by Glenda Larke
In Basalt’s opinion, the Quartern Sunpriest—who, following a long tradition, had taken on the name of Lord Gold for the colour of the sun—was far too gullible and forgiving, and too old for the job, as well. He was wizened, and shrivelled more with each passing day. Already his vigils under the Sunlord’s face were weakening him.
Basalt allowed himself to daydream a little, visualising the Sunpriest’s body laid out in the House of the Dead so that the rainlords could transfer his water to the libations cistern. Basalt would take pleasure in sprinkling that water on the ground when he was the new Lord Gold.
An unbecoming thought, he acknowledged. He pulled himself back to the present.
He could still see Jasper below, lingering at the edge of a crowd gathered around some street performers when he should have been on his way uplevel to Breccia Hall. Basalt could have sworn the Gibber youth was taller, more muscular and less wiry than when he had come for his first lesson barely one hundred days earlier. He would never have the height that Kaneth or Nealrith commanded, but he was already taller than most Gibbermen. When he walked the streets now, the girls turned their heads to look. Doubtless he revelled in their attention, blast him.
I know a lying hypocrite when I see one, he thought. And Jasper Bloodstone will be the greatest enemy the faith has, unless we curb him now. But how to convince Lord Gold of that?
Lord Basalt’s hands clenched the balustrade. One day, he would prove to everyone that Jasper was as unworthy of the position he sought as he was of that pretentious name, Bloodstone. The bastard was no stormlord. He wasn’t even a rainlord.
“Your feelings do you no credit, Basalt,” a calm voice remarked.
Basalt jumped, startled. He’d been so intent on the desert-grubber that the Sunpriest had come to stand beside him, without his even being aware of the man’s water.
“Ah. Lord Gold.”
“I have found that if one wishes to impress the young with the righteousness of our beliefs, it is best to treat them with respect. It is our duty to guide them, not look down on them. Our vocation is to set an example of compassion, not condemnation. Even mild antipathy has no place in the heart of a priest.”
He calmed the pounding of his heart with a few deep breaths. “Yet a priest should hate sin, Lord Gold.”
“Sin? That young man has not a spare moment in his day to commit a sin!”
“His sins are not of the body. They reside in his heart and mind. He denigrates the Sunlord with his lack of belief.”
“He has not expressed any such heresy, has he? Perhaps he doubts, but is that not a simple human failing? Have you never doubted, Basalt?”
He was shocked. “Never!”
“Then you are luckier than most. When I questioned Rainlord Jasper, at your suggestion, his comments were all that is proper.”
“He lied.”
“You cannot know that.”
“He is not even a proper stormlord.”
“Yet he is shifting clouds, and has been for the past thirty days or so.”
His shock deepened. “You did not tell me!”
“It was not something you needed to know, and the Cloudmaster wishes us to keep gossip about your pupil to a minimum, as you know. You may not trust the young man, but he is our next stormlord, possibly the future ruler of the Quartern. You owe him your respect.”
“But you told me he cannot extract fresh water from the sea!”
“Not yet, no. The Cloudmaster is still doing that. But it is young Jasper who brings the clouds to be broken. Ah, the sun sets. Would you commence the evening prayers, my lord?”
Obediently, Basalt lifted his hands, but just as he opened his mouth to begin, Lord Gold leaned forward to look down at the street below. “Wait. Some kind of commotion down there,” he remarked. “Can you hear what they are shouting?”
Basalt bent over the balustrade. “It’s a pede. I think that’s Rainlord Iani on its back. He’s in a tearing hurry, asking for people to clear the way.” He frowned. “Wasn’t he back in Qanatend?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“His pede is missing a feeler. And some legs, too, by the gait.”
They stared at each other.
“Pray this doesn’t involve that godless heathen of a sandmaster. The one they call Davim,” Basalt growled.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Gold murmured. “No point in speculating.” But as he spoke, he took his water skin from inside his robe and sacrificed the rest of his day’s water allowance on the sun symbol recessed in the hard mud-bricks beneath his feet. Staring into the heart of the setting sun, he prayed for the Sunlord’s intercession on behalf of Qanatend.
