Stormlord Rising Read online

  She nodded and calmed. The smell of freshly cooked bab bread wafted her way. “All right. I will,” she told him with an impatient nod, still not interested.

  He frowned, not moving, worried perhaps that she was refusing to eat at all. To distract him, and because she wanted to know the answer, she pointed down into the courtyard and asked, “The man down there in front of Sandmaster Davim—who is he?”

  The guard, his frown deepening, approached the balcony railing. She pointed again, to where Davim stood with Ravard, both staring at the man with the bandaged head. She could no longer hear anything they said to each other, but the man was unwinding his bandage in apparent answer to a request.

  “Half-face,” the guard said, his words guttural, as he struggled to speak an unfamiliar tongue. “Born mother fire. Dune god sire.”

  She stared at him blankly, wondering what he meant. Mothered by a fire and fathered by the dune god? Ah, one of the stories found in Reduner myths, if she remembered rightly.

  He struggled on. “Half-face. Kher Shaman. Dune god son.” When she continued to look blank, he gave up trying to explain. “Eat,” he repeated. “Kher Ravard say.”

  “Yes, yes, all right. I will.” She stepped toward the tray and stuffed some bread into her mouth.

  Satisfied, he left then, and she turned once more to the tableau on the steps. Davim was reaching out a hand to cup the cheek of the wounded man. He spoke, Ravard translated, and the man sank to his knees, apparently uttering his promise of allegiance. Ravard said something more and the man rose.

  As soon as he turned to descend the stairs, the warriors drew back out of his way, and Ryka saw his face for the first time. Half of it was horribly and freshly scarred. All his hair had burned away to leave him bald and the skin of his head was unnaturally red. A rough twist of fresh scabbing tissue crossed his skull—but in spite of his injuries and the relaxed way he walked, she had no trouble recognizing him now. He may have worn the livery of a Breccia Hall servant, but he was Kaneth Carnelian, rainlord.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Scarpen Quarter

  The Skirtings between Breccia and Scarcleft Cities

  Scarcleft City, Scarcleft Hall, Level 2

  Jasper woke in the cool of the predawn, with a savage headache throbbing at the back of his eyes and a foul taste on a coated tongue. Thoughts jostled, unpleasantly confused. He frowned, sorting through the muddle in his head for something coherent, for something that made sense of how he felt.

  He was on his way to the sea, he remembered that much. Breccia had fallen. He had killed Nealrith, rather than see him suffer. Cloudmaster Granthon was dead. And he, Jasper Bloodstone, was the only stormlord the Quartern now possessed, even though his water sensitivity was flawed and incomplete. Making clouds from sea water was beyond him, which meant people would thirst and die.

  He blinked, looking straight up at the fading stars in the sky. Somewhere under his bedroll, a stone dug into his back, so he shifted position—and saw someone looking down at him.

  Taquar. Taquar Sardonyx.

  But that couldn’t be right. Taquar lived in Scarcleft on The Escarpment, west of Breccia City. But he, Jasper, was going to Portennabar on the south coast with Laisa and Senya. His frown deepened. There was something. A memory. Hadn’t he protested at one stage about going in the wrong direction? He groaned. Why couldn’t he remember?

  He blinked, focusing. And sat bolt upright. It was Taquar.

  The man was looking down on him, with a half-smile on his lips and a sardonic glint in eyes reflecting the light from the lantern he held high.

  “Good morning, Shale,” he said softly. “It is good to see you again.”

  Jasper scrambled to his feet, senses muddled, thoughts lagging behind what his eyes told him was true. Senya stood behind Taquar with the smug, superior expression on her face that he hated so much; her mother stood further back holding the reins of a pede. What’s going on?

  And then he knew.

  His gaze flew to Laisa.

  She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Why, damn it?” Bitterness consumed him. How could he have been so stupid as to trust Laisa? Kaneth had even warned him about her!

  “It’s for the best.”

  He refused to look at Taquar, but pointed to him as he yelled at Laisa, “After what that withering bastard did to us? He encouraged Davim! And now Breccia’s fallen, the Cloudmaster is dead, your own husband tortured so badly that—” He choked. He’d slit the throat of the man he was proud to call a friend. The kind of man he wished had been his father. “Why?” he cried again.

