The Last Stormlord

by Glenda Larke

  She halted, the last of her courage draining away. “It—it’s a zigtube.”

  “It is also loaded. Hear that whining? All I have to do is tap this little catch here, twice”—he indicated the spot—“and the barrier between the zigger and freedom will drop, and the zigger will fly out. You know what will happen then?”

  Donnick the doorman, clutching at his throat, writhing on the courtyard paving, taking time to die. She nodded again.

  “They can follow you around corners, did you know that? Bloodlust drives them. They go for the soft parts of the body. Your eye, perhaps. Or maybe up a nostril and straight into the brain, and as they burrow, they exude their toxins. No one has ever been able to tell us if it is painful, but I assure you, it has always looked that way to me. The victims just go on screaming until they die. Is this the way you want to end your life, Terelle?”

  She shook her head, incapable of any other movement.

  “Then kneel on the floor—slowly—and put your hands behind you.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “You’re going to kill me, just like you killed Amethyst.”

  “A justifiable deduction, but not necessarily accurate. I most definitely won’t kill you until I have Shale in my hands. And maybe I won’t even then. Maybe I could use you to ensure his cooperation. Is he fond of you?”

  She met his eyes. “I’m hardly going to say no to that, am I?”

  He gave a slight smile. “You are a surprising girl.” She clamped her lips together tightly to stop her chin quivering.

  He took up the towel he had been using to wipe his sword and cut it into strips which he knotted together to make a rope. She watched him, waiting for a moment’s inattention, but his gaze flicked her way constantly, and the zigtube was now on the bed within his easy reach. When he’d finished the rope to his satisfaction, he used it to tie her hands together, leaving one end trailing down. Then he tied this long end around one of her ankles in such a way that she had to stoop slightly. Like that, there was no way she could run, or even walk without stumbling.

  He tucked the zigtube away, saying, “Now we’ll go and sit downstairs while we wait for the seneschal and his men to return with Shale.” He gestured to her, indicating that she should precede him down the stairs.

  She faltered a little but made it to the bottom. There, he sat in one of the chairs in the hall and indicated the floor in front of him. “Sit there.”

  Wordlessly, she obeyed and for some time they sat in silence. He continued to polish his sword, using the throw cover of the chair he sat in. The reek of Jomat’s body wafted by intermittently. She wondered what had happened to Amethyst’s other staff: there had been a maid and a cook, she knew. She listened for sounds from the kitchen area, but all was quiet.

  Amethyst. Terelle wanted to grieve, but couldn’t; shock held her emotions immobile. “Why did you kill her?” she asked, her voice as thin as a child’s.

  “She betrayed me. She betrayed me by helping Shale escape, when she should have told me about him.”

  “And why did you kill Jomat? Amethyst thought he spied for you.”

  “For Seneschal Harkel, yes. I just didn’t want anyone left alive who knows about my interest in Shale Flint.”

  “So you are going to kill me. I would really rather you didn’t.”

  He stared at her, surprised. Then he laughed. “You have backbone, I’ll give you that. How did you meet Amethyst? Who are you, Terelle? I’ve never met anyone with eyes quite like yours.”

  “I came to Arta Amethyst to take dance lessons.”

  “And how did you meet Shale?”

  “We bumped into each other. Accidentally. He was running from some of the enforcers…” Her voice shook and trailed off.

  “And you were living with a waterpainter, an old outlander. A relative of yours?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s an odd answer.”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  He laid his blade aside and leaned forward. “Shale told you about what happened to him, didn’t he?”

  “Happened to him when?”

  “He told you about me.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I think you do.”

  She did not reply.

  He picked up his sword and put the tip of the blade under her chin. He tilted her face upwards, forcing her to look at him. “I think you know very well. Don’t play games with me, Terelle, or you may regret it. How old are you?”

  Instinctively, she lied. “Fourteen. Just last week.”

  “You are tall for that age.”

  “I can’t help it!” she wailed. Anything to convince him she was a child still. “I just keep growing!”