* * *
Jasper returned to Breccia Hall through the main gate, deep in thought. No matter how much he tried, he could not like the High Waterpriest. Basalt was so sure of his own righteousness that he had no understanding of another’s failings. Worse, his was a religion of punishment for transgressions, and the more Jasper learned, the less he liked it. If he had not had several conversations with the older, milder Lord Gold, if he had not observed the gentle, unwavering faith of Highlord Nealrith, he would have despised the one true faith. As it was, he was learning to fear Basalt. The man’s dislike was so strong that Jasper felt threatened.
Watergiver save me, Jasper thought with deliberate irreverence. He’s as unreasonable as Galen in a drunken temper. But it wasn’t drink that drove Basalt; it was religious fervour.
As he crossed the forecourt to the main door of the hall, sudden shouts behind him made him stop and look back.
“Make way! Make way!”
A single rider on a myriapede, moving in fast mode, entered the court. Jasper leaped to the side. The tips of the tens of feet clattered like water running down a slot as the beast shot past. To his astonishment, it didn’t slow, but flowed up the front steps to the main entrance. For a moment, Jasper thought the rider was going to urge the beast inside, but one of the guards grabbed the reins, and the man leaped off. He almost fell, and the guard moved quickly to steady him.
“What is it, m’lord?” the guard asked.
“Reduners have attacked Qanatend,” the man said. He gathered himself together and half-ran, half-limped the rest of the way inside.
“Who was that?” Jasper said when he reached the top of the steps.
“Rainlord Iani Potch, Reeve Jasper,” the guard replied. Like most people, he was unaware that Jasper had any talents beyond those of a reeve.
Lord Iani the sandcrazy. His wife, Moiqa, was the Highlord of Qanatend.
As Jasper strode on, he pictured in his mind one of the maps he had been studying with Nealrith to learn where clouds were to be broken. Qanatend was the only Scarpen city on the far side of the Warthago Range, which meant it was the closest city to the Red Quarter. And now it was under attack.
Davim. It had to be Davim. He’d tired of waiting for Taquar to produce Shale Flint, the stormlord.
Jasper felt sick. Everything would change now.
And he had to tell Iani about the bracelet. He wasn’t looking forward to that, either.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Scarpen Quarter
Breccia City
Breccia Hall, Level 2
Morion came to tell Jasper to join Nealrith and his family in their private dining room that evening. When he did, he found neither Granthon nor Nealrith nor Ethelva was there. Instead, Rainlord Laisa and her daughter, Senya, were seated with Iani, who was still dusty and travel-stained.
Laisa looked up as soon as he entered. “Ah, there you are. Come meet Lord Iani. He has just come from a meeting with Granthon and Nealrith. They have excused him to have a meal. Poor man has not eaten properly since leaving Qanatend. You have heard the news, I suppose? I have dismissed the servants so I can talk to him freely. Help yourself to the food and drink on the side tables.”
She then resumed her conversation, giving Jasper no chance to reply. He went to select his food, and sneaked a look at Iani while
he helped himself. The rainlord was grey-haired and stooped. One side of his face was drawn downwards, out of kilter with the other.
When he went to join them at the table, it was Iani who spoke first. “So you’re Jasper Bloodstone. Nealrith mentioned you.”
Iani’s speech was slightly slurred, and Jasper—reminded of his father’s drunken mumbling—was for a moment repulsed. Then he saw that half of Iani’s face did not move as the other half did. A trail of dribble trickled out of one side of his mouth; the man was partially palsied. He waved a spoon at Jasper. “Sit down, sit down. Nealrith said that Taquar was involved.”
“Taquar found him,” Laisa said by way of explanation as Jasper sat and stabbed at his meal with his spoon. He avoided looking at her because he wasn’t sure if he could stop staring. She was wearing a loose robe that clung to different parts of her anatomy with disturbing effect, revealing more than it concealed. She continued, “Our estimable friend kept the boy a prisoner while he taught him the rudiments of watershifting.”
