by Glenda Larke
Those papers weren’t the only things in the pack: there were food supplies, a blanket, a palmubra hat and water skins, as yet empty. All things he would need on a journey.
He looked up, watching Laisa’s shadow on the wall as she paced with unending restlessness. What drives her? he wondered. Not love, he was sure of that. He looked away from the shadow to her face, to the reality. Her brows were drawn together into a deep furrow, and the lines around her lips were tight with irritation.
We are all about to lose the lives we have led, he thought. And then, brightening slightly, Never mind. Maybe I can search for Terelle at last. Maybe I can find Mica.
But though he tried to find hope in that, he was thinking of a land without rain. Of a Quartern that was about to die because he couldn’t bring it water, because he was the last stormlord and couldn’t make a storm cloud.
Terelle. Maybe she could help with her painting. That was another reason to find her.
As if I needed another one! I must find her. We have to find a way.
We must.
The reeve did not return to speak to them again.
Some time after midnight, Kaneth came, but a different Kaneth to the well-groomed man Jasper knew. He was dirty, tired, unshaven. There was blood on his clothing, and he reeked of sweat and crushed ziggers and death. He was so exhausted, Jasper had to hold back the water while he entered or they would all have been inundated.
Senya wrinkled her nose and said, “You stink, Lord Kaneth!”
They all ignored her. Laisa asked, her voice unusually rough, “What’s the news?”
Jasper poured him a drink of amber as the rainlord replied: “The worst. They’re in the city. In fact, I expected to find you gone. I thought I had better check, just to be sure you’d got out.”
“The reeve never told us anything. We haven’t heard from him since before dawn, just after the drums started,” Laisa said.
“Ah. He was one of the casualties, I expect. And if there was a backup plan in case something went wrong, that also failed you. You should have gone just before dawn. That’s when they entered the city.”
“They’ve taken Breccia?” Jasper asked.
“We still hold the waterhall and Breccia Hall. Level One and Level Two. Mix some water with that, Jasper—I don’t want to lose my edge. And get me some food. I need to build up my power.” He sat down with a sigh. “There are so many Breccian dead. The guard is shattered. Lord Gold is dead. Other rainlords died. Merqual and the waterpriest Foqat for sure. I haven’t seen Lord Selbat or Lord Meridan or Lord Porfrey or Lord Tourmaline, and nor has anyone else, so they are missing, too.”
He took the mug and looked at Laisa. She read the look and said calmly, “He’s dead?”
“Not—not yet. That I know of. But they do have him. He did a brilliant job, you know,” Kaneth said.
“Who are you talking about?” Senya asked petulantly. “Who’s captured?”
“They paraded him under the walls of Breccia Hall,” Kaneth said. “He was, um, still alive. I’m sorry.”
For the first time, Jasper saw Laisa lose her composure. Her face whitened. He understood then the double meaning in Kaneth’s words and had to turn away to hide the dry heave that rose through him.
“You mean Papa?” Senya asked. “But he’s a rainlord! They couldn’t take him prisoner. He’d just suck the water out of them!”
No one said anything. Senya looked from one to another, then started to cry. For once, Laisa showed some compassion for her daughter. She reached out and gently pulled the girl to her, burying Senya’s face in her shoulder.
“How many people do we have safe in Breccia Hall and the waterhall?” she asked after a pause. To Jasper’s ears, she sounded inhumanly calm.
“About five or six thousand adults. It’s packed up there. Too many are not fighters. There are so many children. It was hard to turn anyone away. We can hold out for a while. With a smaller area to defend, the rainlords still alive have a better chance.”
“What’s happening in the rest of the city?” Jasper asked, bringing a selection of food to Kaneth.
“The Reduners are telling people to stay indoors. If they don’t, they are killed. They are slaughtering all reeves as soon as they identify them. And any Breccian guards, of course.” He helped himself to some flat cakes stuffed with bab fruit.
Laisa tapped her fingernails impatiently on Senya’s back. “There’s something else you are not saying, Kaneth,” she said.