  He laughed at her. “In another couple of years, you will be very desirable. There may be a place for you in Scarcleft Hall.”

  “If you want a waterpainter.”

  He smiled and went back to polishing the handle of his sword.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Scarpen Quarter

  Scarcleft City to Breccia City

  A circular depression, with a scree-scattered scarp rising on one side and a low natural rock wall on the other, formed a perfect camp site. The sun had just set, and darkness gathered in the depression like a dusky mist. No one would see the camp fires unless they climbed the surrounding slope and looked down into the scoop. Yet it could also be a trap, Shale realised, as their myriapedes flowed over the rim and he gazed down into the gloom.

  He shivered slightly, aware that Scarcleft was just an hour’s ride away to the north and that Taquar was not the kind of man who would meekly surrender his ambition. Worse, a rainlord could track people by the water within them, especially out in the dry country of the Skirtings.

  He saw a few tents before him, a couple of myriapedes and only two more people. One turned out to be Kaneth’s wife, another rainlord, but still, he had expected more. He had thought that the Highlord of Breccia, who was also the son of the Cloudmaster, would travel with a large escort.

  Lord Ryka he didn’t remember at all, although she told him she was part of the group that had come to Wash Drybone. When he looked at her now, he wondered how he could have forgotten her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful but rather that she unsettled the space around her, like a spindevil wind. He liked her right from the start. She didn’t ply him with questions but set about finding him some better-fitting Scarpen clothes to wear and a meal to eat. Worried about Terelle, he wasn’t hungry but forced some food down to please Lord Ryka while they waited for the highlord. He arrived an hour later, together with Soltar, who had met him on the street as the rainlord was being escorted to the gate. He had only another four men with him.

  And no Terelle.

  Shale stared. Ten men and a woman. They rode from Breccia to Scarcleft with eleven people, and only three of them rainlords. They don’t know Taquar, he thought miserably. And Terelle is still there, somewhere in his city.

  “Come, Shale,” Kaneth said as the newcomers dismounted wearily. “You must meet Nealrith.” He led Shale forward to where Lord Ryka had just taken hold of the reins of Nealrith’s pede as he dismounted. “This is the man, Rith. Shale Flint. He tells me he’s from Wash Drybone Settle, Gibber Quarter.”

  “Welcome, Shale. And good work, Kaneth. Although Soltar tells me we lost Gadri.”

  “I’m afraid so. You didn’t see the young waterpainter woman, did you, the one Shale has been staying with? Terelle?”

  “No. Was she supposed to come to Amethyst’s?”

  “We were hoping,” Lord Kaneth said with a sympathetic look at Shale. “We thought she might have gone there for help, and to warn you.”

  “I could have done with the warning. Soltar found me only after we left the arta’s house. Sunlord forgive me, I left Amethyst with Taquar.”

  Even in the dim light, Shale glimpsed a haunted look in the rainlord’s eyes. Taquar will kill her, he thought with certainty. And Lord
Nealrith knows it. Yet he isn’t going to do a thing.

  Nealrith turned his attention to him. “Wash Drybone Settle?” he asked. “We went there, must be four years ago now. I don’t remember you.” He gripped Shale’s shoulder. “Come, let’s go and sit down by the fire where I can see you better, and you can tell us the whole story.”

  The guards brought them food and water as Shale recounted his history. When he skimped on the telling, trying to gloss over the details to avoid the pain of memory, it was Lord Ryka who teased the full tale out of him. Useless, he decided, to hide anything from her; she had a mind that could race ahead of his and a personality that would not rest until the truth was known. In the end, the only thing he didn’t touch on was what he knew about the power of waterpainting.

  He said, by way of ending, “I think Lord Taquar’s the one who stole the storm that came down our wash. I believe he kidnapped Lyneth. And that it’s even possible he killed the other young rainlords who rivalled him.”

  The rainlords exchanged startled glances. Lord Nealrith said, “He kidnapped Lyneth? What do you know of her? Dear sweet water, she’s not still alive, is she?”

