The Last Stormlord (20 page)

“I can’t think of anything we could use to burn,” Taquar said pleasantly. “Except maybe some of the dresses in the extensive wardrobe you brought with you, my dear.”

She gave him a sharp glance to see if he mocked her or merely joked, but she could make nothing of the look on his face.

He went on, “I for one would have no objections to you wearing less.”

“Nealrith might have something to say about that.”

“Really?”

She played with the folds of the dress she had donned the moment her own tent had been erected on their arrival in Wash Drybone Settle. It was midnight-blue silk and matched her eyes and the sapphires in the pendant at her neck. She knew it suited her; she also knew that the looseness of the neckline enticed men’s eyes. The rest of the garment was decorous, with full sleeves, skirt just above the ankles and a high back; she had long known the value of never showing too much at any one time. She ducked her head and looked up at Taquar from under her eyelashes, leaning forward just a little so that the neckline gaped. A tiny smile played at the edge of her lips, but all her performance elicited from Taquar was one raised eyebrow.

From across the room, Ryka snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Laisa asked her, eyes flashing.

Ryka shot her a scornful glance. “If you really want a fire, we’ll get you some pede droppings to burn, Laisa. Shit makes good fuel.”

What might have developed into a longstanding feud was cut short by the arrival of Nealrith. He entered rubbing cold hands, oblivious to the tension in the tent. “Salted damn, but it’s cold tonight. I have talked to the headman. Fellow called Rishan the palmier. And to the reeve as well. And you aren’t going to believe this, but apparently the settlefolk think we are some kind of gods.”

“Are you joking?” Ryka asked. She looked around at them all, her glance obviously adding up what she saw: Laisa’s petulance, Iani with his stroke-ravaged face and limp, Kaneth’s lazy insouciance, Taquar’s sardonic grin. “
Us?
I must be the first short-sighted god in the history of mankind.”

“Well, not exactly us. Rainlords and stormlords in general. They think—or they thought until we actually arrived—that rainlords are gods who supply water from the heavens.”

Iani’s eyes widened. “I’ll be waterless! And where do the Sunlord and the Watergiver fit into all of this?”

“Minor gods of no importance, I gather.”

Taquar gave a bark of laughter. “The waterpriests back in the Scarpen would love that. The Sunlord and his right hand reduced to an appendage of rainlords?”

“Not a bad concept, even so,” Kaneth drawled. “I quite like the idea of being a deity. I fancy it would appeal to you, too, wouldn’t it, Laisa—being a goddess?”

She ignored that. “And do they still think we are gods?”

“I’ve tried to disabuse them of the blasphemy, but among some of the more gullible it may not be so easy. On my way back to the tent, one of them prostrated himself in the street.” Nealrith looked distressed. “I didn’t know places as remote and as naively credulous as this could exist in the Quartern.”

“And why not?” Taquar asked. “The Gibber folk in outlying areas are illiterate and ignored. Who ever comes here, apart from trading caravanners? This will be the first visit that any official from the Scarpen or the Cloudmaster has ever paid them. The only time a stormlord’s administration shows an interest in the Gibber is when we want something from them. What did you expect?”

Nealrith flushed. “It is not as simple as that, and you know it, Taquar. Our quarter has very limited jurisdiction in other quarters.”

“And the Gibber is no more than a collection of poverty-stricken settles and dust-clad towns eking out a living from an unforgiving desert. If you wanted to help them, you could. Who’s to stop you? The Gibber has no central government, no armed guards, no central priesthood even.”

“We all know what kind of help you would give,” Nealfith said savagely. “If my father hadn’t stopped you, you would have been scouring those same deserts for gemstones, exploiting the fossickers without a thought for Gibber wellbeing.”

“At least I am partially of Gibber ancestry. And being exploited is better than being ignored. Had I been allowed to regulate the gem trade as I wished to do, Gibbermen would have hired themselves out as workers, obtaining a steady, reliable income. They would have been exposed to outside contacts and been richer for the experience.”

