The Last Stormlord

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Level 2 and Level 3 Shale thrashed on the bed, fighting the rigid arms that hugged him. Death had come, clad in rags, limbs blackened, sinews as tough as hemp, clasping him in an embrace that could end only when his last breath was choked from him.

He woke, entangled in the sheet. A sheet that was finer than any cloth he had ever touched before, as smooth and as soft as water. Breathless, he dragged it from his throat and sat on the edge of his bed. A bed that was much higher than the one at the Scarcleft mother cistern, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He hadn't slept well on his first night, thinking he would roll over and fall to the floor.

Breccia Hall. It took his breath away, all of it. The polish of the patterned stones of the floors, the gleam of the fine bab-wood furniture, the beauty of the painted ceramic water jars in every room, the smooth taste of the food on the table at mealtimes, the extravagance of library shelves lined with books and scrolls. Water everywhere for the taking. No one to say you'd had your allotment for the day. No one to chide you for drinking too much. He'd read about these things, or Taquar had told him, but experiencing the reality was different.

He lay there a moment, trying to comprehend it all, to absorb the change in his life. His dream resurfaced, impinging on his reality. The dead man embracing him. The man Kaneth had killed to save him. Real, but also a nightmare.

He padded across the room to the shutters. He flung them open, and the starlight streamed in. That at least was the same: the brilliance of a night sky that contained little or no water vapour, pure light from swirls of stars that gave night its blue sheen. He walked out onto the balcony and looked down on the sleeping city, on the spill of buildings spreading outwards and downwards to the foot of the escarpment, like a giant's staircase that widened as it went. The natural pale sienna colour of the mud-brick had turned purple in the starlight, and the canyons of the streets, inlaid with stone paving, were the deepest of blue-blacks.

There was a smell of citrus flowers in the air, from the blossoming of the potted trees at the edge of the balcony. The fruit of the pomegranate bushes were already bursting, their fecundity cracking them open. He touched the nearest fruit, running a finger over its plump redness, but could not bring himself to pick it.

It all seemed profligate. Would he ever feel at home with this abundance? With this luxury? He remembered too many things. The days when he and Mica went hungry. The nights when he fell asleep sucking on a pebble to quell his thirst. The whores of Scarcleft's thirty-sixth level selling their bodies for a drink of water. The children husking bab fruit in the groves for a pittance in tinny tokens. The boys shovelling pede pellets off the streets to take home and burn in their cooking fires because they couldn't afford the imported seaweed briquettes. Terelle, who'd had to fight so hard to find some kind of life.

Terelle. He couldn't get her out of his mind. The way she laughed, full-throated, as he had never learned to do. The way she teased him. The way the slimness of her body and the gentle roundness of her curves brought him a sensual pleasure when she moved. Even the regal way she had of looking him up and down and raising an eyebrow, as if he'd just said something so stupid she couldn't believe her ears.

And he'd left her in Scarcleft. Just ridden away and left her there, at the mercy of Taquar's enforcers, or-if she escaped them-at the mercy of Russet's plans for her. Just as he'd been forced to leave Mica to the mercy of Davim's Reduners.

He slammed his palm down on the balustrade, hurting his hand, welcoming the pain that shot up to his elbow.

On the first day of the journey to Breccia, when they'd ridden the pedes hard in their hurry to escape the risk of pursuit, he'd thought of making her safety a condition of his cooperation. But he'd scrapped that idea as soon as it had been born. It hadn't felt right. Instead, he'd made a request: if Kaneth didn't bring her back with him, could they please at least find out what happened to her and try to help her? Nealrith and Ryka had agreed, but Nealrith had added regretfully, "You must understand that none of us have any official powers in Scarcleft. My father has certain powers as Cloudmaster, it's true, and there are a great many laws concerning trade and water rights and travelling which Taquar and ScarcIeft must adhere to, but there is nothing that gives us the right to interfere with the way in which Scarcleft treats its citizens."

The words sank into Shale's mind with the dead weight of a boulder, and his anger rippled outwards in response. "Then there ought to be," he said. "It's not right that Taquar can get away with what he has done."

Nealrith hadn't replied, leaving Shale raging with impotent fury. And now he watched and waited for the dawn, waited for news of Kaneth and Terelle. Servants came in the morning to take him to Nealrith for his first lessons. Another thing to get used to: having people around him whose sole job was to fetch and carry for him or to conduct him around the hall until he could find his own way. Their service embarrassed him.

That morning, however, as he trailed behind a man named Morion, who was to be his personal servant, he was grateful for the guidance. He didn't know how he would ever find his way through the network of passages and connecting stairs of Breccia Hall; they all looked the same. He had trouble orienting himself, because he could not see the sky.

