Stormlord rising s-2

by Glenda Larke

  The next time she stumbled, she fell. The effort it took to rise was nightmarish.

  The following morning as she set up camp for the day, she staggered and fell several times, everything taking three times longer to do than it had the morning before. She looked at Russet through gummed lashes, and cursed him. "I don't care if you are my great-grandfather, old man," she shouted. "What you did was not right and I despise you for it!" But her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and the words didn't sound right.

  He gave no sign he had heard her.

  She knelt at his side to lift his head so he could drink. He took the water eagerly, and seemed to revive. As she went to move away, he grabbed her by the wrist. "Paint!" he admonished. "Paint for us."

  "All right," she said, and hunted for her paints.

  They weren't there. She sat back on her heels and remembered: she'd left them behind.

  She had cut Russet off from the one hope of survival he had. Even in refusing to use her skills, she could kill. Her stomach cramped and she threw up a dribble of precious fluid. There was no more water left. None.

  When Terelle could go no further, she set up the camp and lay down in the heat. Russet was quiet now. He no longer moaned or moved. He wasn't dead; she could still see the slight rise and fall of his chest, if she bothered to look. But she didn't bother too much now; her own pain consumed her. At times she seemed to float, drifting over the salt, borne on a wave of heat so intense it had physical dimension. At times she could hear voices: Madam Opal, her smile avaricious, telling her she would make a good whore; Vivie, annoyed, telling her she had to come back; Shale, upset, telling her she had to go to Breccia City; Taquar, smiling, his hand stroking her hair, telling her she had to come to his bed; Amethyst, her bodice all bloody, telling her not to dance; Jomat, fat and greasy, telling her to go back to the brothel where she belonged; Russet, gloating, telling her she had to go to the mountains. Everyone ordering her to do this or that, shouting at her, angry with her. She cried, weeping without water for tears, begging to be left alone. To have some choices. To have any choice.

  Pain, so much pain. Abraded, salted fingers. Eyelids glued, having to be wrenched apart. Grit on the eyeballs, burning blistered skin, cramping stomach, urine so hot it burned-then none at all. Thoughts of Shale, trapped in another kind of cage, Taquar lusting after her. Or was that Huckman? Guilt as sharp as jabbing spears, blaming her. Russet asking why she had not used her waterpainting to save him. Deaths to be laid at her door.

  Sand-dancers-salt-dancers?-gyrated at distant pools of water, to mock her. They bred along the horizon, doubling, trebling, shivering, but never allowed approach; the pools dried up when she stared at them, and re-formed the moment she looked away, to torment the edge of her vision.

  White salt, glaring at her, hurting her eyes, white everything, everything white: sky, land, skin, sun, salt, eyes.

  Whiteout.

  And then little pinpoints of light, flashing and dancing like the glow worms of a waterhall, colors so pretty she wanted to reach up and touch them. There were red lines snaking from one glow worm to the next, runnels of blood, surely, and disembodied voices telling her to drink, drink this, sip that. And it felt so good. Water in her throat. Sweetness. Moisture on her lips, dampness on her eyelids, coolness on her forehead. Sparkles of light, dazzling in their brightness, making her blink and close her salt-sore eyes.

  Salt-dancers are real, she thought. And they sparkle. So beautiful.

  Water, all the water she desired. Whiteness. Voices in her head. White hands, bloodless faces. Rubbing her skin with something soft and moist. Bathing her eyes. Those red lines and sparkles: threads and mirrors. Alabasters. The white people of this white land of the White Quarter.

  Something made her speak. "Scorpion. He was stung by a scorpion."

  Voices replied, assuring, kindly.

  A tear ran down her cheek, and she let herself slip away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Scarpen Quarter Scarcleft City Scarcleft Hall, Level 2, and Opal's Snuggery, Level 32 "Lord Gold tells me the clouds we raised this morning went to Breakaway, not to the catchment area for Scarcleft as I ordered."

  Taquar sat at his desk in his study, his long fingers playing with his knife, his thumbs rubbing up and down the carved hilt. His voice was heavy with suppressed rage; his gray eyes sharp as the blade. Laisa was sitting on the embrasure of one of the windows, neatly peeling an orange plucked from one of the potted trees on the balcony. She smiled pleasantly in Jasper's direction, as if to compensate for Taquar's abrupt words. Basalt was standing by the open shutters of the next window, his expression rigid with dislike.