“They would have been enslaved and impoverished!”

Taquar raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Impoverished? More than they already are? Do you know, I would not have thought that was possible. And poverty
is
slavery. I offered them a way out. You prevented it.”

Iani intervened. “That’s enough. Let us get back to the matter in hand. What did this Rishan say about the settlers? Are there any water sensitives?”

“He doesn’t even know what a water sensitive is. However, he and the reeve are happy enough to have the whole settle tested. They are preparing dinner for us, by the way.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Laisa muttered, “another dreadful meal of bab fruit and bab sugar and bab liquor and bab paste.”

“Our servants are supervising. They will see that it is edible,” Nealrith told her mildly. “Is the initial test ready?”

Ryka nodded. The first test was a simple one: fifteen lidded bowls were placed on the table. Some were filled with sand, others with varying amounts of water. The test was to see who could say which contained water, merely by placing a hand on the lid of each bowl. Anyone who had enough water sensitivity to know the difference with reasonable accuracy was given further testing.

“How many people are there in this miserable sand hole?” Laisa asked.

“Rishan thinks about three hundred and fifty. He’s never actually counted them. I said we’ll see thirty tonight and the rest tomorrow morning.”

“Did you inquire about the stolen storm?” Ryka asked. They had already found out from other settles further north that it was Wash Drybone that had benefited from the unexpected rainfall.

“Yes, I did. The water did indeed get this far.”

“Nobody expected it?” Iani asked with quick interest.

“It took them by surprise. They suffered considerable loss of crops. There was no real benefit because none of them had enough holding capacity for extra water. Whoever did this wasn’t doing it for Wash Drybone Settle, that’s for sure. Or any of the other settles along the wash.”

“A curious matter,” Kaneth said. “It would be interesting to get to the bottom of it. Are you certain that your father didn’t just imagine what happened? Perhaps he just
thought
the storm was stolen—”

“Or said it was stolen to cover up his own inability to bring the storm to where it was supposed to be?” Taquar added.

“That’s enough!” Nealrith snapped.

“No, Kaneth and Taquar are right. You must consider all possibilities,” Ryka said. “There is no point in hiding your head in the sand, Nealrith, just because you may not like the truth.”

Taquar inclined his head in her direction. “Ryka, the voice of reason and scientific thought, as always. Cloudmaster Granthon has to recognise his limitations before it is too late. He has to stop expending his energies on Gibber dust holes like this place—or we’ll
all
end up dead.”

“Making the Gibber thirst while we drink is a disgusting idea,” Ryka said.

Taquar shrugged. “Of course it is. Show me another way to resolve our dilemma, and I will be happy to support it.”

Before anyone could answer, the first of the settlefolk arrived for testing.

Gibber Quarter

Wash Drybone Settle and the Gibber Plains

In the one-roomed shanty of Galen the sot, Shale was sitting with his sister, Citrine, on his lap. Her black eyes, so full of sharp intelligence and wonderment, regarded him with joy. Just over a year old, she was thin, this baby he had taken under his wing. His mother had little milk for her, and there was precious little food to spare. Nonetheless, her face was bright with life, and she liked nothing better than to play with her favourite brother, Shale.

Their mother was stirring dinner in the pot on the fire outside the hut, Mica was carving some bab-wood hairpins he hoped to sell to a caravan some time, and Galen had not yet returned from the settle, where he had gone to spend tokens on his usual jug of amber.

“Leastwise he won’t be too slurped tonight,” Mica said. “He only had a tinny-token to spend.”

“There was a caravan in this evening,” Shale warned. “Who knows what he’s got from them.”

“Yeah, I know. Real rich folk. Skin as light as milk opal. Never seen the like, meself.”

“One of ’em said he was a highlord.”

Mica laughed. “Is that sort of like a stormlord? He was scoffing you!”

Shale shrugged. “Maybe. But he’s different all right.”