When he entered Nealrith's quarters, it was to find Kaneth there as well. The two men were standing just inside the door, as if Kaneth was already on his way out. He was still dust-covered from his journey and obviously tired. He shook his head when he saw Shale. "No sign of her, I'm sorry. And Amethyst's definitely dead. Killed in her house, together with her servants."

"Taquar?" Shale gritted his teeth. "Will he get away with it?"

"He already has. I went back to the old man's room as well," Kaneth added, "but neither Russet nor Terelle were there. No one had seen them." He touched Shale's arm in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I have asked some friends of mine to make some discreet inquiries. If there is any news, they'll let me know. And I've let it be known among the people who lived in Russet's building that anyone who turns up here in Breccia with Terelle will be well rewarded. The news will spread."

"Sandblast him to a waterless death," Nealrith said quietly. "There was no need for him to kill Amethyst."

"It must have been just moments after you left," Kaneth said, making Nealrith wince. "I am hellishly weary. I must go. I haven't been home yet."

"Thank you for trying," Shale said.

"We won't give up on her," Kaneth replied, heading for the door. "I promise."

After he'd gone, Shale sank down into one of the chairs, in gloomy silence.

Nealrith sighed. "I followed the law I am bound to follow as highlord, as my father's son. And Amethyst died." He went to stand at the open shutters, to look down on the city. He was silent for a long while, then said, "There are so many ironies in my life of late. My father taught me never to forget my humanity. I have tried incentive and reasoning to persuade people to conserve water, rather than force and punishment. I was only behaving as he taught me to, with compassion. As a consequence, I have been called weak, and my father turned to another to rule the Quartern."

"Can someone who is not a stormlord rule the Quartern?"

"Not in normal times. But what other choice is there now? There is you, but you are young. You were not brought up to rule. And more than that, you will be the Quartern's only stormlord. Just to supply water to the nation will take most of your waking moments."

Shale froze, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Even if I was a stormlord, Taquar would still rule the land?"

"I think that is what my father would like, yes. He expects to die soon. You are too inexperienced to take on the responsibility, and I am too weak, or so he believes. He thinks that only Taquar will be able to force people to save water, only Taquar will be able to rein in the Reduners." He snorted.

Shale shook his head, his denial vehement. "But it was Taquar who urged the Reduners to rebellion!"

"Irony upon irony."

"When Taquar could tell the Reduners he had a future stormlord, he had a way of controlling Davim. Now he has nothing."

"I doubt he is going to tell Davim that. Davim has seen you with his own eyes. Seen how easily you shift water. Taquar will have told him he has taken you to Scarcleft for your final training."

Shale struggled with his shock. With his betrayal. Again. With his burgeoning horror. Waterless damnation, one day I am going to be returned to Taquar's power!

Nealrith continued, "My hope is that if you can learn to bring us storms, there won't be any need for a man such as Taquar to rule, and my father will change his mind."

"He must change his mind. Highlord Nealrith, he doesn't understand Taquar."

"No, he doesn't. He thinks you exaggerate. That is another irony. You want to know my father, Shale? As he used to be? Then look at me. Granthon Almandine is me, too weak to rule this land in time of trouble. He will not believe the worst of Taquar because he himself would never be capable of such crimes. Believe me, I have tried to convince him. He accuses me of petty spite."

"Perhaps if I was to talk to him." Even as he said the words, Shale wondered at his temerity. Who was he to speak to rulers about who had the right to rule? He was still just Shale Flint, one of the washfolk of Drybone Settle.

"No. He has heard your story once. My father needs to have faith in you, and you will not earn that faith by appearing to be greedy for power-or by showing lack of judgement by supporting any tenuous claim of mine."

Shale was silent, thinking things through. Finally he said, "You're not going to tell anyone you have me, are you? Because Granthon wouldn't want that news to get to Davim. Taquar won't tell him and you don't want the sandmaster to know, either."

Nealrith smiled, appreciative. "You're no fool, are you? If Davim thinks Taquar has you, he will wait and Taquar can control him. Better that than a horde of Reduners rampaging across the land."

Shale shook his head. Taquar does not have control over Davim, and he never did, for all that he thought he did.

"I want you to use another name for a while," Nealrith continued. "And to pretend you're just another water sensitive we found in the Gibber."