“It seems unbelievable! Whatever was he intending?” He addressed Jasper once more: “Nealrith says that you are a stormlord.”
“No, he’s not,” Senya interrupted. She smiled at Jasper.
“No, not yet,” he agreed, controlling his wince. “Not really.”
“My daughter Lyneth also had the potential to be a stormlord,” Iani said.
“So I heard, m’lord.”
“Iani, Iani, Iani. Call me Iani. She was beautiful, you know. Lyneth.”
Jasper’s face flooded with colour, and he changed the subject. “I heard you tell the guard that Qanatend is under attack by Reduners?”
“Yes. I rode for help. I was not in the city when they came; I was inspecting the tunnel. And looking for her, you know. Lyneth. My daughter. I always look for her.” Jasper tackled his meal, but all the while he was thinking frantically. Had Nealrith spoken to Iani about Lyneth’s bracelet? He thought it unlikely. This was the first time Iani had come to Breccia since Jasper had arrived, and there were more urgent things to consider right now.
“Is—is the attack serious?” he asked. “Or just a quick raid by marauders?”
“Oh, it is serious all right.” Iani’s tone was grim. “They surround the city. They have our groves and the mother cistern in the hills above. They control our water tunnel. When I left, Moiqa was holding them off at the city walls. I couldn’t get back in. I wanted to find Lyneth for her, you know. Can you conceive what it is like for a mother to lose her only child and never to know what happened to her?”
Jasper shook his head and stopped eating. He suddenly had no appetite.
Iani continued, “The city will be all right for a while, with rationing. I sent some men to ask Pediment and Scarcleft for help, and I came here. It will take twice as long to get back with reinforcements. And several days to organise it all first. Supplies. Water. Got to bring their own water. Problem, that. But we can take the mother cistern back first.” He swirled the hot honeyed tea in his mug. “Who knows if they can last long enough? The city, I mean.”
“What do the Reduners want? Why would they raid a Scarpen city?” Senya asked, her eyes bright with interest.
“You tell me, dear child.”
She pouted, apparently not liking to be called a child, and didn’t answer, so Iani turned to Jasper. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know, although I suppose I could make a few guesses.”
Iani looked interested, Laisa scornful, Senya disbelieving. “Such as?” Laisa asked.
“Sandmaster Davim of Watergatherer has united most of the dunes but needs to prove to them that he can lead—and that means getting them enough water.”
Laisa made an impatient gesture. “Get to the point.”
“Davim believed Taquar could supply the Red Quarter, if he wanted, through my cloudshifting powers. At a guess, Taquar told him I am a lot better than I really am and hasn’t told him that he doesn’t have me any more. So Davim tells Taquar to supply water to make up Granthon’s shortfall. When he doesn’t get it, he makes good on a threat. ‘Fool with me, Taquar, and I’ll destroy the Scarpen cities you want to rule one day. Careful, or I’ll leave you with nothing.’ And so he starts with Qanatend, which is the city closest to the Red Quarter.”
“So much wisdom in one so young,” Laisa drawled. “Where do you get your ideas from?”
Senya giggled.
Iani paused, his drink halfway to his lips. “Explain yourself,” he said at last. “You think Davim and Taquar plotted treason together?”
“I saw them together. Taquar had me demonstrate my water skills to Davim.”
Iani almost dropped his drink. “Do you mean to tell me you think Moiqa’s city is under siege simply because this Reduner wants to teach Taquar a lesson?”
“That, and maybe it’s a way for the Reduners to get more water, at least for as long as water flows into the mother cistern. They have the pedes necessary to transport it. I would say they are already doing their best to steal it from Qanatend.”
Iani looked aghast. “This fellow, Davim—he must believe that Granthon won’t send rain to the Red Quarter’s waterholes now that he has raided a Scarpen city. So he would be entirely dependent on Taquar, whom you say he does not trust? He would not be so foolish, surely! He must have some other plan, something we are not aware of.”
“He’s gambling,” replied Jasper.
“That’s sandcrazy!” said Iani.
