The Last Stormlord

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gibber Quarter Wash Drybone The distance shimmered in dance. From afar, the figure plodding across the Gibber Plain stretched and split and rejoined, now an elongated giant, now several thin-limbed sand-dancers. But there was no one to see it, no one to note that the illusion was larger than the reality: a boy of thirteen or fourteen, on foot, lugging a sack of resin on his back. Far beyond him, the sand-dancers swayed and cavorted…

Shale had spent three days collecting out on the plains; now he had run out of water and was desperately thirsty. He shifted the weighty sack from left shoulder to right. The harvest had been good and the resiner would pay him well. It riled Shale that he couldn't sell direct to the caravanners; he would get more tokens that way. But then, maybe not. Caravanners would try to cheat him. Besides, the resiner would make life unbearable, maybe even go to his father. No, it was better this way, at least for the time being. The last thing he wanted to do was rile Galen.

After the unexpected rush down the drywash, a full year ago, his father had hated him with renewed vigour, even though he rarely raised a hand to him any more. Shale was as grateful as he was puzzled. Surely his father could not fear him as some sort of shaman simply because he had sensed the coming of the rush.

He stopped for a moment, long enough to taste the air with his senses. He had been feeling water from an unexpected direction for some time now. Wash Drybone Settle was ahead of him, in the south-east. The Giving Sea was to the south, a long way off, but large enough for him to feel its water as a vague mistiness. What he felt now, though, was to the north and it was coming closer. It wasn't a cloud this time, he was sure of that.

Uneasy, he turned to study the horizon behind. It was never wise to travel alone on the plains; some who travelled the desert regarded a lone fossicker as prey. And Shale had a sack of resin, laboriously collected from gummy plants, drop by precious drop. He strode on, quickening the pace a little in spite of his fatigue and thirst. He would be glad to reach the safety of the wash. In a wash, one could hide.

By the time he dropped down into the dry riverbed about two sandglass runs later, he was staggering with the light-headedness of water deprivation. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it took physical effort to detach it. In spite of his disorientation, he took care to hide the sack in amongst the rocks. The water on the move was much closer now. From this distance, he could not differentiate water in jars, water in people or water in animals, so the presence he felt could have been a wild herd of pedes-rare outside of the Red Quarter but not unheard of-a caravan on the move or even people on foot. The latter he doubted. Whatever it was, it was moving fast and there was a lot of water present.

He ignored its approach and attended to his more immediate needs. He crouched for a moment and cast about for water close by. Concentrated.

A feeling, an awareness. Not something he could explain. It was just there: knowledge that there was water to be found a short walk up the wash. When he arrived at the place, the knowledge was even more pressing and he could narrow down the position. About five hand spans deep, there was a pocket of water caught in a basin of rock. He would have to dig down for it, but he had expected that. He set to work.

By the time his thirst was sated a little later, he could sense more about the form of the approaching water: some myriapedes with mounted riders, and two larger packpedes. A strange combination. Usually in a trade caravan there were far more packpedes, burdened with supplies and goods, than there were myriapede hacks. They were approaching fast; and once they hit the watercourse, if they wanted to reach Wash Drybone Settle they would have to pass by him, perhaps even descending into the wash to follow the path.

He was filling in the hole he had made when one of the stones he had uncovered caught his eye: a pebble polished smooth by aeons of tumbling along in the sand-filled waters of the rush; green coloured but flecked with blood-red streaks. He spat on it and rubbed the spit over the surface. The wetness made the green sparkle and the veins within gleam with ruby fire.

Jasper! he thought. His heart slipped, unbelieving. He'd seen such gems before; not raw like this but polished, in the rings and brooches the Reduner caravanners wore. His disbelief leaped into delight and hope. A fine jasper piece would buy him-no, buy the whole family-enough water for days. Caravanners paid well for good gems.

And they might steal 'em, too.

His head jerked up and he scanned the air once more. The moving water was closing the gap.

His stomach clenched as he enclosed the stone in his fist and ran back to where he had left his sack. A rough heap of boulders made it a suitable place to hide and he hunkered down, confident he was difficult to see. His smock, given to him by the palmier and much mended by his mother, blended in with the pale ochre of the rocks.

It never occurred to him that there were men who could sense him the same way he sensed them. That to such a man, a dirty desert urchin among the sand-eroded rocks was a body of water in a desert, and worth investigating. Their water approached.

He peered through a narrow crack between the boulders, to see that they had already descended into the wash and would pass not more than a few paces from where he crouched. They had slowed down to a walk, probably resting their mounts now that they had found the path up the drywash. He stayed where he was, unmoving and silent, secure in the knowledge that they would be unlikely to catch a glimpse of a dust-covered boy blending into a background of dust-covered boulders.