Shale found it hard to give voice to his thoughts. He had lived so long keeping all he believed within his heart, not blurting it out like water from a spigot. Still, he knew he had to try to speak his thoughts; if he didn't, then how could he expect people to know what he knew? How could he share his understanding? He took a deep breath. "If Taquar becomes the ruler of the Quartern, I may be safe-but one of the first things he will do is have you killed. Anyone who believes differently is a fool. Or they don't know Taquar."

Nealrith nodded. "I know that now. But my father is not dead yet. Things can change."

They looked at each other and Shale knew they were thinking the same thing: they had much in common. They had both been betrayed by people they'd respected. Shale said quietly, "We're just shells in a game, aren't we? To be moved about on the board, to be collected as part of the spoils and discarded at will when not needed. I thought things were going to be better here-but they're no different." He tilted his head in a gesture of defiance. "Lord Nealrith, I will not stay, you know. If Scarpen rule is handed over to Lord Taquar, I will leave. I will not serve that man. Ever."

Nealrith gave a rare smile. "We'll leave together, then," he said. "I'll do my best for you, Shale, no matter what, because you are the only hope we have. Whatever happens, I promise you that much."

Shale nodded, almost believing him. Nealrith reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I swear it, Shale. And I am not Taquar. Nor am I my father." Shale nodded again, this time with more certainty. "And you shouldn't address me by my title, not in private. We rainlords are all equals. I am Nealrith or Rith; you are Shale. Or whatever your new name is. Have you decided?"

He remembered Galen, blinded by avarice and drink. Remembered Citrine, seeing only the beauty of a piece of bloodstone in her last happy moment of life. What had Taquar called the gem? The martyr's stone. The familiar knotted feeling welled up inside him. The same feeling he had every time he thought of Citrine. Or Mica. Or of the burden he carried: to be a stormlord. To save a land from thirst. The burden of responsibility.

The true horror of being a stormlord.

"Jasper Bloodstone," he said.

"We call that the martyr's stone." Nealrith sounded dubious. "I hope that's not a prophetic choice."

"It's a better name than the one I had." Shale Flint the Gibber boy was a dupe. I have to leave him behind. The man who would cope with what was to come was Jasper Bloodstone. That was the face the world must see. A man who wouldn't trust again so foolishly.

Nealrith shrugged. "As you wish. And now we must start your exercises. The ones Taquar would not teach you, because they enable you to kill in the rainlord manner. If you can master these, you will not have any trouble in extracting fresh water vapour from salt water. But before we begin, I want you to meet my wife, Laisa, and my daughter, Senya. She is younger than you are, fifteen. I hope you will be friends. Come, I'll take you through to my private rooms."

Shale blinked, trying to assimilate the difference between private rooms and the one they were in. The extravagance of any family having so much space shocked him. He followed Nealrith, momentarily overwhelmed, reflecting wryly that Jasper Bloodstone had a lot to learn before he stopped being Shale Flint. He remembered how Mica had spoken of Laisa's beauty with awe-and of her desirability with a more basic crudity. She was everything that Mica had said she was: sensual and lovely. Her eyes, though, were knowing, and there was no gentleness in her gaze as she welcomed him to Breccia City.

"There is much riding on your shoulders, young man," she told him. "I trust you have the fortitude to take on such a burden. I have always found Gibber-grubbers to be more feckless than hardworking, myself."

"I am sure we will have no complaints with Sh-Jasper," Nealrith said. "Jasper Bloodstone."

Laisa's eyebrows shot up. "A gemstone from a Gibber rock, eh? Well, we will see."

The girl at her side giggled. Shale was damned if he was going to blush; he was Jasper now. He switched his gaze to her without colouring up. Senya was shorter and less elegant than her mother, but her face was just as beautiful. Right then, though, as her amusement faded, lines of distaste marred her prettiness. He recognised that look. He'd seen it on the faces of some of the settlefolk when they looked at the washfolk of the shanties.

"This is Senya," Nealrith said. "I trust the two of you will be good friends."

She eyed him with a curl of her lip; Jasper gave her the same flat stare he'd used on uppity settlefolk. Life in Breccia City, he decided, was not going to be so different from what he was used to, after all.

"I am sure we will," he said, and knew he lied. "So, have you had second thoughts about supporting Taquar as the next ruler of the Quartern?" Ryka asked, handing Kaneth a wet towel. They did not bathe any more; water was too precious. A wet towel was all they allowed themselves. Even the public baths were closed.

He stripped off the last of his undergarments and stood naked, wiping himself down.

Watergiver help me, she thought, trying not to show her appreciation of the muscular curves of his thighs and buttocks. Why does his body excite me so? I feel like a silly eighteen-year-old lusting after the local hero.