“I’m getting to that. We had a message from Davim. He says that he will spare the city, leave entirely, even give us back Nealrith… if we give him Jasper.”
“Oh!” Senya exclaimed, tears forgotten. “Then we can do that! What does it matter? Jasper can go with the Reduners. They need a stormlord, so they won’t hurt him. And he can still bring us rain.”
Jasper shot her a look, then turned away. Neither Laisa nor Kaneth spoke. Kaneth doggedly continued eating. The silence dragged on.
Finally Jasper asked, “And if I don’t go to him?”
“Nealrith dies, and Davim starts bringing out the city folk, ten at a time, to feed the ziggers. Ten people every hour.”
“Did he give a deadline for the decision?”
“Sunset tomorrow. I’ve no idea why he gave us so long.”
“He’s probably smart enough to realise that it’s something that would require some debate,” Laisa said. “And by then he will have shown you in other ways that you can’t win.”
“He’ll have his answer tomorrow,” Jasper added tightly.
“No!” Senya cried. “It’s not your decision, Jasper! It’s ours! We can give you up if we like.”
Jasper whipped around to face her. He said coldly, “With the death of your grandfather, I am now Cloudmaster, and you will not treat me with disrespect. Do I make myself clear?” His voice sounded confident and calm to his ears, but inside, both his resolution and his courage trembled. The blood burned in his cheeks.
Who am I trying to fool?
She stared at him, defiant. “You may be a stormlord, but Grandfather didn’t appoint you as his heir. You’re not the Cloudmaster, Shale Flint! Taquar was to be the high ruler, not you. You’re just a dirty Gibber rat!”
“Taquar’s claim to the position was revoked at the Gratitudes festival,” he said.
“But Grandfather died without naming anyone else,” she pointed out triumphantly. “And Mama said that means it could revert to the last named heir—Taquar.”
Her words gored him. Whatever had given him his moment of strength, of resolution, was ripped apart by her words. He turned to Laisa and Kaneth, unwilling to believe. “Is that true?”
Laisa nodded. Kaneth demurred. “Only if the Council of Rainlords agrees,” he said.
Jasper went taut, every part of him strained with anger and betrayal, as if there was something inside him that was too big to be contained.
The look Laisa gave him was one of pity. “Jasper, Granthon had a point. You are very young to rule. And to be the Quartern’s one and only stormlord at the same time?” She shrugged. “You know how tiring it is.” He heard her unspoken taunt. How inadequate you are.
He was silent.
She continued, “You will have Taquar’s power to back you. You may be able to call up storms with his help. You will be the most revered of the Quartern’s citizens, its stormshifter. There won’t be any question this time of Taquar keeping you imprisoned in some mother cistern somewhere.”
He was silent long enough to control his rage, to be able to say quietly, “I doubt that Davim has included Taquar in his present plans. For myself, I don’t care too much about whether I rule as Cloudmaster, but I will not take orders from Taquar or Davim. Not ever. And until such time as Davim takes power in Breccia City, I will make the decisions here, at least the ones that concern me and the ones that concern water.” He looked back at Senya. “And my name is Jasper Bloodstone.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to defy him
. Then all her bravado drained away, and he was reminded that she was, after all, just a spoiled girl whose world was breaking up around her, who had just been told that her father was a hostage to a desert warrior not known for his compassion. She nodded, subdued and sulky.
Wonderful, he thought. The first thing you do with your authority is lord it over a silly half-grown girl.
He looked at Laisa. “Rainlord?”
She shrugged indifferently. “As you wish.”
“Kaneth?”
The rainlord gave an ironical bow. The curve of his lips, the knowing smile, told Jasper that he wasn’t fooling the man. Kaneth knew exactly how he quaked inside, how inadequate he felt. How inadequate he was.
Jasper said, “I need to know everything from now on, no matter what.”