  Shale shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so.” He told them about the clothes at the mother cistern and how he had guessed who had once worn them. He showed them Lyneth’s bracelet.

  Nealrith fingered it, his face ashen, and passed it to Kaneth. “I remember this. It was a present from Iani.” He looked back at Shale. “You will have to tell him of what you have learned, when you meet him. Lyneth’s father. And her mother, too, Lord Moiqa.”

  Kaneth gave the bracelet to Ryka to look at, and she handled it with an expression of profound grief on her face. “No end is too horrible for that man,” she said at last, almost spitting out the words in her disgust. She handed the bracelet back to Shale. “None.”

  Kaneth looked startled at her vehemence but didn’t comment. “It can’t have been a coincidence that Taquar was at the dancer’s house, can it?” he asked.

  “That stinking steward of hers must have betrayed us,” Shale said. “Amethyst thought he was Taquar’s spy. I wish I knew what happened to Terelle.”

  Nealrith looked at Kaneth. “Sandblast it, how can we rainlords have been so blind to Taquar’s perfidy? Is he withering insane, dealing with a scorpion like Davim and stirring up trouble from one end of the Quartern to the other?”

  It was Ryka who replied. “Power mad. How we get rid of him is the problem. We are hardly prepared to declare war on another Scarpen city, especially not on one that has zigger-armed guards.”

  “The Council of Rainlords could vote him out of power,” Nealrith said, “just as it once voted to back the Cloudmaster’s decision to give him the rule of Scarcleft.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He is long past listening to the council,” Kaneth said with heavy scorn. “It will take force to dislodge him now.”

  “He’s the Cloudmaster’s heir,” Nealrith reminded them in anguished tones. “And my father thinks he’s the nearest thing we have to a solution to our problems.” He turned his attention back to Shale. “You say Taquar trained you in the use of water-powers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you shift water?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far? From here to the rim up there?”

  Shale glanced upwards. “Yes.” Nealrith frowned sharply, and Shale knew he had heard the element of hesitation in his voice. He added, “Further. It’s not shifting water that is my difficulty. It’s separating it from impurities. I can’t get fresh water from salty.”

  “Oh!” Nealrith thought that over before asking, “But Taquar thought you were a stormlord?”

  “He was hoping I’d learn how to be, in time. I’m not so sure it’s possible. I never seem to get any better.”

  In the flickering light of the fire, Nealrith’s cheeks looked sunken and gaunt. “Damn it, if we’d taken you to my father four years ago… That man may have destroyed any chance we have.”

  “He has to be stopped,” Kaneth said.

  “I thought you would support him,” Nealrith said.

  “That’s unjust, Rith. True, I want a firm hand in Breccia ruling over the Quartern, but no sane man would hanker after a power-hungry tyant who would ally himself with a murderous band of renegade Reduners.”

  Nealrith looked back at Shale. “Will you come to Breccia with us and learn the art of a stormlord? It will be hard work, and it will mean heavy responsibilities. In return, you will never want for anything, as long as you live. You will be honoured as a stormlord of the Quartern, or at the very least as a rainlord, and will have all the privileges that go with that rank. One day, you may even rule this land.”

  Shale stared at him. “You are asking me?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Uh—I mean, can I refuse?”

  “Yes, you can refuse.”

  Annoyed, Lord Kaneth made an exasperated sound of protest, but Lord Nealrith held up his hand to quiet him.

  Shale shuffled his feet, disturbed, and shot a glance at Kaneth before asking Nealrith, “What happens if I say no?”

  “Nothing. I will still take you with us to Breccia. You can live there, under the protection of the city, if that is what you wish. We don’t turn people away from our gates.”

  “I—no one has ever given me a choice before.”

  “I’m not sure it’s much of a choice now, either,” Lord Ryka said. “If you don’t learn to stormshift and cloud-break, in all probability we will die, you included.”