Maybe he was the hero at that. The pikeman, Elmar Waggoner, had told her with open admiration all the details of the fight in the waterpainter's room. Kaneth had cleverly made the best use of his water-powers and defeated a much larger group of attackers to save them all. But it hadn't been pretty. Battle, she guessed, rarely was, in spite of the written epics that told stories of glory. She shivered at the thought of the blind men Kaneth had left behind.

"Second thoughts?" he asked. "No, I haven't. And I won't, not until Jasper starts bringing in rain-soaked clouds. Nothing has changed, Ryka. Not yet."

"Don't be silly, of course it has! We have evidence that Taquar has connived at murder and kidnapped children. And this is the man you want to rule this land? Are you mad? You and Granthon both?" She faced him, hands on hips, enraged. "Kaneth, how can you?"

"How can I what? I'm not doing anything, except trying to get the sand out of my hair."

"Don't play games with me! You have been backing Granthon in this, against Nealrith, who is supposed to be your best friend. You've been agreeing with the Cloudmaster that Taquar is the best person to rule the Quartern, but now we know he most certainly is not. Blighted eyes, Kaneth, we have evidence to suggest he took Iani and Moiqa's daughter and imprisoned her for years, until she died. And this is the man whom you would have rule us?"

"We don't know that about Lyneth, not for sure. And even if it is true, what choice do we have? I don't like it, you know. Do you think I don't know how much I have hurt Nealrith by what he sees as disloyalty? But the alternative is a bloodbath in the streets, with our people battling one another over a water jar."

"Rubbish. People are more sensible than you give them credit for. And for all that I don't particularly like priests or their reliance on a Sunlord who palpably lost interest in our welfare after sending us the Watergiver a thousand years ago, we in the Scarpen are a people who believe in what our religion promotes: generosity and compassion and sacrifice and rules designed for the greater good."

Kaneth shook his head. "We are a land of hypocrites who cynically manipulate rules based on the inherent inferiority of each level of the city to the one above."

"That's a horrible way of looking at life."

"It's honest."

"Tell me, if we did have a baby on the way, and the child was born without water sensitivity, what would you do if Taquar-as ruler of the Quartern-decreed such children should be slaughtered for the greater good of us all? Would you oblige him?"

"You're being ridiculous. That would never happen."

"Wouldn't it? Have you heard some of the things the man has been doing to keep the number of water drinkers at a minimum in Scarcleft?"

"He's unnecessarily unpleasant, I agree. Nonetheless, Nealrith should impose some sort of tough regime here. But he won't, which means we could all be dead by the end of the next star cycle, long before Jasper comes into his powers. Ryka, we have to be tough. Quite frankly, it's my belief that rainlords are the only people who should be producing children now. We ought to be enforcing a no-child policy on everyone else, until such time as we have a competent, strong stormlord in Breccia Hall. Or more than one stormlord."

"And just how would you do that? Drag pregnant women into the waterhalls to be stripped of their babies, the way Taquar does it? He's murdering the unborn, Kaneth! And often inadvertently killing the mothers as well."

"They were warned. He told them what would happen if they chose not to dose themselves with sinucca. And they should know by now that Taquar is a man who keeps his word about things like that."

"Accidents happen to any woman! I can't believe you would countenance-"

He raised his voice to interrupt her. "It's either unborn children or a whole city!"

"I don't believe that." She blinked, hating the feeling at the back of her eyes of tears that would never fall. To express her rage, she threw the clean wet towel at him, hitting him in the face. "It's not going to happen that way!"

He plucked the towel away and used it to wipe his back. "All right then, if you want to believe in the innate goodness of a mob of thirsty people, go ahead. But they will still die, Ryka. You will still die. Because our water won't last so long if we keep sharing it with a new generation of children."

"You're a monster, just like Taquar. And to think I thought you had a kind heart! Here's something you had better believe, Kaneth Carnelian. I will not bed you ever again. We are done with trying to have a child. And I am done with you!"

She didn't give him a chance to reply. She ran into their adjacent bedroom, slamming the door behind her, and flung herself down on the bed to bury her swollen and aching eyes in the pillow.

I don't love him, she thought. I can't love a man like that.

But if she didn't love him, why did she feel this way? His hardness hurt her so.

She lay still, steadying her breath. Because you always will love him, her inner voice whispered. In spite of everything. There's no reason; it just is.

Slowly she slipped her hand down to cover her lower abdomen and feel again the presence of a tiny bundle of water.

It's nothing, she thought. I'm imagining it. I'm not even late yet. It's nothing.

And then, It can't be right to be cruel, can it?

She punched her pillow with impotent rage until her anger and confusion faded into grief.