by Glenda Larke
Jasper grabbed the lantern away from his reach and unshuttered all four sides. Light filled the room. The ziggers beat against the cage bars in a frenzy. A sickly smell filled the tent as they signalled their agitation. Jasper hated them so much he nearly gagged on the smell, but resisted his urge to kill them.
“Mica,” he said, his voice harsh with a welter of emotion, “we’re not here to hurt you. Otherwise you’d be dead by now. It’s me, Shale.”
“What the—I’ll be pissing waterless! Shale,” Mica said, but his gaze was locked not on Jasper but on Elmar, who scrambled to his feet, wincing, his sword firmly in hand. “How the pickled pede did y’get in here?”
Groping for something coherent to say, his mind curiously blank, it took Jasper a moment to reply. “We need to talk.”
The room was suddenly still, all three of them poised and watchful. Then Mica sat up slowly and moved to lean back against the wooden chest, knees drawn up, untroubled by his nakedness. The move was arrogant in its assurance, the smile he gave unperturbed.
Elmar jammed Mica’s knees down with his foot and kicked his ankles apart. “Don’t you move again.”
Mica gave a crooked smile at Jasper. “I think he’s looking for an excuse t’kill me. He didn’t come out of our last fight too well, if I remember correct.”
“Neither did you, you stinking—”
“He has his orders,” Jasper interrupted. Mica tensed in a way that awakened old memories for him. He used to do that when Pa scared us.
“So what do y’want, little brother?”
And effortlessly, without planning it, Jasper slipped back into the Gibber accent of his childhood. “I want an end t’this war. I want the Quartern t’be at peace agin. I can supply you with water. In time, reckon I can give you all y’want—more than the dunes had under Cloudmaster Granthon.”
“And in return?”
“In return, you continue t’sell us pedes, normal trade resumes, and you stop your incursions into the White and Gibber Quarters.”
Mica snorted. “Resumes? Incursions? Fancy words from a Gibber grubber once no more important than a sand-tick on a pede’s arse. D’y’reckon you can upend a sandglass and everything’ll go back the way it was? Y’know what we Reduners and Gibber washfolk learned under Cloudmaster Granthon, Shale? We learned if water is short, drovers and Gibber grubbers get the worst of it. And when we trade with th’Basters, we get the worst of that, too. Ask your fancy salted friends.”
“The Red and Gibber Quarters didn’t get the worst of it. Everyone’s water was cut. Everyone suffered. Mica, Davim has snuffed it. You don’t have t’follow his sand-brained dreams no more.”
“Nightmares, more like,” Elmar interrupted. His sword point was never far from Mica’s neck.
Jasper shot a warning look his way, but said in agreement, “Nightmares. If you return to a Time of Random Rain, settlefolk and drovers’ll be the ones snuffing it. Littl’uns. Your way of life would have t’change. You’d have t’wander the dunes. And you’ll have t’fight us agin, if you continue t’raid other quarters. If you force your plans on other dunes, then you’ll have t’fight Vara Redmane and… Uthardim. Why would you ever want t’do that?”
“Davim died for that dream, and it’s worth fighting for. Our independence. Our true culture. Free of the likes of that lying Scarperman pretending t’be a Reduner hero from our past. Or his whoring rainlord bitch.”
The sneering hatred in his tone was disconcerting, but the insult to Ryka, after what Ravard himself had done to her, was as painful as a physical blow. Jasper swallowed his fierce resentment. His hands were shaking, so he placed the lamp back down on the top of the chest, hoping Mica wouldn’t notice his angry trembling. “Your culture?” he asked.
“Yes, mine! On the dunes we take in anyone prepared t’kneel to the sandmaster’s law. My law, now. Everyone equal, sharing what we got. We don’t care about the colour a man was born with, nor what natter he spoke when he was a lad. We’re all red here. We speak the language of the dunes. And we’ll fight t’get the freedom t’go where we please, when we please—the way drovers once did. The way we should’ve done in the Gibber, ’stead of being gormless dryheads, taking handouts from the bleeding palmier. When he felt like giving us something.”