His mouth full, Kaneth waved a half-eaten flat cake indicating his acquiescence. He swallowed and said, “You can’t surrender yourself to Davim, anyway. He could kill you, and then we’d be as good as gutted.”
“I am aware of that,” Jasper said. He was ashamed of his relief. Struggling to hide it, he added, “My death would be the best way to ensure another era of random rain and a new age of the nomad.”
Laisa made an exasperated noise. “Watergiver’s heart! None of that matters much now. What we have to do is decide when to leave.”
“Best wait until tomorrow,” Kaneth said. “At sunset. Davim will be at the gates of the Hall, and so will most of his men. They will have fewer guards on the periphery then, and you’ll have a better chance of escape. We’ll prolong the discussion, try to bargain with him. Then we’ll tell him you’ve already gone—a fact you will have to make obvious to the guards in the groves as you leave.”
Jasper turned and went to stand by the fireplace. He kicked at a still-glowing coal that had rolled onto the hearth. Six thousand people. Plus who knows how many children. People like Ryka. City folk, ten at a time, to feed the ziggers. And who had the chance to walk away from all this? Jasper Bloodstone. Not to mention Laisa and Senya.
When he turned back to face the three of them, he felt old, as ancient and as harshly sculptured as Wash Drybone. He said, “Yes, I agree. Come back here tomorrow to tell us if there’s any change.”
Kaneth nodded. There was pity in the rainlord’s eyes as he turned towards the door.
“I’ll open it,” Jasper said. “You conserve your strength.” He walked Kaneth to the bottom of the ladder. “About Rith,” he said softly. “Where did they take him? Is there any chance he’ll live?”
“He was in—in poor shape. Tortured. Someone must have told them that a weakened man can’t renew his power. Even if they gave him back to us, I don’t think he’d live. I heard from one of the reeves who came through the tunnel later that they put him in some kind of cage and strung it up over the South Gate.”
They exchanged a glance, sharing their grief. He’s known Rith since they were children, Jasper thought. His closest friend. The pain of his loss, the agony of knowing there was no way of going back—it was written there on his face.
“Cloudmaster,” Kaneth said and inclined his head; and because he was Kaneth, there was raillery mixed with the respect. Jasper smiled slightly and watched as the rainlord climbed to the manhole above.
When he returned to the room, Laisa said, “You’ve come a long way, Jasper Bloodstone, late of Wash Drybone Settle. It was kind of Kaneth not to mention your lack of cloudmaking abilities.” The eyes were beautiful, but the look she gave him was hard. “And apart from that, you’re only, what, eighteen maybe? Nineteen at the outside. What do you know of ruling? Of war? Of the affairs of men?” She was patronising him still, but she was wary of him now, in a way she had never been before.
“More than some learn in a lifetime, Laisa. Believe me, I have learned fast of late.”
“If you die, my lord, so does a land. That is quite a responsibility.”
“I know.”
Dear Watergiver, I know.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Scarpen Quarter
Breccia City
“Where do you think you are going?”
Jasper swallowed a sigh. He might have known his manipulating of the water lock would wake Laisa, even if lighting the lantern hadn’t.
“Out,” he said.
“After what I said about responsibility?” she asked. “You can’t take water from a man or a zigger! How will you survive out there? Are you sandcrazy?”
“I found out yesterday that I don’t have to take water out of a zigger to kill it. And you know what? I think rainlords have got so used to doing things the one way, the same way, year after year, that they have forgotten just how powerful water is. I will take no risks that I cannot handle. None, I promise.”
She looked over her shoulder to make sure Senya was asleep and dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “Jasper, if you are going after Nealrith, remember this: you are much more important than he is. Let it be, for all our sakes.”
“He’s your husband! The father of your daughter. How can you be so uncaring?”
“Don’t be a fool. I care. I am the wife of a city’s ruler. I do not give that up easily, believe me. But I am first and foremost a rainlord and a pragmatic woman. What happens to Nealrith is of no importance when compared to what happens to you. He would be the first to say so. And if you were to die rescuing him, he would never forgive you the stupidity.”