  Laisa shrugged. “To be on the winning side, why else? I didn’t want to be harried from city to city by Davim’s marauders, always wondering whether I’d be dead before the end of the next star cycle.” She sighed, more a sound of regret than exasperation. “Jasper, look at it this way. In Scarcleft you will be safe. Davim is not going to take Scarcleft the way he took Breccia City and Qanatend. Taquar has defenses: ziggers, pedes, more trained men than Breccia City ever had. He can protect you, and he can take the battle to Davim in a way Nealrith never could, if it proves necessary.”

  It was well she did not wait for a reply because, although he heard the words, his head felt as if it was filled with sand.

  “And with Taquar to help,” she continued, “perhaps you can be a stormbringer. He was strong enough to steal Granthon’s storm, remember? He can help you extract clouds from the sea.”

  Senya interrupted. “How else are we going to get water? You can’t do it on your own! If it weren’t for Taquar, if we’d gone to Portennabar, we’d all be waterless, with you being as much use as a pebble in a dayjar.”

  Her contempt riled Jasper beyond measure, and his distaste made his head ache even more. With difficulty, he reined in his rage. “Where are we?” he asked.

  It was Taquar who answered. “Two hours’ ride from the walls of Scarcleft.”

  The words mocked him. Mocked his brief taste of freedom. He looked at the highlord then, locked his gaze onto the man’s gray eyes set in a face as swarthy as his own.

  “You aren’t going to Portennabar, Shale,” Taquar said with quiet certainty.

  Deliberately, Jasper began to relax the muscles of his back and neck, to ease the tightness of his shoulders, in an attempt to appear in command of himself. If only his damned head would cooperate. “No? And if I insist? What will you do—use those ziggers on me?” He gave a derisive snort and nodded at the zigger cage strapped to the back of the pede Laisa held.

  Drugged, he thought, those two spitless women drugged me. That was the only explanation for his confusion. He felt like killing them both. His drinking water, of course. Laisa had carried it for him while he covered their escape by fighting the Reduners outside the walls of Breccia. He’d had to show Davim’s men that he’d escaped the city so they would not kill the hostages in their attempt to force his surrender to the sandmaster.

  He still didn’t know what had happened after that. Perhaps they had killed the hostages anyway. Perhaps all the Breccian rainlords were dead, not just Nealrith and Cloudmaster Granthon. Maybe even Ryka and Kaneth. His heart lurched. Please let them at least be safe…

  But he had no way of knowing.

  “Laisa’s right,” Taquar said. “On your own, no one gets water. With me, we have a chance. You are stronger and more experienced than you used to be, and I have been working on vapor extraction in the years since I saw you last. But we will talk of this again later, in Scarcleft.” He snuffed the wick of his lantern now that the sky was pink with dawn.

  “I’m not going back to be imprisoned by you all over again. You’re sandcrazy to think I will! And what did you do to Terelle? Kill her the way you killed Amethyst?”

  “I didn’t kill Terelle, I assure you. She is free, living her own life. And who mentioned a prison? You will live in Scarcleft Hall with Laisa, Senya and me, an honored guest. The Quartern’s Stormlord. You’ll have whatever you need. My
word on it.”

  “Your words are not worth as much as the air it takes to say them. How do I know anything you say is the truth?” Terelle. Ah, please let that be the truth. Jasper’s heart thudded under his ribs as he dared to think of her, dared to hope she was alive and free.

  Taquar shrugged. “Then think of the Quartern. Without me, you will never bring clouds to the Warthago, or anywhere else, either.”

  The horrible thing was, he was probably correct. Without help, will I be able to lift a single drop of fresh water into the sky from the ocean? He could move clouds all over the sky afterward; he could send them wherever he wanted—but that initial pulling of the vapor out of the salty waters of the Giving Sea was, as far as he knew, still beyond his flawed powers. They had been planning to go to Portennabar because Nealrith and Granthon had hoped being close to the sea would make it easier for him. Even Taquar had once suggested it as a possible solution. Jasper had always been dubious.