Jasper tried to keep his face impassive, but his heart was furious in its beating. How can Mica sound like this? Mica, so bitter and hateful. Wilted damn, he has a sword at his throat and he’s not even sweating. Yet he never had the courage to stand up to Pa. Mica was always scared witless! Where did my brother go?
And then, a harsh acknowledgement of the truth: he’d heard the real voice of the new Mica back at the battle for the Qanatend mother cistern.
Withering spit. I was sand-witted to come here. Elmar and I could die because of it… His insides churned sickly.
“Look at the way we grew up, Shale. The Scarpen kept us thirsty, always in bondage t’them and their weeping law. Born waterless, ’cause Pa was landless and always slurped. Whose law was that? The Scarpen’s! No way out for us if we’d stayed in the Gibber. We had t’steal t’stay alive. Remember that? The withering rainlords keeping us poor and thirsty, while they sat in their pretty buildings and forgot what it is t’feel the earth underfoot. Water-wasters and street grubbers all, never knowing the land.”
Suddenly his tone perceptibly softened. “What did they know about feeling the way the wind clicks your beads as you ride the dunes? Did they ever scent the wildflowers in bloom? Or take pleasure in the hunt, in pitting wits against the cunning of the animal?”
Jasper started to reply, but Mica cut him short. “And you went and licked their arses for the water you drink. Where was your pride? Now you’re a water-waster with the best of them.”
“You think the stormlords had it easy t’bring water to the whole Quartern?” Jasper asked, livid. “A handful of men and women? Then only one—poor sick Granthon? And now, just me?”
“Listen t’yourself, Shale! You’re telling me we’re doomed if we rely on a stormlord. You die tomorrow, no one gets watered. You get sick, or fall off your pede, we all die. You reckon we ought t’risk that? Better we roam the dunes following random rain, like we used to, back when we ruled. Better we get used t’that way of life, never depending on no Cloudmaster, who’ll put other people ’fore us. Here, everyone has rights to water. We don’t have waterless babes on the dunes.”
“No? That’s exactly what you’ll get if you continue Davim’s mad scheme t’return to a Time of Random Rain! You baked your brains in the sun so long you can’t see that?”
“We’ll drink or thirst together. But I reckon we got a better chance looking after ourselves.”
Jasper heard what he didn’t say and shuddered inwardly. He can’t afford to let me live. While I steal the clouds forming along the coast, there’ll never be enough random rain to support the tribes. He has to kill me and any other stormlord that comes along…
And he knows it.
“Why don’t we talk about this—”
“Get out of here, Shale. Leave us be. We’ll take our chances. The only way we got anything t’talk about is if you promise t’let the Red Quarter go our own way. Out from under your bleeding stormlord magic. Free t’do what we want.”
“I’d do that, if every dune agreed and if you stayed within your borders, except for your trade caravans. What in all the Sweepings happened to you that you could think it right to attack a city? To kill and rape and maim and steal? To take slaves?” His gaze locked onto his brother’s, begging him to say what he wanted to hear.
Instead, Mica smiled. “There speaks the stormlord again, eh? Didn’t take you long.” As he spoke he rested both elbows on the top of the box behind him, naked and unconcerned, head tilted and flung back, still a picture of arrogant relaxation. “You know the only way you’ll get to live, lil’ brother? If you stop stealing the natural clouds along the coast, and we start to get natural rain.”
Grief-laden, Jasper swallowed back
bile. “You can’t win, Mica. You really can’t.”
“Shale, you remember how we went bathing in the pools after that huge rush came down the wash? D’you r’member how good it was?” And even before he finished speaking, he moved. Two simultaneous strokes with his arms, one on the right to sweep the oil lamp at Elmar, the other on the left to knock the zigger cage flying.
Jasper hadn’t anticipated it. Elmar had. He lunged in attack at the same moment as the lamp sailed towards him. Flames flared up in his face and burning fuel splashed onto his clothing. Mica dived at Jasper to escape being skewered, knocking him flat as he crashed into his knees. Jasper glimpsed Elmar’s sword blade missing his brother’s neck by the breadth of a finger. Out of the corner of his vision he saw the lamp roll on into the next bedroom, dribbling burning oil as it went. He and Mica rolled away from each other. Elmar was on fire, beating at his burning clothing, his sword dropped and forgotten in his fear. The ziggers screamed.
