The Last Stormlord

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Scarpen Quarter Warthago Range Scarcleft mother cistern Shale slept most of the day and woke in the late afternoon with the memory of turbulent dreams in which Mica was killed, over and over again. And then came his memory of the reality, worse because it was true.

Citrine.

He touched his chest, expecting to feel again the stickiness of her blood. And woke more fully when his hand encountered the unfamiliarity of his clothes.

The clothes felt odd. Soft and fine. And the bed was too soft; he was used to a gunny sack stuffed with dried grass on the earthen floor. He ran a hand over his shaved head. He wasn't used to that, either.

When Taquar turned his head and saw Shale was awake, he said, "Well, get up, lad. The day's almost over, but there are still things to be done."

Shale obeyed wordlessly.

"Come, I want you to clean the pede." He showed Shale where the brushes and cleaning picks were kept and Shale set to willingly. While working, it was easier not to think.

Taquar inspected the beast afterwards and nodded his approval. "Now let me see you cup blood for the ziggers."

Still silent, Shale set about the task. The metal cup Taquar gave him had a grooved lip with a sharpened edge, and it was just a matter of forcing the edge into the skin between two of the segments of the pede and waiting for the cup to fill. The pede didn't stir. The blood was such a deep red it appeared black; as it flowed out, the ziggers began to throw themselves against the bars of their cage. Shale grimaced.

"That's enough," Taquar said as the blood rose towards the brim. "Withdraw the lip… Good. The cut seals itself; that's it. Use a different segment each time." He indicated the cage of ziggers. "Never underestimate the danger of a zigger. If you release one, someone is going to die. Always. Make a mistake, and it could be you."

Shale nodded. He knew that much already.

"As you can see, the cage is divided into two, and all the ziggers are in one side. You open it at the empty end, slide in the cup, close the door." He waited until Shale had followed these instructions and then continued, "Now pull out the divider between the two sides of the cage." Shale had done all this before, but he was still careful. The ziggers, frenzied, flew straight to the cup, inserted their sharp mouth tubes into the blood and began to drink. When they flew, their hind gauzy wings shimmered in rainbow colours like oil on water.

"Beautiful, but deadly," Taquar murmured, echoing his thoughts. "At rest, or when a zigger tears its way into flesh, those delicate wings are sealed tight under the hard cover of the forewings. You can close the divider again now. There's an empty cup in the vacant section-take it out and wash it, ready for the next meal. You must always keep one end empty. You must always check that the doors on both ends are securely latched before you touch the cage at all. Understand me?"

"Yes, lord."

"Feed them twice a day."

"Don't like ziggers," Shale said, the words spilling out without thought.

"What you like is irrelevant, but they do have a purpose. It is dangerous for a man to ride the Quartern alone without them. I do not expect to have to use them; merely having them is enough to keep me safe. I can use water-powers instead, of course, but that can be tiring."

"Why don't ziggers attack their owners?"

"They never attack the man who feeds them. That's why I want you to do this, so you'll be safe. They are also trained not to attack men who wear the same perfume I do. That way I keep my guards safe-I give them the scent especially concocted by my perfumer for me. Most zigger owners do that. Once a zigger is released from a zigtube, it flies straight to feed on the nearest person who smells different.

"Now come and have your supper. I wish to talk to you."

Supper was bread, bab fruit and nut cakes made from bab kernels. As Taquar cleared the table to lay out the food, he asked, "I presume you cannot read?"

Shale shook his head. "Nobody in Wash Drybone Settle knows 'bout reading. I know what it is, but," he added with a hint of pride. "A 'Baster caravanner showed me a board-book once. I can figure and write m'figures too. Gravel taught us that. I'm real good at it. He reckoned we all ought t'do figuring, if we was goin' buy and sell to the caravanners. Gravel's the reeve."

Was the reeve. He'd died being dragged behind a pede.

"Good. That's something." Taquar poured himself some amber from a calabash and offered Shale water. He sat down and gestured to the chair opposite. "I want to tell you a story, Shale. To explain your place in the world."

He broke the round of bread and gave Shale half. "The present Cloudmaster is a man called Granthon Almandine. He lives in Breccia, which is a city in the Scarpen Quarter. His house is as large as the whole of Wash Drybone Settle. His son, Nealrith Almandine, is the highlord. A highlord rules a city. I am a highlord because I rule Scarcleft. Granthon is the Cloudmaster and the most powerful ruler in the Quartern, but it is Nealrith who rules Breccia City. Are you following?"

Shale nodded.

Taquar continued, "Nealrith and I were friends when we were boys." He took a deep breath, as if he didn't want to go on, and then said, "Back then, it was Nealrith's grandfather who was the Cloudmaster. I was just a lowleveller from a crumbling city in the west called Breakaway. My mother was from a Gibber family. Fortunately, when I was about five, I was identified as a water sensitive, and I went to Breccia to be trained.