As they passed, his jaw dropped. He had never seen such people. These were no Reduner or 'Baster traders. Nor were they marauders.

The first to ride past were armed men on several myriapede hacks. On the first mount, one man stood on the back of the beast, perfectly balanced, holding the reins in one hand and an upright spear in the other. The base of the spear was slotted into a niche on the pede; a flag marked with colours fluttered from the haft. The point of the spear was wickedly sharp. At his back stood another man, similarly armed, facing the opposite way.

Shale had never seen such a thing. Two men standing upright to ride the same pede? They were dressed oddly, too. 'Basters wore white to match their salt-white hair, salt-white skin and salt-white pedes; Reduner caravanners were red men dressed in red. Some said the Red Quarter stained everything red that came its way, whether men or clothes or water.

These men were different. They had pale but not white skin, and golden or light brown hair, and they wore plain white loose trousers that gathered in at the ankle, with loose white tunics over the top. Their only ornamentation was an embroidered mark on the breast of the tunic. Their mounts were unadorned: no embroidery, no lace, no carved history, nothing apart from the same mark etched on the back segment with a number below. They all wore hats of woven palm fronds, but shaped differently to the red headgear of the people from the Red Quarter-these were broader brimmed, hardly the sort of headgear worn by people used to fast riding or accustomed to battle.

Shale stared and wondered.

His wonderment grew as he saw the next group of riders. In front were five adults, seated cross-legged on myriapedes. These animals were embroidered and ornately fringed; the saddle cushions were stuffed and equally ornate in their lace and straps. The riders themselves were plainly dressed, resembling the two guards in front except that they had no coloured marks on their robes. Two of them were women mounted on the same pede, both wearing hats draped with veils to exclude the sun and dust. Shale's eyes widened at the fineness of the clothes they wore, the fairness of their skins and the lightness of their accents. He was more thrilled than frightened, his excitement tickling his imagination, as stimulating as water trickling across his skin. Behind them on another myriapede were six boys and two girls mounted behind a man. They looked like Gibber folk, and he guessed they were all a little younger than himself.

As the two women passed, they chatted. He could barely understand them.

"Not much further," one said.

"What do we know about this place?" the other asked.

"Nothing," the first replied, her tone sour. "Another dirty hole in another dusty drywash."

Beside them, one of the men said, "May I remind you that it was just such a hole in a wash that produced no less than four water sensitives just six days ago? One of whom is a potential rainlord."

"Not one of them has stormlord potential," the second woman pointed out. "Not one. Sunblast it, a year on the saddle, Nealrith, and no new stormlord to show for it, not even at Wash Dribarra."

"We haven't finished yet, Laisa."

"No, damn it."

Shale heard, but hardly understood. The accents were too strange, the voices far from the guttural tones he was used to hearing.

They passed out of his view and it was a moment or two before several more riders appeared, all dressed similarly but riding mounts with less decoration and no fancy saddles or bridles. Servants, Shale guessed. Or guards. Some of them were armed. He knew about servants and guards from the Reduner caravans.

The next animals that came into his line of sight were two packpedes. Much larger than myriapedes, they were laden with baggage and a single rider on the first segment. The dozens of pointed feet undulated like a fringe lifting in the breeze, leaving the characteristic holed tracks in their wake.

There was one final rider yet to come. He had dropped behind. Shale remained hidden, waiting for him to pass, and he came into view a short while later. Not a servant, this one, Shale decided. He would have thought the same even if he had not noticed the decorated saddle and the inlaid bridle. There was something about the man himself. A regal assurance, the aura of a man who was certain of himself and of his power. Unlike the others who had passed by, he was swarthy, dark enough to be a Gibberman, with deep brown hair tied back at the nape. His face was sharp-planed, handsome, shrewd. There were no crinkle lines at the edges of his eyes; he was not a man who laughed much.

He reined in opposite Shale and sat motionless on his mount. Shale found himself holding his breath in growing terror. He saw boxes strapped to the back of the mount: zigger carriers. Shale knew about ziggers, too. All Reduner caravans were armed with ziggers, and most of the caravanners had a reputation for being willing to use them if they felt threatened. Still clutching his jasper, he dug the fingers of his free hand into the soil, as if holding tight to the earth would save him.

Slowly the man on the pede turned his head and stared right at the rocks where he was hidden.

It should have been impossible for the man to detect him. Shale had moved nothing but his hidden fingers, had not made a sound, and the slit he used as a spy hole was no more than a sliver of space between two boulders. And yet he knew, beyond doubt, that he had been seen.