Jasper dumped the slab of water on them all without a second thought.
Elmar sagged against the tent wall, gasping, his hair and skin singed, his clothing charred. His armsman’s instincts reasserted themselves. He crouched, his gaze sweeping the bedroom, his hand groping to pick up his sword. In this room the fire was out, but flames flickered in the room behind him.
That was all Jasper noticed before his brother punched him brutally hard in the stomach. He doubled over, appalling pain spasming through his gut and expelling the air from his lungs. Helpless, he lay on the floor, watching, yet unable to move. The smell of burned hair and ziggers was strong in his nostrils. He saw Mica whirling around, looking for a weapon. And he still heard ziggers.
Disoriented, he sensed water falling above him and panicked because he didn’t understand. A confused moment later he realised it was not inside the tent. He had lost his hold on the block of water far above in the sky and it was plummeting down, spilling as it came. Halting it by sheer force of will, he was left weakened and his pain increased. Gasping, helpless, he rocked to and fro, clutching his stomach.
Concentrate, dammit. Override the pain. He tried to pull water from the family jar in the next room, but his power was childlike, faint and wobbly. The water slopped and streamed away. He rested, took deep breaths.
Where had the zigger cage gone? Was it broken? He tried to see, but couldn’t move more than his head. Concentrate. Get air into your lungs. Get that water here. He groaned as cramp radiated down his legs. Sunblast, how could one blow do so much damage?
He saw Elmar move towards Mica. A swordsman’s stance. Good, maybe he wasn’t badly burned. The tent walls were moving. No, not the walls. The light on them. Dancing? Flames in the next room. Pedeshit, the carpet on fire. Smouldering smell of burning fibres. And still the sound of enraged ziggers shrieking their savage fury. He managed to edge himself up on one elbow as Mica and Elmar circled each other. An unequal fight. Elmar had the blade; Mica had nothing. Elmar lunged, Mica ducked and dodged away, as graceful as a dancer.
Jasper tried to speak. Then he saw the zigger cage. It had bounced off the wooden chest on the far side of the room and was now stuck upside-down between the top of the chest and the tent pole that stabilised the centre of the canvas wall. It wasn’t broken. Relief washed over him. How long had it been since Mica first made his move? It felt like an age, but he suspected hardly any time at all had passed. The pain was beginning to fade. He dragged more water up out of the water jar in the reception room and brought it as far as the door, but had trouble applying enough force to push the hanging canvas out of the way to bring it inside. Blighted eyes, why was he so wilted weak?
And all the while he watched, captive audience to a deadly fight.
Mica scooped up a wet cushion from the bed and hurled it at Elmar, then followed it with another and another. Elmar ducked and wove, but the fourth one caught him a glancing blow on the cheek, the impact splattering water into his eyes. He jerked his head as if it also pained his burned skin.
Taking advantage of Elmar’s distraction, Mica flung open the lid of the second chest. Something cracked, but he didn’t notice. In one fluid move he’d plucked up a pede prod from inside and turned. He spun the prod in his hand and let go. The weighted knob cracked Elmar on the temple and he dropped without a murmur. Mica dived back into the chest and drew out a sword.
Jasper dragged himself to his feet, still unable to stand straight. Taking a deep breath, he started coughing. Smoke. Smoke in the air. He groped for his knife with one hand and waved his other at the zigger cage, trying to draw Mica’s attention. The cage had been squeezed between the chest lid and the tent pole, splintering several of the bars when the chest had been opened. “’Ware,” he gasped.
With one last effort he pulled the water through the door and across the room, dumping it all on the cage where the ziggers were already crawling free.
Please let the shrivelled little bastards drown…
But one flew up before the water hit, slicing the air with its shrill keening. The tent was smoky and Jasper couldn’t see where it went.
Mica smiled. The tip of his sword danced in the air. “That’s all yours, brother. Can you kill it before it strikes you?”