  Inwardly Jasper sighed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to rile the Sunpriest. But words are all I have left. "So?" he asked Taquar. "This city has enough to last for a while, if we are careful. My calculations tell me Breakaway must be dangerously low in supply, even if they have been frugal in their usage."

  "I don't care about Breakaway!" Taquar's rage blazed at him.

  Jasper quirked an eyebrow. "I thought that's where you were born?"

  "What of it? It is an irrelevance! I want Scarcleft to have full cisterns before we start thinking about others. That's an order, Jasper."

  "He is not going to obey you," Basalt said.

  Jasper could glean nothing from his tone, but he nodded in agreement. "I'm the stormlord. I make the decisions with regard to the placement of our storms."

  "I am not against Breakaway receiving water," Basalt said. "Indeed, it is your duty to supply all those who worship the Sunlord. But yesterday's rain went somewhere to the east. It certainly did not fall within the boundaries of the Scarpen."

  "So we only water those who follow the same faith?"

  "The faith which gave us the knowledge of watershifting! The Sunlord himself gives us water sensitives our power. He gave you your power, Lord Jasper. Obviously, the Sunlord wanted us to survive. Those who scorn our faith must surely be a secondary consideration. If they were of concern to the Sunlord, then he would have ensured there were many more stormlords, which would enable us to consider the needs of the heathens in the Gibber and the White Quarter."

  Jasper narrowed his gaze and regarded the Sunpriest with dislike he did not try to conceal. "May I remind you, my lord, that I-your only stormlord-was Gibber born and raised? Yet you dismiss my place of birth with such easy scorn."

  There was a moment of silence, so still it seemed to Jasper that everyone had stopped breathing.

  Basalt took a deep breath. "I apologize, my lord. It was not my intention to insult you, of course. The Sunlord has indeed blessed you, but you have assured me that you do not scorn our faith."

  "Ah. You do feel, though, that it is the Sunlord's fault the Gibber and White Quarters thirst?"

  "Obviously. What other explanation is there? It lay within his power to make it otherwise, and he did not. Still does not."

  Laisa interrupted. "Enough of theology, both of you. Keep it for your sermons, Lord Gold." She smiled in the Sunpriest's direction to take the sting from her words, and popped an orange quarter into her mouth.

  Taquar ignored her. "Jasper, is Lord Gold correct in what he said? You sent yesterday's clouds to the Gibber?"

  It hurt him to ask that, Jasper thought. He so hates having to rely on another… "Yes, it is true," he said. "Are you accusing Lord Gold of lying?"

  "Of course I'm not. Although he could be mistaken."

  Jasper shifted his gaze back to Basalt. "He's a little disdainful of your abilities, isn't he, my lord?"

  Taquar stood up, saying, "I will not create clouds in order to have you squander them on the Gibber!"

  Laisa slipped down from her seat at the window and came to stand beside him. She ate the last piece of the orange and dumped the peel in a heap on his desk. "Dear me, both of you, this is not worth an argument. Jasper, be a little conciliatory."

  Jasper gave a shrug of acquiescence and addressed Taquar. "No one in Scarcl
eft will ever die of thirst, I promise. Other than that, you are just going to have to let me be the judge of where water goes and where it doesn't. That is my job as stormlord, and Granthon and Nealrith tutored me well."

  "Lord Gold," Laisa said, at her most charming, "I think it's time we took our leave. These men have things to discuss." Without waiting for any reaction from Taquar, she took Basalt firmly by the arm and headed for the door.

  After the two had left, Jasper remarked, heavily sarcastic, "Laisa, being tactful and pressing for cooperation. What did you say to her?"

  "I don't like your attitude," Taquar snapped. "You need to show respect for your elders."

  "Perhaps I would, if my elders respected me. Still, Laisa is right. We need to work together. She has spoken of little else since I arrived. And I am willing to make this more of a cooperative venture, if you are."

  "You will follow my directives, Jasper."

  "Or what? You'll keep me prisoner somewhere?"