"Come on out," the man said. His voice was deep, pleasant to listen to, like the regular booming of night-parrots. It contained no hint of threat, yet the command countenanced no refusal.

Slowly, Shale stood and stepped out from behind the boulders.

The man looked him up and down without expression. "You are from Wash Drybone Settle?" he asked.

Shale nodded.

"Answer properly, boy. You may address me as 'my lord.' " No anger; it was a neutral statement.

Shale stumbled over the word, not sure he understood. "L-lord?"

"What is your name?"

"Shale. My. Lord."

"Shale?" A hint of amusement this time, although the man did his best to hide it. "A true descendant of mining folk, eh? Would you like a ride back to your settle?" The man gestured at the rear of his mount.

Shale thought of his resin sack. "Nah. Um, my lord. I'll walk."

The man was apparently not offended by his refusal. "As you wish," he said. "But do return, lad. You are wanted there this evening."

"Huh?" Me?

"What is it you hide in your hand, Shale?"

Shale's fist closed even tighter over his jasper, cursing himself for not having dropped it before he'd stepped out. "Bit o' pebble."

The man smiled. "Then you won't mind showing me, will you?"

Shale's whole body cried out his denial, yet under the unflinching gaze of those deep grey eyes he found himself holding out his hand, palm upwards, so that the jasper shone in the sunlight.

"Ah. That is a pretty gem. Give it here."

Shale was sure the man was going to steal it. And yet there was nothing he could do. A man on foot could not run from a pedeman; and no one could run from a zigger. If he refused, he would not only lose the gem; he could die. He approached the pede. " 'S mine," he said, defiant.

"Did I say it wasn't? Give it here."

Shale eyed the ziggers one more time and then handed the jasper up.

The man turned it over and over in his fingers, then held it up to the light. "Jasper," he said. "Of the type they call bloodstone. You found it today?"

Shale nodded.

"What will you do with it?"

"Sell it to a red-man gem hunter."

"Hmm. He will cheat you, I think. It is a fine specimen, and fossickers don't find too many these days. They sometimes call it the martyr's stone. Legend says the red inside is the blood spilled by the Watergiver when he was attacked by Gibbermen. The blood splashed on desert jasper, and each stone so stained is now a piece of bloodstone. A gem like this is worth about five hundred day tokens to a gem polisher on the streets of my city, and he would sell it polished and set for three times that, probably to the waterpriests. They are not only rich enough, but they believe such a stone to be holy. A gem hunter from a caravan should pay you at least three hundred. Don't take a token less. And if they quibble, tell them Taquar, Highlord of Scarcleft, told you that."

Shale gaped, wits scrambled. Highlord? Did that make him a rainlord? Was he then a god? Three hundred tokens? He tried to think how much that could buy.

The man bent in the saddle to hand the gemstone back. "Take care of it, Shale of Wash Drybone. You're unlikely to find another as good in your lifetime." He noted Shale's awe, and the amusement was open this time.

Shale took back the jasper, still reeling under the impact of all he had been told.

Rainlord Taquar turned from him, manipulating his reins.

The myriapede responded to the complex signal and started off, picking up speed and tucking its long antennae under the lower edge of its segments. Another twitch on a rein and it had straightened its legs, bringing them in line with the edge of its segments. This mode raised its under-belly higher from the ground so it could now run faster, untroubled by bumps and unevenness in the terrain. Shale stood looking after it, admiring the quick parallel ripples of the wall of legs as they flowed through the sand.

One day, he thought, I'm goin' t'get me a pede like that.

As he turned back to collect his resin bag, he considered what the man had said. Highlord? Maybe he was, but he wasn't a god. He was just a man like any other. An honest man, kind even. He could so easily have stolen the jasper and who would ever have believed Shale if he said so? And he need not have given the advice about its value.

Kindly, perhaps-but never soft. A man like that reeked of power that expected instant obedience.

Shale was not sure he wanted their paths to cross again. A Gibber boy like himself could be no more than a grain of sand before the wind when he came face-to-face with such a lord, be he god or man. "It's growing cold in here." Laisa looked around the tent with distaste. There were no chairs, just a heap of saddle cushions, a floor rug and the flat wooden circle of the low table they used when testing settlefolk. Iani placed covered water bowls on the table, his palsied hand shaking, while Taquar, Ryka and Kaneth watched and wondered if he would drop any.

No one said anything. They had become used to Laisa's complaints in the time since they had left the Scarpen, and had learned that it was unwise to agree with her. It only led to a litany of other complaints. It was even more unwise to contradict her because that either made her indignant or led to long sulks interspersed with sarcastic remarks aimed at the person who had uttered the contradiction.

"We should have a fire," Laisa added. "These desert nights are unbearable."

"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.