obtained a better look at one, it was to see charred remains of bones protruding from the ashes.

  She thought of Iani, with his limp and his sagging mouth and crippled hand; of his wife Moiqa, Highlord of Qanatend, mother of the kidnapped Lyneth. She remembered other rainlords she had known who had served the city, and who had probably perished when it had fallen.

  These are their bones, she thought, her stomach roiling. And they died knowing they were defeated and we Breccians had failed them. How Kaneth had hated that! He’d longed to ride to help the rainlords of Qanatend, and only direct orders from the Cloudmaster
had stopped him.

  “The bastards. The bastards. The sunblighted bastards,” Junial muttered from behind her. “Watergiver save us, did they leave anyone alive?” Junial, the middle-aged woman chosen for her baking skills, was the plump widow of a baker from Level Fifteen of Breccia City.

  As they rode through the gates they saw much of the city had been fired. House gates hung on broken hinges, shutters and doors were burned, roofs had collapsed, mud-brick walls were blackened where flames had licked upward. Occasionally they glimpsed city dwellers going about their business: a fish-farmer selling his wares; a blacksmith sharpening Reduner scimitars; street whores with haunted eyes flaunting grubby bodies; an old woman spinning bab fibre on her spindle, her gnarled fingers sliding up and down the thread in unceasing labor.

  “They all look hungry,” Junial muttered. “The bastards, those bleeding red bastards.”

  Ryka turned to whisper a warning. “Hush. The pede driver may understand you. Some speak the Quartern tongue, especially the ones who were trade caravanners before.”

  “Don’t care if he does, the spitless wretch,” the woman said, but she had lowered her voice.

  Sandblast it, I too am so sick of being careful, Ryka thought as they entered the city and began to climb the steep streets.

  When she looked upward, she could see that the windmills drawing the water up to the highest levels were still operating, but if she glanced back at the roof gardens of the levels they had passed, she saw most of the potted trees and plants were dying. No one had enough water, then. Small wonder, with the whole system disintegrating, no storms being sent to the gullies around their mother wells, and the Reduners carting as much water to the dunes as they could load on their packpedes.