  "It's an idea."

  "Not one you'd have any success with, I feel. Firstly, I could kill any guard you sent against me with my water-powers. Secondly, you need my cooperation to keep your city supplied. Thirdly, you will need my help if the Council of Rainlords makes you the administrative Cloudmaster. Without my cooperation, it won't happen. We have to work together. You know it-accept it."

  There was a long silence while they stared at each other.

  Taquar spoke first. "I'm guessing you have some conditions in mind."

  Jasper flung himself down in the chair next to the table. "Let's start with my concessions. I am willing to tell you where I am sending the storms and why. I will listen to whatever reasons you have for disagreeing. Scarcleft will be the last to suffer real water deprivation. I shall try to be reasonable in my demands, if you do likewise. I won't go anywhere without the guards you assign. I will marry Senya eventually, if she wants. When she is more… mature. Otherwise I will marry the girl you brought back from the Gibber, the one Nealrith said was going to be a rainlord. She's being trained in Pediment, I think."

  He forced down the lump in his throat. I'm sorry, Terelle. I'm so, so sorry. "Those are my concessions."

  "And your conditions?" Taquar asked.

  Jasper reached out, picked up a piece of orange peel and started to make patterns on it with his fingernail without looking at the highlord. "I want to meet the teachers. The men from Scarcleft Academy who sent me the lessons when I was locked in the mother cistern. I want to continue my learning."

  "Very well. Anything else?"

  "I want to go to a snuggery."

  "What?" Taquar stared at him, astonishment jerking him out of his anger.

  "I want to visit a snuggery. I'm a man, yet I've never lain with a woman. There is no way Senya is ready for marriage yet; at least not to me. She has a great deal more growing up to do. But I have needs."

  "What in all the dry dust do Senya's feelings matter? We must have more stormlords! Blighted eyes, Jasper, how long do you think I can keep this up? You've been here a bare fifteen days and already I am exhausted. I have no idea how long it will be before you are able to create water vapor from the sea without my aid. I am already looking at years of this horror, and you want to add to it by postponing a marriage that might produce another stormlord?"

  Hearing the man's desperation, Jasper was torn between irritation and amusement. "If Senya hates the sight of me, we are not likely to achieve the aim of having stormlord heirs. She needs time. Oh, and by the way-" He sought and held Taquar's gaze. "You have considerable gall to require me to remedy a situation you yourself are responsible for. If you hadn't killed all the other potential stormlords of your generation, we wouldn't be in this predicament."

  Taquar stared at him, his gaze as hard as flint. "I do not know what you are referring to."

  "Yes, you do." Jasper met the rainlord's look calmly. "You seem to think you can lie to me, Taquar. You can't. Not anymore. You killed young rainlords you thought were going to be stormlords and thus a threat to your dreams of power."

  "Who told you that?"

  "No one." When Taquar was silent, he added, "Sandblighted hells, you told me about those young men and women yourself-and you blamed Nealrith for their deaths! Nealrith? Once I had met the man, how could I possibly think that was true? How could I possibly believe even you thought it true? A kinder, gentler man never lived than Nealrith Almandine, and you must have known that. But I can believe you guilty of murder. Oh, I can believe it so easily."

  "And on the basis of that you intend to accuse me? Just whose deaths are you accusing me of, by the way? Those who died in accidents? Or of illness? The one who committed suicide? The two friends of mine who perished in the desert at the same time I almost died?"

  "Oh, I doubt you were in any danger. I reckon you killed at least four people, Taquar. Five if you include Iani's Lyneth. Iani certainly believed it once I gave him her bracelet. The one you so carelessly left in the mother cistern."

  Taquar stilled, his usual bland expression swamped by one of shock. Finally he asked, "And just what is your purpose in telling me this?"

  "To let you know you have very little chance of being credible outside of Scarcleft ever again unless I am at your side, supporting you. Otherwise, this is it, all the power you'll ever have. Me and Scarcleft. And without me, you will have nothing. I don't like it anymore than you do. I am assuming that at the moment you are biding your time. Waiting for Davim and the Reduners to withdraw before you move to assert your claim to be Cloudmaster."

  "I could always leave instead. Live across the Giving Sea."