“No, because he doesn’t think he can lose. If Taquar doesn’t start supplying the water Davim needs, then he will simply attack more Scarpen cities until he does. Of course, he doesn’t know Taquar doesn’t have me any more. Each time he gains a city, he seizes more water. He thinks the Reduner tribes will be increasingly angry with the Scarpen, and happier with him.”
“You are contradicting yourself,” Laisa said. “You said they are already united behind him.”
“Yes, most of the dune tribes are,” Jasper agreed, “but at the moment he has their support only because they fear his power. He has been threatening them, and most have succumbed. But it’s hard to win a battle with reluctant warriors. He needs the sandmasters of the other dunes to support him willingly. And one way to do that is to provide them with a common enemy. Who better than the people who stopped sending them water? He would then have a huge force of mounted tribesmen with ziggers. Enough to conquer the whole of the Quartern, if he wanted.”
“And leave their families at home without water,” Iani pointed out.
“Not exactly. There would still be water in most of the Reduner waterholes for a while. And he would be sending water back to them all the time.”
Laisa looked at him, frowning. Senya more rudely asked, “How can you possibly know that stuff? You’re just a Gibberman who never went to the academy.”
Jasper flushed but continued doggedly, “I don’t know anything. Rainlord Iani just asked my opinion, and I gave it. And I am hardly untutored. Cloudmaster Granthon tells me things he thinks I ought to know and gives me texts to read. So does Highlord Nealrith. I study with Rainlord Ryka. And I had nothing else to do but read when I was imprisoned. I even corresponded with Scarcleft teachers. Being caged gives you a lot of time to read and learn.”
Laisa gave him a hard stare. “Well,” she said, “who would have thought you would have all the answers. How do you explain the limited nature of this plan of Davim’s? He must realise that sooner or later he will run out of water to steal.”
“Once he has sufficient water stored in Reduner water holes to last a couple of years, he will rid himself of every rainlord in the Quartern, including Taquar, Granthon and me. He hates rainlords and stormlords. Random rain will then return. The Red Quarter will survive; we won’t.”
“Why can they be powerful in a time of random rain and we can’t?” Senya asked.
It was her mother who answered. “They have pedes by the hundred. They are hunters. Their sandmasters and tribemasters and shamans are water se
nsitives who can find desert waterholes filled by random rain. We rainlords and reeves could, too, I suppose, but all of us in the Scarpen and the Gibber are linked too irrevocably to our groves and our cities and settles to prosper without them.”
Iani all but choked with rage. “And Taquar allied himself with a monster such as this?”
“You have to admire his effrontery,” Laisa said. “And it’s not the worst thing he has done. Tell Iani about the bracelet you found, Jasper.”
Jasper did look at her then. Her face was faultless, her eyes rimmed with cosmetics, her lips reddened. She appeared unaware of the enormity of what she was asking him to say. He had wanted to speak to Iani in his own time, if he had to, not like this. Not now, not in front of her. She cocked her head at him and raised a pencilled eyebrow, encouraging him to go on. Jasper found himself hating her.
He cleared his throat. “This may not be something you’d like to hear, Lord Iani.” He dug into his belt pouch and drew out the bracelet. “I found this at the Scarcleft mother cistern, which is where Taquar was keeping me prisoner. There were clothes there, too, for a little girl.” He handed him the bracelet and looked away, not wanting to see the expression on that ravaged face.
In the end, the prolonged silence of the rainlord forced him to look back. Senya was staring at the bracelet in a mixture of fascination and horror. Iani held it in hands that shook, and rubbed the name with fingers that trembled. His face was stark with pain. Jasper looked away.
“It is hers,” the rainlord said at last, his voice so low Jasper had to strain to hear. “You are saying he took her? Because he wanted a stormlord?”
“I think so.”
“What—what happened to her? What happened to my little Lyneth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she—is she—”
“If he still had her, he would not have needed me.”
Another long silence, and then, in a whisper: “All those years, all those years of looking me in the face and pretending sympathy.” He looked up from the bracelet, straight at Jasper. “How long did she live?”
