The Last Stormlord

by Glenda Larke

  “He sells waterpaintings?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Uplevellers commission them for their hallways; some have even built special recesses into their floors for them.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why would someone want such a painting?” The thought of water being wasted like that was repugnant to him.

  She stared at him blankly. Finally she said, “Because they are beautiful. Because they stir the senses. Because a good painting can speak to you, can say many things about life, about the world, about your place in the world. Like… poetry. Or dance.”

  He thought about that with a sense of wonder. People paid to have their water wasted? Just to make something beautiful or interesting that had no purpose?

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Watergiver’s heart! Is the Gibber really such a wretched place that its people have no—no soul?”

  “We have beautiful things in the Gibber,” he said defensively. “My mother used to embroider. And the potter in our settle made designs on his pots. But they made useful things first. Making them beautiful afterwards never used any extra water.”

  She stared at him some more, one eyebrow raised as if in disbelief, and then looked away to continue eating her meal. He took his cue from her and bent over his bowl. He didn’t think he liked her much. She made him feel clumsy, as if his body was too large for grace and his tongue too stupid to make sense of his thoughts.

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

  When Russet came back, he was rubbing his hands in a self-satisfied way, a gesture that disturbed Shale even more than Terelle’s flat stare. “Have something to show ye,” he said to Shale. “Look!” He reached into a fold of his wraps and withdrew a piece of rough parchment. He unrolled it on the table and showed them both.

  Shale stared at it. It was a picture of a youth, a Gibberman. Underneath, there was writing he had no trouble deciphering.

  REWARD for the capture ALIVE AND UNHURT of the above Gibberman, aged 17 or 18. Anyone delivering this youth UNDAMAGED and in GOOD HEALTH to any reeve or water enforcer will, if waterless, receive honorary water allotment for life, otherwise a reward of 5,000 tokens.

  Only then did he realise the picture was of himself. He stared at it, shocked, fascinated. That was him? That serious young man, with the calm expression that told no one anything?

  Then the information sank in. Water allotment for life. How many waterless men or women would be able to resist that? He looked at Terelle, dismayed.

  “I’ll be desert-fried,” she said, apparently impressed, “whatever did you do?”

  “W-w-where did you get this?” Shale asked Russet.

  “Pasted up on a wall. People say they are on every level.” He considered Shale thoughtfully. “Imagine trouble to copy so many pictures of ye, boy. And the reward. Ye be valuable to highlord, yes?”

  But Shale was speechless. He felt as if all the water inside him was being replaced by sand. Why had he ever thought he could escape Taquar? He should have foreseen this. He should have risked escaping with Feroze. What a dryhead he’d been.

  “Better say who ye be,” Russet said. He reached out and ran a dry hand down Shale’s face. His fingers had the roughness of saltbush leaves. “Water-sense spills out of ye like water from storm cloud.”

  Shale shuddered and pulled away. “Are you going to claim your reward?” he asked bitterly.

  Russet cackled. “I be having enough tokens for my needs.” He leaned forward and his breath was stale against Shale’s cheek. “But here be another truth: step out that door, ye soon be prisoner hauled uplevel, liking it or not. Be no choice except trust Russet. So, who be ye, eh?”

  Shale slumped down on his stool, capitulating. “Shale Flint,” he said at last. “From the Gibber Quarter. I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose.”

  Russet and Terelle exchanged glances. “Let me sit down,” Russet said gleefully. “Be lengthy tale coming, no?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Scarpen Quarter

  Scarcleft City

  Arta Amethyst’s house, Level 10

  Arta Amethyst always strolled around the rooftop at dusk. She loved the day at its close, when the slant of liquid sunlight, hugging the last of the day’s warmth within itself, poured across the buildings. A time when shadows purpled and people gathered on rooftops to eat their evening meals before the business of the night began. If she looked across at the temple opposite, she could see the priests in the last of their daily rituals, pouring the final libation to the Sunlord, splashing the water carelessly onto the daub of the rooftop.