“You have made your point,” he said. “And I know it, anyway.”
Behind her, Senya stirred and raised herself on one elbow. “Is it morning?” she asked sleepily.
Laisa ignored her. “I don’t suppose I can stop you. You can’t go back to the same tunnel we used before, you know. It doesn’t have an opening into the city.”
“I know.” He would have to use the tunnel that supplied the cistern with its water. The entrance to that, a lidded hole, was in the middle of the cistern roof, out of reach. And there was no ladder, either.
He opened both the doors with care, his mind focusing on the water beyond. It was odd to stand there and look into the water, knowing that if his concentration slipped it would come crashing into the room. His forehead furrowed, he pushed the wall of water away with his power until the level in the centre of the room rose. When it was close to touching the roof, he stopped. Laisa stood beside him in the doorway, studying his handiwork.
“Ingenious,” she said, her respect reluctant.
He dived sideways into the water, using part of his concentration to keep the lantern dry, even though he himself had to get wet because he needed to swim upwards to reach the manhole in the ceiling. Once there, he found it wasn’t easy to open up the cover from underneath. His sword hindered him; his saturated clothes became heavier by the moment; the lighted lantern in one hand was an encumbrance. He began to sink.
Idiot, he thought. Use your power.
He made a pillar of water and pushed it against the lid until it flew open. He surfaced once more, reached up and placed the lantern on the floor of the supply tunnel, and hoisted himself out. He looked back down into the cistern to make sure that Laisa had shut the door to the room, before allowing the water to find its own level once more. Sitting on the edge of the hole, he removed the water from his clothing. When he was dry once more, he stood up and raised the lamp to look around. The door to the Cistern Chambers of the thirtieth level was directly opposite him. Leaving the cistern lid lying where it had been tossed by the pillar of water, he went to try the handle.
The door was unlocked.
Back in the room, Laisa remarked, “That man is a great deal stronger in power than we have been giving him credit for.”
Senya pouted. “He’s a sunfried Gibber grubber. And I don’t want to marry him!”
“You fool!” Laisa exclaimed. “Have you no common sense?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Jasper is your future, you stupid child. Alienate him and you’re lost, because your power is barely scraping through to rain
lord level. It won’t get you anywhere, and neither will your looks if all you ever do is whine and complain and pout.” Restlessly she paced the floor. “Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter if he was once a Gibber brat. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know how to use a fingerbowl or doesn’t want to wear perfume. What matters is that he is the only person approaching stormlord status in the Quartern. Power, Senya, power. That’s what it’s all about. With power you can have wealth and comfort and riches and control. Without it, you might lose all those things. Marry him and you will have power.”
“Comfort? Riches? We have already lost those things,” Senya wailed. “We’re stuck in this room hiding and scared, and by now there’s probably Reduners in my bedroom pawing all my things. Jasper’s a nobody—worse than a nobody! He’s going to die, just like Daddy and Grandpa! And then where will we be?” She dissolved into a storm of weeping.
Her mother made no effort to comfort her.
The man who lay in front of the Cistern Chamber’s main door to the street wore a tunic with a reeve’s insignia. He had been speared in the back. Jasper was overwhelmed with the stench; the man must have been dead some time, lying out in the heat until nightfall.
Out in the darkened city, there was an odd smell in the air, all-pervading: a strong mix of rot, cooking meat, smoke and acridity. Jasper coughed as he stepped into the street, but there was no one to hear him. He stood still for a moment, pushing his water senses ahead. It was difficult; at a distance, all water tended to merge. Was that a man in a nearby house or someone walking in the street parallel? He couldn’t tell.
He sent his powers back to the cistern to change water to vapour—easy enough when he was not dealing with salt water—then wisped it out through the doors and into the open air. A cloud formed, white and damp and thick. He wrapped it around himself as he descended towards the lowest level, so that he trailed mist like an ethereal spirit from another world or a shimmering sand-dancer, perhaps, walking the deserted streets.