"One day, when Nealrith and I were both about fifteen or so, I went into the desert on what was to be an eight-day training trip with two other rainlords of about my own age.

"We were all possible stormlords and were young enough to think ourselves invulnerable. We were not, of course. We had food for the pedes with us, but it was poisoned, or so I now believe. The animals died when we were miles from anywhere. We had to walk, carrying as much water as we could. The two other boys insisted on walking the wrong way. They followed the smell of the larger, more distant source of water, when they should have sought the closer, smaller one. I nearly died myself, and only survived because I went in the right direction.

"My water skills were better, you see, but I couldn't convince the other two to come with me." He took a deep draught of amber. "Nealrith publicly blamed me for what happened. I blamed myself; I didn't need my closest friend to turn on me like that. I came to the conclusion that he was riven through with jealousy, but I still thought he had the best interest of the Quartern at heart. Until now."

Shale shivered. There was something grimly intent about Taquar.

"At the time, though, I suspected several other young rainlords, including Laisa, now Nealrith's wife, of being responsible for the poisoning of the pedes. I never, ever thought it was Nealrith. Later, there were several other deaths that were odd. One was particularly sad: a young girl called Lyneth, daughter of one of the rainlords who rode with us to Wash Drybone Settle. Perhaps you saw him. The man with the limp." He paused a moment.

Shale hazarded a guess. "You think someone was tryin' to snuff out rainlords?"

"Snuff out?" he asked, his contempt for the expression obvious. "Kill them, yes. At least, kill the ones who might one day be stormlords."

"What-what's the difference 'tween a rainlord and a stormlord?"

Taquar shook his head in wonderment. "Holy Watergiver, I can hardly believe there exist places as backward as Wash Drybone! Don't you know anything?" He evidently did not expect an answer, because he continued, "A reeve-at least in any place that counts-is someone who can sense water, its movement and shape, but not move it. A rainlord is a water sensitive who can both sense and move water. Not huge amounts, and not over very long distances. A stormlord goes one step further. He can move bodies of water longer distances than a mere rainlord. He recognises people by their water. Best of all, he can create storm clouds, move them, then break them open to release the rain they contain."

"It's true then? A person brings the water to us? Not a god?"

"A stormlord keeps us alive, Shale. He makes freshwater clouds from salt water and sends rain to places where it can make its way to our wells or waterholes. Usually there are many stormlords, and the task is not that difficult. At the moment we have only one: Cloudmaster Granthon. If he dies, everyone-or most of us-will die, from Wash Drybone to Breccia to the Red Quarter to the salt quarries of the Whiteout."

"Then no one would ever wanna hurt such a person," Shale said sensibly. "He'd be too important."

"Want to."

"What?"

Taquar frowned. "Speak properly. Want to, not wanna."

Shale blinked. "I don't speak proper?"

"You surely do not. Copy me in the future. Speak properly."

Shale tensed. This was getting more and more difficult by the moment.

Taquar leaned forward, fixing Shale's gaze with his own. "To continue: I think that there is a person, or people, who want there to be no stormlords. Possibly because rain will then be random, and if rain is random, the people who will be in most demand are those who can sense and find water. Someone who is not a stormlord, can never be a stormlord, but wants the power to rule the Quartern anyway. A rogue rainlord. At least, that's one possibility."

It sounded mad to Shale, but he nodded anyway and avoided Taquar's gaze by helping himself to a kernel cake.

"All of which brings me to you, boy. And why you weren't killed."

Shale refused to cringe. He lowered the cake so that he could concentrate.

"Cloudmaster Granthon sent us to the Gibber Quarter searching for water sensitives. Against all expectations, we found many. Six of the older ones may possibly be good enough to be rainlords. I started to worry. What if they, too, died young? What if there was another rash of mysterious accidents? I did not know who to trust with my unease. They travelled with us-four boys and two girls-and we taught them as we journeyed. I protected them as best I could, but I worried.

"That was why, when I found you, I decided not to tell the other rainlords, except one. The one I most trusted. The one I thought would never be so indifferent to the wellbeing of the Quartern that he would want to prevent us obtaining a stormlord to follow his father."

He took a deep breath. "I don't know whether Nealrith betrayed us, Shale. Or whether he told his wife, Laisa, or one of his friends-Kaneth maybe-and they betrayed us. I did tell him not to tell anyone. Anyway, whether the guilt is wholly his or not, whether he is a murderous madman or just a credulous instrument in the hands of his wife or advisors-whatever happened, the result was tragic for you and your settle."

Shale, meal now forgotten, sat rooted. Cold. "Don't unnerstand," he said at last. "What's this to do with Reduners? It weren't no rainlord who led those men to our settle! They was Reduners, and they was looking for me. They knew me name!"