  Fine for them, she thought. They’ve never been waterless. She leaned on the parapet and looked down into the street as the crowd diminished and the lull, the hiatus between day and night, began.

  To her surprise, the last of the pedestrians stopped before her gate and pulled at the bell rope. Two people. She leaned over a little more and recognised Terelle’s hair, so deeply rich brown it was close to black. It had been a while since the girl had come to see her, and she felt a rush of pleasure, quickly smothered. Not wise to expect too much of anyone.

  Strange, though, that the girl—no, not girl; woman—had someone with her.

  Amethyst watched as the gate was opened and the usual argument started between Jomat and Terelle. No matter how many times she instructed her steward to let Terelle in without question, he always tried to hinder her entry with his nastiness. Amethyst wondered whether she would ever have the courage to dismiss him. But how could she? What was the old saying? He who pays for the water determines the patterns on the dayjar. Something had told her long ago that she wasn’t the only one paying for Jomat’s water and she had never dared to protest. Cowardice, she thought. That has always been your problem, Amethyst. Terror of being waterless again.

  Patiently she waited.

  A few moments later, Jomat ushered Terelle and her companion to the rooftop. The steward was breathing with difficulty, his face blotched maroon on paste-white. The hair that drooped over his forehead dripped sweat; his skin oozed the stink of stale perspiration. Amethyst suppressed her distaste.

  “The waterpainter is here to see you, madam. Again.” The last word was soaked with vitriol. His puffy eyes turned from her to Terelle to the young man, his gaze devouring them all hungrily in his search for information he could use for his own ends.

  It was difficult to be polite. “Thank you, Jomat.”

  He wasn’t finished. “With another outlander waterwaster.”

  “That will be all,” she said firmly and waved him away. He went with reluctance, wheezing all the while. No one spoke until he had lumbered down the stairs.

  Terelle indicated the red-skinned youth with her. “Arta, I have brought someone to meet you.”

  He was dressed in loose red clothes and his red hair was braided with beads. He wore a scimitar at his side. Although she had never met a Reduner face-to-face, she assumed he must be one, until Terelle added, “His name is Shale. He’s not really a Reduner. That’s just a disguise. Russet painted his skin and we dyed a tunic and breeches for him, and his hair, too. I braided it.”

  Amethyst stared at him, frowning. “You did a good job. I would never have known. But why was it necessary?”

  “Enforcers are searching for him, and this was the only way we could think of to hide him. I used Russet’s pass to bring him uplevel, but no one even asked to see it. Russet says enforcers have been told to treat all Reduners with respect.”

  “And why are they searching for him?” Amethyst wasn’t happy with what she was hearing, and she didn’t bother to hide her unease.

  “He has a story I—we—want you to hear. We need your advice.”

  Amethyst stared at the youth but could not come to any conclusions. He was as closed to her as a shuttered pede. His eyes were intelligent but lacked expression; he held his whole body as if he
was quietly waiting for something to happen—but whether he was happy or sad, frightened or tense, she could not say.

  “Take a seat,” she said. She indicated the cushions on the mud-brick benches around the edges of the roof. “There is still mint infusion in the pot, I believe, and plenty of savouries left over from my dinner. Will you both not join me?” She walked to the top of the stairs and called down for more hot water. While waiting, she chatted with Terelle, probing as tactfully as she could to find out if she was happy and safe. She remained unconvinced by Terelle’s cheerful but evasive answers.

  Oh Sunlord, she thought, why did I ever become embroiled in the doings of this child? I see trouble round the corner for me in this.

  Jomat brought the water, still wheezing, his mouth pinched in disapproval at the water-waste involved in serving a drink to visitors. His eyes roved over them with ill-concealed curiosity as he placed the pot on the bench next to his mistress. Shale was polite, and took the infusion and savouries Amethyst offered, but held himself in abeyance.

  She waited until Jomat left before asking, “So what is this story?”