“I can’t pull water out of them,” he said, panting as if he’d been running. “Not my skill.” A desperate ploy for compassion, for aid, for some indication of a brother’s concern. He didn’t rely on it; he groped with his senses to gather fallen water into a ball before it soaked into the carpet. And caught sight of the adjoining room where the flames now licked the canvas ceiling. More smoke choked the air, acrid with the carpet dyes. It caught in his throat.
He began to move slowly towards Elmar. Very slowly. He knew sudden movement would make him a target for the zigger. He hovered the water ball, unsure whether it was destined for the zigger or his brother. “I’m going to take Elmar and leave,” he said quietly. “I suggest you pay attention to your tent. Once it really catches fire, you’ll have no time to get out of here. The ceiling in there is beginning to char.”
He searched for the zigger, but it had fallen silent, and in the flickering light and the drifting smoke it could have been anywhere.
Mica swung his sword to follow him as he moved. “I can’t let you do that,” he said. “If he’s not dead already I’ll make sure he is. He owes me a dent t’my pride, and tonight he settles it. And as for you—I’ll give you a chance, Shale. If you can make it out that door without a zigger in your ear, you can go. Outside you’ll just have t’hope you can escape my men. I doubt you’ll get far. But you leave this fellow behind.”
In that moment Jasper truly saw Ravard. Not Mica, but a ruthless Reduner sandmaster standing proud and unbending—and he thought in despair he could look forever and never find Mica in there again. He brought down the ball of water and fitted it across the man’s nose and mouth, welding it to him with his power and his sense of water. He didn’t even have to look to keep the ball in place.
Mica—no, Ravard—pushed at it, but his fingers moved through it without budging it in the least. His puzzled expression quickly turned to anxiety and then desperation. He opened his mouth and the water moved in. He choked, dropped his sword and tried in vain to splash the water away.
Pushing past him, Jasper bent over Elmar, panic giving way to relief: the armsman was still breathing. He grabbed him under the arms and began to drag him on his back towards the door, horribly aware the fire in the next room could explode into a conflagration at any time.
At the doorway, he hesitated. Kill my brother, or not? It was so easy to murder a man, and so difficult to decide to do it.
The naked Reduner dropped to his knees, eyes bulging as he began to die.
And that was when the zigger dived, screaming, straight for a horrified eye.
CHAPTER FIVE
Red Quarter
Dune Watergatherer
Dune Scarmaker
A tiny sliver of time, the length of the zigger’s dive, the duration of its shr
ieking attack. That was all it took for Jasper to realise perfume meant nothing when it had been washed away.
He didn’t think. Pulling the water away from Ravard’s nose and mouth, he moulded it to shoot at the zigger, but he was too slow, too late.
Ravard, kneeling on the carpet, clutched at his eye, screaming, the kind of screams you heard on a battlefield. Jasper dropped Elmar and leaped to his brother’s side, his hand reaching for his dagger. He knew if he hesitated he would never do it, so he grabbed Ravard’s covering hand away and poked the tip of the blade into the damaged eye. It sliced through the zigger into the iris. In one sure cut, he killed the zigger before it could plunge deeper into the tissues. Ravard’s remaining eye blazed into his own, his front teeth bit deep through his lower lip, his fingernails dug into Jasper’s forearms leaving bloody marks. He no longer made a sound, as if he had gone beyond horror and agony into shock.
With one deft twist of the blade, Jasper dug out the beetle. His brother whimpered then, an animal-like sound that seared his soul. Sobbing, Jasper dropped the dagger, still with the zigger skewered on its point. Then he reached into Ravard’s eye with his forefinger and thumb and ripped the eyeball out of its socket. Still attached, it hung on Ravard’s cheek, raw and blood-covered, dripping zigger acid. Grasping it, Jasper slashed it free with the knife. He opened his hand and it fell onto the floor, a bloodied mess. His stomach heaved. Wiping his palm down his trousers to rid himself of the feel, he used the ball of water to rinse any remaining acid out of the eye socket and from Ravard’s cheek. Then he pulled himself free and washed his own hand.
And Ravard knelt there, rocking to and fro and keening, his single good eye staring at him, relentless in its hate. Blood poured down his face.