"Yes. I believe our rogue rainlord has an ally among the dune tribes. I think he asked the sandmaster of that tribe-his name is Davim-to capture you and to hide your capture by killing the adults. What the sandmaster did with the young was up to him, and he chose to kill the babes and seize the older children as slaves or converts to their way of life."

Shale was unable to speak. It was true. It was because of him. Citrine. Pa, Ma, Rishan-almost every adult he had ever known in his life-were dead. Mica and the other children taken. Because of him. He saw the picture in his head again, the image he wanted desperately never to see again: Citrine tossed into the air, too shocked to scream at first, turning, oh-so slowly. The sandmaster on his pede, manipulating the reins, whirling his steed. The beast rearing up, a magnificent beautiful animal, burnished red-on-black in the rays of the rising sun, great black shadow cast across the plains like a monster out of nightmares; Davim holding his seat, extending his spear in a fluid movement of grace, the ululation of triumph ripping from him, catching Citrine's robe on his spear…

Davim.

The piece of jasper from her hand turning in the air, catching the light like an arc of bloodied green fire.

Taquar leaned forward and slapped him across the face. "Stop it!"

Shale was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.

Taquar was relentless. "You are our only hope for the future, boy. You. Granthon is old, close to death. You are the only person we have who can possibly be the next cloudmaster. The only one who has enough power within to be trained."

Stormlord. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No." He stood, hands up, palms outwards, as if to ward off an attack. "Noooo."

Then he whirled and ran. There was no sense to it, no plan, nothing but a desire to run from a trouble too great to bear, from thoughts that were, in fact, unbearable.

There was nowhere to run, of course. He shot across the entrance hall, past the pede, and came up against the metal squares of the grille that separated the underground building from the outside. It was closed once more. And because there was no exit, he climbed. Even then, there was nowhere to go. He reached the top of the grille; above, there was only rock wall, far too smooth to offer a handhold. He hung there on the bars, facing outwards, lit by the last rays of a setting sun, like a spider's prey caught spread-eagled in a web.

"Come down," Taquar said. He did not sound angry, just exasperated.

Slowly, Shale did just that. When he stood on the cave floor again, Taquar added, "There's nowhere to run, Shale. Nowhere. You were born to be what you are. It is your duty. Accept it."

"You don't unnerstand. They all died 'cause of me," he whispered. "They died."

Taquar heaved a sigh. He came forward and pulled Shale into his embrace, Shale's cheek to his shoulder. For once, his tone was gentle, threaded with regret and concern. "Yes, that's right. I'm not going to lie to you. You are more important than any one of them. If you die, thousands of people die. From now on, Shale, you think of nothing but making yourself into a stormlord. Nothing else is important. Nothing. Not one of those people mattered by comparison."

Shale's jaw tightened with anger. Citrine mattered.

Taquar felt his tension and released him. "All right," he said, voice hardening, "if you don't believe that, then believe this. Your only chance of ever finding and freeing your brother is to have the power of a stormlord. Then you can do anything." He turned Shale back towards the inner room. "Go and finish your meal," he said. "Then we will start the first of your lessons."

Shale returned to the table. He took the piece of jasper from where he had put it in his tunic pocket and rubbed it with his thumb. For a long time, he didn't speak; the lump in his throat didn't allow it. Finally, he closed his hand over the gemstone, holding it tight. He would keep it forever, to remember Citrine.

He raised his head to meet Taquar's gaze. "Why didn't they snuff me out?" he asked. "Why did this-this rogue rainlord ask the Reduners to find me if not to kill me? They bunched all the rest together, those they didn't kill. But me-me they asked for by name. They put me on the pede and took me away 'stead of snuffing me. Why?"

"I don't know. It may have something to do with that water that came down your wash. Remember that? It was stolen from Granthon by someone who has water-powers. It's unlikely that he intended your settle to be the recipient of it. I suspect he was trying to send it elsewhere, and he failed. Perhaps that told him he is not as powerful as he thought. Perhaps his Reduner ally is angry with him as a result. Perhaps the Reduners have begun to wonder if they will have enough rain for themselves after Granthon dies.

"They were taking you to the Red Quarter, that's what I found out when I went to Wash Drybone to collect you. You were to be a prisoner on one of the dunes."

"They tole you that?"

Taquar smiled, a touch of nastiness in his satisfaction. "A rainlord can be very persuasive, Shale. Anyway, what I learned leads me to suspect that you were to be their secret stormshifter, the one who could save them if their Time of Random Rain didn't work out to be as successful as they hoped." He shrugged. "It's the only thing I can think of that even begins to explain what happened." Shale stared at the two bowls on the table. One was filled with water; the other was empty.

"Look," said Taquar.

Shale watched as the water in the first bowl flowed out, seemingly of its own accord, into the second bowl.