“Your pa’s comin’,” his mother hissed from the doorway. “Watch yourselves.”

Mica and Shale fell silent, although even silence might provoke Galen into unreasoning anger if he was drunk enough.

A moment later, he pushed past Marisal on his way inside. Once there, he fixed an angry gaze on Shale. “I want t’speak t’you, lad.”

Shale hurriedly handed Citrine to his brother and stood up.

“There’s rainlords in the settle.”

Outside, Marisal dropped her stirring paddle into the pot and bit off an exclamation of surprise. Mica gaped and then attempted to draw attention away from Shale. “But aren’t rainlords gods?” he asked.

“Just folk, seems like. Fancy folk from a place called Scarpen. Seems they are the ones who make sure we get water. Or don’t get water, see? So we got t’keep in good with that lot.” He turned his attention back to Shale. Reaching out with one hand, he pinned the boy against the back wall of the hut by his throat. “We don’t want them t’think anyone here messes with their business, unnerstand me? We don’t know a sand-flea’s piddle ’bout water or when it comes, you get me, boy?”

Shale, choking, attempted to nod.

“We don’t know anythin’, never. I don’t want you going nowhere near those Scarpen fancy-clothes with their pretty words and their stinkin’ perfumes. Unnerstand?”

Shale spluttered and attempted another nod. He was choking, gasping for air, sure he was going to die. He clutched Galen’s wrist and attempted to wrench his hand away. He tried to call Mica’s name but his brother was rocking Citrine, his gaze deliberately averted. Citrine, however, stared at him, wide-eyed with distress. Her mouth turned down and she started to bellow.

Galen ignored her and went on, “I’ll kill you if you bring trouble on us, see? And if
I
don’t, then them fancy lords will. And if
they
don’t, then the settlefolk will. So just shut your teeth down tight and keep your tongue at the back of ’em.”

He loosened his hand from around his son’s throat and Shale dropped to the floor, gasping. Losing interest, Galen turned to his wife. “Well, woman, where’s my meal? Get me somethin’ t’eat, or I’ll take that stirring paddle to yer.”

Mica helped Shale up and the two of them went to sit on the bedding in one corner of the room, taking the baby with them. They both knew there were times when it was better to be inconspicuous. Happy again, Citrine quietened.

“Sorry,” Mica mumbled.

“It’s all right,” Shale said hoarsely, trying to smile at Citrine. “You couldn’t have done nothin’ anyways.” But in the darkness he knew Mica was grieving—for all the things he could not do.

Nealrith stood watching and listening in the deep of a desert night. As always at this time, the Gibber Plains were alive with sound: faint scrabbling and soft slithers, clicks and chirps, booming songs and thin reedy warbling, emitted by the creatures that emerged from their burrows in the earth or their crannies under stones, creatures as diverse as pebblemice, mole-crickets and night-parrots. All the life that was hidden during the heat of the day came into action at night: hunting one another, seeking the life-giving dew, sniffing out mates. Nealrith wondered if those creatures would go on living if there was no rain, and came to the conclusion that they probably would. They did not depend on the water that came down the wash.

We are the weak ones
, he thought.
The ones who never belonged here in the first place.

“Mist-gathering yet again?” Kaneth emerged out of the darkness, coming from the direction of the tents.

“More or less.”

“Taquar is getting to you, isn’t he? His poison is insidious—corrosive, nibbling at the edges.”

“I thought you agreed with him.”

“Oh, I do. Doesn’t mean I love him, though. Or that we have the same goals. I just want to live, that’s all. I want the Scarpen to survive. Taquar wants something more.”

“Power.”

“I suspect so. He puzzles me, though. Why is being a highlord not enough? I sometimes think there is something unnatural about him, Rith. As if all we see is the person acting a part—farsighted leader, future warrior, indefatigable lover. Never the real man. Sometimes I think he will be the salvation of us all—and sometimes I think he will destroy not just us but everything we stand for and everything we hold in trust.”