  “Can I trust you?” he countered. The look he gave her was steady.

  She treated the question seriously, aware that he expected nothing less. “Not entirely, perhaps. For a start, everybody has their price. Everybody, no matter how good their intentions are.”

  He nodded, as if in agreement, but did not ask for further guarantees. “I am here because I don’t know where else to turn and I have to trust Terelle’s judgement. I am fleeing a man who had my sister and parents killed and my brother enslaved. Taquar, Highlord of Scarcleft. I need to escape from him, from this city, and I need a place to go.”

  She was stilled, her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding. Taquar? Oh Watergiver save me, you have come to the wrong person!

  “I had heard that the reeves were looking for a youth,” she said cautiously. “It was the talk of the bazaars a few days ago. They put up posters. Was that you?” He’s so self-contained, she thought. So young to be so in command of himself. Does he ever break, I wonder?

  He said, “Yes, that was me. I have been hiding with Russet. We thought it better to let the search die down a bit before I ventured out.”

  “Why does Taquar seek you?”

  “He wishes to use my water-powers for his own ends. He is no stormlord, but he wants to control a stormlord’s power.”

  Her breath caught. “You are a stormlord?” she asked, incredulous. A Gibberman a stormlord?

  By way of answer, the contents of the hot-water pot shot into the air through the spout and moulded themselves into the shape of a face. Taquar’s face. Terelle squeaked and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “I’m more than a rainlord, not yet quite a stormlord,” he said.

  Amethyst suppressed a shudder. “Put it back,” she said sharply. Shale obeyed without, it seemed, any effort at all. “You had better tell me how you and Taquar came to cross paths. And speak softly, young man.”

  Amethyst still did not know what to make of him: he was precise and logical, telling a tale of death and betrayal as if he spoke of everyday matters. Then she noticed: he had fire within, and a heart, this youth—no, this man on the verge of full maturity. When he spoke of his sister’s death and his brother’s probable enslavement, rage was there in his voice and grief in his eyes. She found herself feeling for him, even as she admired his control.

  He finished by saying, “Terelle and Russet tell me people say Highlord Taquar is the Quartern heir. We have to change that. I have to get to the Cloudmaster in Breccia City, to tell him what kind of man Highlord Taquar is. I did try to get a message to Breccia through an Alabaster trader, but I don’t think it arrived.”

  She almost laughed at his audacity. “You think to change the succession?” When neither of them answered, she asked, “What do you want from me?”

  It was Terelle who replied. “It might be difficult for Shale to join a caravan with everyone looking for him. The disguise may not hold up. So we thought of sending a message to the Cloudmaster about Shale. Then he could send someone to fetch him. Trouble is, if we send such a message, who will bother to read it and who will believe it? And then I thought of you. People know of Arta Amethyst the dancer. A message closed with your seal would be taken seriously in Breccia Hall.”

  “You don’t know what you ask of me. Have you any idea of what Taquar would do if he thought I was disloyal?”

  “He wouldn’t ever find out—”

  “No? What if the message was intercepted? If the messenger I chose was not trustworthy? Taquar has spies everywhere, even here in my home. Don’t be stupid, child! Who do you think the rainlord was who helped me when I was young?”

  Terelle stared at the dancer in horror. “That was Highlord Taquar? You were the highlord’s…”

  “Whore? Yes! Until he wearied of me. And being Taquar, that was not the end of it, you can be sure of that. He has spies everywhere making sure that there is no other man in my life, even though he himself tired of me long ago. Shale is right in what he has just said: Taquar loves control and power. He wears a mask of civility and polish—charm, even. He is not a man who glories in cruelty, but he is dangerous and ruthless beyond measure when crossed. There is no humanity in him then, just a cold and pitiless heart. He punishes disloyalty. Always.”

  Shale sat still, his dark eyes considering her without expression.

  Terelle looked stricken. She glanced at Shale and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

  He shrugged. “Will you betray me to him?” he asked Amethyst, his voice still cool and steady.