  "If you want to risk the unknown. In the Gibber they say, 'Better the scorpion whose sting you know than the spindevil who twists in ways unknown.' " Jasper threw the orange peel back on the desk. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, but he ignored that. "We were talking about me visiting a snuggery."

  There was another pause before Taquar answered. "If you want a girl, I'll have one brought here for you."

  "I prefer to choose my own."

  "Then I'll have several brought here."

  "Taquar, I am going to visit a snuggery. I am giving you advance warning so you can tell your sandblasted enforcers to allow me to do so. If they try to stop me, I will take action-and they will have to decide whether they want to die in your service or kill the nation's only stormlord. If they can." He frowned, as if that was an interesting puzzle. "I wonder what they would do?"

  Taquar eyed him as if he had suddenly realized he had a viper by the tail. It was not a look that reassured Jasper. A shiver of fear crept up his spine.

  Suddenly Taquar smiled, relaxed and said pleasantly, "All right, if you must. The guards will go with you."

  The salted bastard. Damned if his charm is not scarier than his anger! Aloud, he asked, "Is that necessary?"

  "That's more for your safety. The city streets are dangerous. The less water available, the more dangerous they get and any rainlord is likely to be a focus of discontent."

  Jasper capitulated. "Doubtless you are right." He rose to his feet. "As long as you remember not to treat me as a prisoner, I am sure we shall deal together tolerably well. Like it or not we are stuck with each other, at least until my powers develop more. Ironic, isn't it? Never mind, I work better when I am more content, so this will work in your favor, too. There will come a time when I will be able to raise clouds by myself, and you can confine yourself to ruling."

  It was a lie, and he knew it. But I dare not tell him I am not getting any better. He needed Taquar even more than Taquar needed him.

  As if he sensed Jasper's fear, Taquar said, "Don't push me too far. You think you have the upper hand here. You don't. You see, you care about whether the people die of thirst. I don't."

  That sick, clenching feeling in his stomach… Damn the man.

  Because he couldn't trust himself to speak, Jasper left the room without excusing himself or even uttering a farewell. Outside the door, he felt his knees buckl
e, and had to turn it into a clumsy misstep. One of the guards caught his elbow and steadied him. "Thank you, Dibble," he said. "Clumsy of me. We can't have the nation's only stormlord breaking his neck, can we?" He patted the man on the back in a friendly fashion and then walked ahead.

  He'd come to know Dibble Hornblend better since they'd been training together, and he liked the man. He was becoming a-no, not quite a friend. Not yet. A comrade, that was it. Fortunately, the man's social ineptitude was not reflected in his fighting skills. He could make a sword or a scimitar dance, he could wield and throw a pike or a lance with deadly accuracy and, in spite of his youth, he was a good teacher.

  That weeping bastard Taquar, he thought as he continued on his way. He's right. He as good as has my water in his hand, to save or throw away as he chooses. If he ever realizes that I will never be any better at cloudmaking, he'll be gone across the Giving Sea… What the salted damn am I going to do? In his room, Taquar continued to sit at his desk, staring into space. He remembered a child, a boy, insecure, almost obliterated by grief. He remembered a boy who believed all he was told. A skinny child, unprepossessing, who never wanted to look him in the eye. How had that child grown up to be this man? Jasper was still slim, but he was as tall as Taquar. His brown eyes were steady, seemingly without fear. He spoke with an adult's assurance, not a prisoner's uncertainty. He treated Taquar as though he, Jasper, had the upper hand. As though Taquar amused him…

  Taquar jumped to his feet and paced across the room. Watergiver damn the dirty Gibber grubber, it wasn't so long since he had been a prisoner in the mother cistern! Waterless skies above, how had the brat grown up so fast-and become so strong?

  He slammed his hand down on the desk, furious with himself. He had left the lad too long in Breccia and this was the result.

  "You'll hurt yourself."

  He looked up to find Laisa had come back. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her head tilted and her eyes narrowed as she watched him. "The boy has grown," she said, echoing his thoughts. "He's clever. We need to have our wits about us. I've been chatting to him every day, trying to bring home the realization he has to cooperate, but he's not a fool. He knows I have a vested interest. He doesn't trust me."