  “You don’t have to say yes yet,” Nealrith said. “Right now, I think we should ride on through the night. Taquar will be searching outside the walls for us now that Shale has escaped.” He waved Elmar over. “Break camp. We ride out at once, and we don’t stop until the pedes are exhausted. Shale, best you ride behind Soltar, I think, even though we do have a spare pede now.”

  “And Terelle?” Shale cut in. “She ran, but one of Taquar’s men went after her with orders to kill her. Kaneth promised to go back and look for her.”

  Kaneth nodded. “And I will, right now. I’d like to get Amethyst out of there, too, if I can.”

  Ryka frowned. “You’re tired,” she said.

  “Going back could be dangerous,” Nealrith added.

  “I doubt Taquar wants me dead that badly. True, his men were trying to kill me earlier, but that was only because they didn’t know who I was. Once Harkel had control of the situation, we sorted things out.”

  Nealrith took a moment to consider, then said, “All right. But your safety is paramount. A rainlord’s life is more important than a dancer’s or an apprentice waterpainter’s; remember that.” He walked away towards his pede.

  Ryka stared at Kaneth. “Yes. You remember that,” she said. She sounded snappish.

  Bitterness surfaced somewhere inside Shale. That was always the way of it. Some people were more important than others. Terelle would have said it wasn’t fair, and she would have been right.

  Kaneth turned to Shale, his voice blade-sharp when he spoke, “Ryka was right earlier. The idea of choice is an illusion. You don’t have a choice.”

  Shale looked at him solemnly. “I know. But at least Highlord Nealrith let me have the illusion.” He turned away.

  “Louse of a lad,” Kaneth muttered to Ryka, but he was grinning.

  It took them well over a day to arrive in Breccia. It was an unpleasant journey. They rode at a punishing pace, and anxiety about Terelle’s safety made Shale feel ill much of the time. During their brief rest stops, he found it difficult to eat and even harder to nap. So, evidently, did Nealrith, who used the time to question him concerning Amethyst’s relationship to Taquar, betraying his own battle with guilt. To Shale, Ryka appeared tense and worried. The guards were grieving the death of Gadri and did not talk much. The only good news was that there was no sign of pursuit.

  It was a relief to arrive in the city, although Nealrith gave Shale no time to rest. He was taken st
raight to the Cloudmaster’s quarters, in Breccia Hall.

  Shale stared at Granthon, shocked. His first meeting with the Cloudmaster, and all he could think of was how ill the man looked. Wasted, a fragile shell, so weak he could scarcely stand. When Shale was ushered in, Lady Ethelva was spoon-feeding him something soft and mushy, as though he was a toothless babe.

  “Father,” Nealrith said after introductions and a brief explanation, “I’d like Shale to tell you his story.” He didn’t wait for the Cloudmaster to reply but said to Shale, “Tell him everything you told me, starting with the first day you met Taquar.”

  As Shale related his tale yet again, the Cloudmaster continued eating, although his gaze never left Shale’s face. Ethelva drew in a shocked breath several times. At Shale’s description of Citrine’s death, she clamped her free hand over her lips. Once again, Shale skipped any mention of the power of waterpainting, deciding he would bring that up later. He was heartened to note a light of hope gleaming in the Cloudmaster’s eyes by the time he finished, and when Granthon spoke, his voice contained a sharpness that revealed the continued acuteness of his mind.

  “At last!” he said. “Another stormlord.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, yet,” Nealrith warned. “I will undertake his initial assessment if you wish. And train him, too, if I can, until he’s ready for you.”

  “Yes, do, do,” Granthon said and turned his eyes back to the sea. “Hurry, Nealrith. I am not sure how much longer I can last.”

  “And Taquar? What of him?”

  “What of him?” Granthon repeated. “You may not agree with his methods, Nealrith, but at least he was willing to seize the chance to make something of this young man. He was motivated by his own desire for power, but he thought to build a new nation on a new stormlord.”

  “But his methods!”

  “Doubtless, he did what he thought was best at the time. Leave Taquar to his own problems and his own city.” Suddenly weary again, he lay back on his divan. The gleam in his eyes dulled, as if he was too weak to sustain even that.