by Glenda Larke
“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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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 w
ater, 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.”
“I thought you liked him.”
Kaneth snorted. “Taquar is not a man one ‘likes.’ ” Admire? Yes, often. But like? Never. The intricacies of his labyrinthine mind are beyond me. Don’t underestimate him, my friend.”
“I never have.”
“And remember that just because you dislike him, that doesn’t mean he is wrong and you are right. We are near the end of our journey, and we haven’t found anyone that has the potential to be a stormlord. You are going to have to think more seriously about—”
“We have found hope, Kaneth. Those twelve minor water sensitives we sent back to Breccia for training, for a start.”
Kaneth was dismissive. “Potential reeves at most.”
“You can’t say that about the other six we have with us still.” He had hope for them. The most talented he had placed under his protection, closely guarded by his own personal guards at all times.
“Hmm, they have responded well to our training, I will admit,” Kaneth said. “Possible rainlords, yes, but a stormlord among them? I think not, Rith. And in the meantime, your father could be on his deathbed.”
“Blast you to a waterless damnation, Kaneth! Can’t you keep your sand-rasp of a tongue still?”
“You’ll hear only the truth from me. Whatever you think of me now, I am still a friend. The best friend you’ll ever have.”
“Watergiver help me.”
“Now, that is not nice.” Kaneth sounded hurt. “Oh, and one thing more,” he added as Nealrith walked off. “Watch your back. As my old granny used to say, what use is a kiss on your lips if your back is clawed?”
Nealrith faltered, but he didn’t turn around. He knew exactly who Kaneth was warning him against, and it wasn’t Taquar. He headed for his tent.
“You have a funny way of treating your friends, Kaneth Carnelian.”
Kaneth spun around to face the speaker: Ryka, on her way to the main tent from her own.
“Would you rather I sounded like a mealy-mouthed woman?” he asked. “Speaking sugary-sweet platitudes to her friends until they believe everyone loves them?”
Her eyes glittered in the dark. “There you go again, denigrating women. For someone who professes to know so much about us, you’re an expert at reducing us to ciphers.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
“You rarely have. What makes you think women are mealy-mouthed? Look at us female rainlords for a start. Laisa? She delights in nasty insinuation. Highlord Moiqa is as blunt as a miner’s pick and prefers hammering out honesty to compliments. And I have a reputation for preferring fact over fancy. Then there’s Anqia, over in—”
“By all that’s wet, I was hardly saying all women are mealy-mouthed!”
“You implied it.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth that I didn’t say.”
“I don’t have to. You can sound like an idiot without any help from me.”
He gritted his teeth. “Blighted eyes, Ry, what do I have to do to show you I am not as rotten as you would have me smell? Have I been visiting every whore between Breccia City and here, or even flirting with settle girls? Have I once sneaked out of my tent at night to be pleasured by some matron who likes the idea of a rainlord in her bed? You’re not blind—you’ve seen the number of opportunities I could have seized. I can even tell you the name of the settle whore right here in Wash Drybone. Her husband, the settle’s drunk, just offered me his wife.”
“Are you trying to tell me you haven’t bedded a single girl since we left the Scarpen Quarter?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I am.”
“I don’t believe you. I saw that hussy with the curls sneaking under the back wall of your tent back in Quartzgrain Settle—”
“I tossed her out. She didn’t come at my invitation.”
“And then there were those identical twins in Dopstik. They were boasting all over the settle that they’d shared your bed.”
“I doubt it, because it didn’t happen. If you heard a rumour, I suspect it referred to Taquar. I know he was eyeing them.”
“I don’t trust you, Kaneth. And anyway, if you haven’t bedded anyone at all this trip, it’s probably because you don’t fancy Gibber women with their dark skins.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The shade of her skin has nothing to do with a woman’s bed skills or her desirability!”
She rolled her eyes.
Inwardly he cursed himself. Was he totally incapable of saying
the right thing? Or even the sensible thing? He wanted to call after her as she walked away, but he wasn’t sure what to say. That he had not bedded another woman out of respect for her? That as the days passed, he found her more and more desirable?
He suspected that if he did, she would throw it back at him, saying that abstinence had made him desperate. That any tent would do in a sandstorm. Or she would say that he wanted her because she was unattainable, that what he wanted was the victory, not the person.
Sighing, he wondered if any of that was true. All he knew for certain was that as he watched her now, her neat hips swaying beneath the loose weave of her traveller’s trousers, he desired her with a longing he had rarely felt for any woman anywhere.
Shale did his best to obey his father.
He did not go near the main settle the next day, and he stayed away from the rainlord tents erected in the bab groves. When Rishan sent his son Chert to the shanty huts outside the settle to tell them all they were to come to the rainlords’ main tent for testing, Shale felt his stomach turn to palm mash—and stayed at home.
When Mica came back, he questioned him closely about what had happened.
“Nothin’ much really,” Mica said. “We all went into the tent one at a time. There was all these bowls. One of them rainlords asked me to put my finger on the lid of each, then say if it got water inside.”
“What did yer do?”
“Told the truth, of course! Said I didn’t know. I mean, there was water all right, I knowed that, but which of them bowls had it? I dunno. So they said I could go. Hey, Shale, there’s one woman who’s—who’s—salted wells, she’s as beautiful as—” Lacking words to describe her, he traced curves in the air. “She’s the best thing I ever laid eyes on. Better than ten full dayjars in a row.”
Shale wasn’t interested. “Come on, Mica, have sense! Did they say why they was doin’ this test? Are they, um, are they lookin’ for me? Did I do somethin’ awful bad just ’cause I knew the rush was comin’ down that day?” And ’cause I know things ’bout water other folk don’t know—like where to find it?