  She marvelled at his lack of outward fear. Ah, she thought, I know where that comes from. When you live within Taquar’s world, you learn to hide your true feelings deep. And this youth has spent almost four years seeing no one but the rainlord, Watergiver help him. He has courage.

  She tried to be honest. He deserved that much. “Not—not willingly. But what of Jomat? He has seen you.”

  Anxiety flared in his eyes. “He spies for Highlord Taquar?”

  “I have never asked.” Never wanted to be sure. “But—yes, I have always believed so. Let’s hope he doesn’t make the connection between a young Reduner and the youth the reeves are looking for. Because if he does—” She considered. “If Taquar wants your skills enough, he may keep you alive, I suppose.”

  Terelle flicked an anxious look towards the door and the stairs.

  Shale’s gaze steadied. “Will you help me?” he asked. “Or at least advise me?”

  “You would trust me?”

  He shrugged again. “You hate Taquar as much as I do.”

  “I also fear him,” she snapped, frightened that he had read her so easily.

  Neither of them said anything. Terelle looked hurt; Shale was still expressionless.

  “All right, all right, I will send the message. It is easily enough done. My patroness in Breccia Hall is Cloudmaster Granthon’s wife, Lady Ethelva. I have danced for her several times. I will send the message to her using the normal letter service; that’s probably the safest way to do it.”

  “Can you do that without Jomat knowing?” Terelle asked.

  “Even if he found out I sent a letter, he wouldn’t know to whom or what was in it. But it won’t go until the next caravan leaves, which might not be for days. Can Shale stay hidden all that while?”

  “Artisman Russet has offered me a place with him and Terelle until I leave Scarcleft, if I stay inside the room. It will be no hardship for me; I am used to it. I will keep this Reduner disguise on as well, just in case I am seen.”

  There was no change in his voice, but something told Amethyst he lied. He hated the confinement; perhaps he always had. She shivered and wondered whether her worry for him was necessary. He had inner strength, this man, and one day it might be Taquar who would need to beware. She looked away and said, “I will send a message to you when I
hear something. You had better go now. And try to keep your face averted from Jomat on your way out, Shale. The less he sees of you, the better.”

  “Maybe we can just show ourselves out,” Terelle suggested.

  “No. Do nothing that is unusual.” Amethyst rang the bell on the table and waited for Jomat to make his ponderous way upstairs.

  As soon as they were in the street again and Jomat had closed the door, Shale said, “That man really is repulsive.”

  “Yes,” Terelle said. “I loathe him. Shale, I’m sorry. I was stupid taking you to Amethyst. I had forgotten she said she once had a relationship with a rainlord.” She took a deep breath. “Fortunately Jomat rarely goes out anywhere. He’s too fat. He gets the delivery boys to come to the house or he sends the servants out, so it’s unlikely he’s seen any posters of you.”

  Shale said nothing.

  She looked at him, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Don’t you ever get scared, Shale? Or even angry?”

  He stared back, not understanding. Whenever he thought of Taquar, he was terrified. He was in the highlord’s city, surrounded by his guards and reeves and enforcers. In his heart, he knew Amethyst was right: Taquar was a cold, ruthless man. When he thought of being captured again, his mouth dried up, it was hard to get words out, and his stomach cramped. He was afraid, of course he was. Wasn’t it obvious?

  When he didn’t reply, she turned away and started off down the street. “You don’t have any feelings,” she said. Inside the house, Jomat lowered his bulk into his favourite chair—one of the few that didn’t creak when he sat—and mulled over what had happened. There was something going on, he was sure of it. They were frightened, Amethyst and that slut of a girl with her uncanny eyes. But why?

  He tapped podgy fingers on the arm of the chair and tried to think of anything that would explain the association between Terelle and a Reduner. It was so unlikely. And it was strange, anyway, that a Reduner so young was in Scarcleft. Those heathens always sent experienced traders and envoys, not youths still growing their teeth.