  In no mood to be conciliatory, he glowered at Laisa. “You think the Quartern will be best served by having its only stormlord under the thumb of the man who as good as invited Davim to attack us?”

  “Come now, Jasper. Think,” she said in answer. “Taquar’s reason for keeping you hidden no longer exists. If he was the only one who knew who you were and where you were, then he had power. His aim was to make us believe he was the stormlord.” She smiled at Taquar, her glance gently mocking. “The irony of that, of course, was that it wasn’t necessary. Granthon made him heir—if he’d waited, he would have had the power of a ruler legitimately, even if he couldn’t be a proper stormlord.”

  She handed the pede reins to Senya and came forward to lay her hands on Jasper’s shoulders. He was uncomfortably aware of her, of her perfume, of her sensuality. He was taller than her now, but she made him feel awkward, clumsy, and very young. He schooled his face into an expressionless mask as the first rays of the sun cast morning shadows across The Skirtings.

  “But that has all changed,” she said. “All Taquar wants to do now is keep you safe in Scarcleft and help you create storms. He needs water just as much as the rest of us, after all. If we abandon the other three quarters, the two of you may manage to supply all of Scarpen.”

  He was silent, hiding his rage behind the mask. She so easily dismissed the rest of the Quartern and all its people as if they were of no import. Faces skimmed through his memory: the Alabaster salt trader Feroze Khorash, who had offered aid when he needed it; the Gibber folk of his childhood. People like them would die of thirst, if Laisa and Taquar had their way.

  He shook off her hand and bent to pick up his cloak and put it over his shoulders. The sun might have risen, but there was little warmth to the air yet.

  Laisa added with unusual gentleness, “If Taquar wants to sever the power of the stormlord—you—from that of the Quartern ruler—himself—then let him. It’s no bad thing, you know. People will not protest his rule. They are afraid, and they know Taquar is the strongest leader we have. It will not diminish your standing; you are a stormlord—the stormlord. You will be revered; you’ll have everything you want.”

  He stared at her, wondering what her motive was, hating her because she could forget Nealrith so soon. Because she could forgive Taquar so easily. Because in a terrible, ghastly way, she too was right.

  He looked away from her back to Taquar and said levelly, “I know what you plan. You want to give the north to Davim and his tribe to do what they want with. And you think you’re going to rule in the south in a way the Scarpen and the Gibber have never been ruled before. As a—a—” he searched his memory for the correct word “—a tyrant. The cities of the Scarpen and the towns and villages of the Gibber will have no autonomy, no freedom. And what will be left of the Gibber, anyway, if it is sent no water?”

  Laisa arched an eyebrow. “Autonomy? Where did a Gibber grubber learn a word like that?”

  Senya sniggered.

  He did not look at either of them, but kept his gaze pinned on Taquar as he continued, although he addressed Laisa, not the highlord. “I read a lot.” His voice was steady, uninflected. He wondered if she guessed how inadequate her scorn made him feel. “Let’s assume for a moment that Taquar and I, in combination, can indeed create some clouds as you believe. Tell me, Laisa, just what do you suggest I do when Taquar tells us to withhold water from one of the Scarpen cities, as punishment for an indiscretion on their part?”

  She gave him a withering glance. “They would still be better off than if they were captured by Davim! The whole of the Scarpen is better off, including yourself, if you work with Taquar. Can’t you see that?”

  Taquar, still holding his stare, said urbanely, “I will send a message to Davim telling him I have you. I will insist his men return to the Red Quarter now and stay there unless invited back. And Davim has to do it, or risk having us send no rain to the Red Quarter.”

  “That won’t worry him,” Jasper pointed out. “He wants to return to a Time of Random Rain!”

  “Yes, but in his time, and his own way. Gradually, so his people have time to adapt. He wants to make sure we will send rain. He still needs the aid of a stormlord; he has made that clear to me.”