"That," said Taquar, "is the simplest of all exercises. Learn that, then you will move on to these others." He indicated a jumble of items on the table. He selected one, a twist of glass tubing that stood several handspans high. It was made up of tubes of a variety of sizes and shapes, connected one to another by a series of open bowls and chutes and stepped slides. "You have to get the water from top to bottom and back again without spilling it," Taquar said as he poured water into the top. "As you can see, that means either pushing it uphill or controlling its speed as it comes down. Not as easy as it looks." As he spoke, water began to move at a measured pace through the tubes.

Shale gazed, mesmerised by its passage. "You are doing that?" he asked, awed.

"Indeed. Any rainlord can do this. As will you, in a matter of weeks. You will learn to manipulate water, not just move it. Like this…"

A drop detached itself from the water in the bowl. It moved into the air and hovered above the table. Then it jumped to the left, slowly skated sideways to the right and moved in a loop before it dropped back into the bowl. "Control, Shale, is just as important as the ability to move it. Before I leave, I will run through every piece of apparatus here. That will give you enough to work on while I am gone."

Shale's heart lurched. "Leave? Gone?"

It had never occurred to Shale that he was going to be left in this place. On his own.

Taquar looked at his horrified face and gave an exasperated hiss. "Shale, I can't take you to Scarcleft. You must be strong in water-power and able to defend yourself against attack before we reveal your existence to the world. I don't know how old you are, but you must be at least fourteen by now, surely. Quite old enough to manage on your own. You will be safe. No one knows you are here. If anyone does come, you will feel them coming because you can sense their water, and you can retreat into this inner room with the door closed. No one can open the grille except rainlords, and none will come this way."

"Defend myself? How, by chuckin' water at them?" Shale asked, saying the first words that came into his head.

One of Taquar's eyebrows shot up. "So," he drawled, amused, "the Gibber cub has a modicum of spirit, after all, eh? No, Shale. There are other ways we have of defending ourselves. Ways you will eventually learn when you are old enough. Until such time, you will remain here. Safe."

"And you reckon I'll be able to move clouds one day?" Doubt and elation jostled in his mind.

"If you work hard at the exercises I give you, certainly."

"I'll be pissing waterless!"

Taquar glared. "Watch your language. Vulgarity is the mark of the inarticulate. We will start on the exercises tomorrow. I will leave the following day. Do you have any questions?"

"Uhuh, yeah. I wanna know why this rogue rainlord asked for help from a Reduner sandmaster, and why a sandmaster gave it. Don't make sense t'me. I reckon Reduners don't much like anyone but themselves. That's what they say-used to say-in m'settle."

Taquar's grey eyes flashed, but Shale could not read what the emotion was.

"Not so dumb, are you?" he said flatly. "Good." He leaned forward, once more pinning Shale down with his stare. "A rainlord is only one man. He can only do so much by himself. He needs powerful friends. Armed men to back his ambition. Yet no sane Scarperman would follow him if he told them he planned to kill other rainlords and prevent the training of a new stormlord. But there are other people out there who aren't so sensible, underlings who are discontented about their status, who will listen."

"Reduners?"

"Some Reduners, yes. The men who attacked Wash Drybone are from a tribe on the dune they call the Watergatherer. Sandmaster Davim is a young warrior with ambition. We in the Scarpen have heard rumours that this man hankers to free all the dunes from any reliance on the rainlords or stormlords of the Scarpen. He thinks the dune tribes are better off in a Time of Random Rain. He seeks to lead all the Reduner people as nomads, the way they were once before. We thought no one would want to follow a man with so foolish a dream. But if he was allied to a rogue rainlord and they had in their hands the next stormlord-yourself-well, that could be another tale."

And Mica was in the hands of this man. Shale felt he was suffocating in horror. Mica, how will I ever save you?

"When I arrived at Wash Drybone Settle, I saw Davim's men still looting. He'd gone, though."

Shale struggled to understand. "They didn't snuff you?"

"Obviously not."

"Why not?"

"A rainlord with a cage full of ziggers and the powers of his rank is a man to be feared. I could have killed any one of them. In fact, I did, to make the others talk. That was how I knew what direction you had been taken in and where you were headed. That's how I knew they were Davim's men."

Shale looked disbelieving. "You speared them all?"

"I have no need of such bloody methods. I merely took their water. And killed the ziggers they were rash enough to threaten me with. But enough of this conversation. It is time for you to go to sleep. Tomorrow we will start your teaching in earnest."

He stood, indicating Shale's bed. "Don't forget to clean your teeth as I showed you."

Shale nodded absently. Somewhere in the back of his mind a thought troubled him, something about his rescue by Taquar, but he shrugged it away. He was just grateful that it had happened.

Took their water.

He would remember those words. Just as he would remember the name Davim. And Nealrith. Nealrith, highlord. And one day he would seek his revenge.

His justice.