  When Jasper didn’t reply, Taquar continued, “Besides, I can tell him we not only have the power to send him rain—or not—but we could also ensure they get no random rain, if we so wish. You and I could divert natural clouds from the dunes, just as we could create clouds for them.” He gave a malicious smile. “That won’t have occurred to the red drover, but I intend to make it clear in due course. If he defies us, if he tries to seize our cisterns to bring us down or to steal our water, he risks ultimate unimaginable disaster for his people. I can still bring him to heel, believe me.”

  “You underestimate him.”

  “I don’t think so. I can threaten him with you. Imagine what a single stormlord could do to his dune. You could drain his waterholes, empty his water jars, steal the water.”

  “Not so easy. I can’t get at water enclosed in a jar! I might be able to steal all the water in a waterhole and dump it a few hundred paces away, I suppose, but I’d have to be a great deal closer than this.”

  “You could steal water from a waterhole by turning it into a cloud. After all, it’s not salty,” Laisa said.

  He contradicted her. “Not necessarily. I can’t make vapor from muddy or dirty water, either.”

  “The threat is all I need,” Taquar said. “I doubt Davim knows the details of your abilities! Anyway, reverting to the other part of your argument, do you really think the poor of the Quartern have ever had choices about the way they live? Freedom means nothing to someone who has to wonder where his next full dayjar is coming from!”

  “Are you telling me what it’s like to be poor?” Jasper asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, because you have evidently forgotten. You aren’t the only one who was once a dirt-grubber, you know. Although in my case it was more often the midden heaps of Breakaway. That’s where I started and I’m damned certain I don’t want to end there. When did your Gibber family ever care about who ruled in Breccia City? What did they care about autonomy? As I recall, in your village they thought rainlords were gods!” Taquar’s sneer stabbed at him, all the more hurtful because it was true.

  Feeling himself under assault, he was silent.

  Laisa had not finished with him, either. “And anyway, let’s be honest, Jasper. Do you really want to be the ruler of the Quartern? Can you imagine the responsibility? You are hardly more than a child. In the past there have been as many as ten or so stormlords at any one time, dividing the duties of cloudshifting and cloudbreaking. You will have to do the work that was once shared between many. Why would you want to burden yourself with the additional task of governing?”

  He thought of replying to that. Of telling her even an incompetent ruler would be better than Taquar. Of telling her he had an inkling—no, he had a vision—of a better world. Of a place where Gibber urchins could get an educat
ion, where a snuggery girl could rise above her fate, where a rich upleveler couldn’t pay for extra water so he could have an extra child or two even as lowlevelers thirsted. But he knew when he was beaten. The trick was to put yourself in a position of strength before the fight began; he had learned that much from Kaneth and Ryka.

  He forced himself to be calm. “No, of course I don’t want to be the ruler of the Quartern. You’re right—it would be more than I could do. More than I would want to do.” He switched his gaze to Laisa. “How wise of you, Laisa.”

  The look she gave him was sharp, wondering how he dared to mock her, not quite certain if he did. She said, “Anyway, what are we doing discussing this in the middle of The Skirtings? Let’s go to the city and have a civilized meal and a bath, and thrash out the details of an agreement between you and Taquar in more pleasant surroundings.”

  “Indeed,” Taquar agreed. “Much more pleasant—and once there, I will tell you all I know about what became of Terelle.”

  They waited for Jasper’s reply. He looked from one to another, sickened, hating their cynical manipulation, their selfishness. But what choice did he have? In the long run, what mattered was the Quartern—and its water supply.

  He nodded, unable to speak, and thought of Terelle.

  * * *

  In the end, it was just Taquar and Jasper who had the discussion. Jasper had washed—using as little water as he could, even though the servant attending him had offered to heat an entire bath full to the brim—and changed into the clean clothes provided. A lavish meal was delivered to his room, and he found to his surprise he was ravenously hungry. When he thought back, he realized he had no memory of eating much on his journey from Breccia. When he was finished, a servant led him to the highlord’s sitting room. Neither Laisa nor Senya were anywhere in evidence.

  “I thought we might do better without them,” Taquar said. “Women tend to complicate things. Please sit down and allow me to pour you something refreshing. Do you drink amber now? You must have endured quite an ordeal over the past few days and I imagine a drink might be welcome.”