Stormlord’s Exile

by Glenda Larke

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The man looked sick, but he was as good as his word. Within a tenth of a sandrun, the pedes were led off to the stables, the enforcers were re-establishing themselves throughout Scarcleft Hall, Taquar was talking to a terrified seneschal and an overman already resigned to his own likely death, while Laisa was opening the door to Senya’s rooms.

  Senya looked up as she entered. “Oh good! You’ve come,” she said. “Can we go back to Breccia now? I am so bored here.”

  It wasn’t quite the welcome Laisa had hoped for, but she smiled and said, “I rather think we shall, very soon. I want to go home, too.”

  And she meant it.

  The two men carrying Laisa’s letter to Samphire only learned that Jasper had taken a shorter route after they arrived. He’d reached the city four days before them—and he had already left for Khromatis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Khromatis

  On the Variega Mountains

  Southern Marches, Salted Pan Pothouse and Grey Manor

  “These make the Warthago look like something a pebblemouse constructed,” Dibble said, gazing up in awe at the Variega Mountains ahead of them. “Look at the size of the things! And we’re supposed to cross them?”

  “Verdigris Manor is over there somewhere, beyond the pass,” Elmar said. He was just as impressed as Dibble, but he wasn’t about to let on.

  They’d had two pieces of luck on their journey, both beyond price and both quite accidental. The first had been when they bypassed Kermes Manor without realising it. By the time they did find out, several villages further on, they had already seen a number of mirror pieces, enough to tell them that Terelle had also bypassed the manor. A little casual conversation between Dibble and a man building a stone fence alongside the road confirmed that a party of armsmen with two women had passed that way, and the two officers had borne Watergiver tattoos.

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Elmar said. “After all, Russet is her family, nothing to do with the Verdigris folk, except that his daughter married one. Those Verdigris lice are taking her either to their own property or to the Pinnacle. The problem is that somewhere back there she must have fulfilled the future of Russet’s painting. She has no magical protection now.”

  “They’d not do that,” Dibble said with certainty.

  “Not do what?”

  “Take her to the Pinnacle. Because if they did, and she ever got hold of waterpaints, she could paint him dead. Strikes me that it’s a bleeding dangerous thing to do, to meet a waterpainter. They could kill you whenever they felt like it. Unlike us. An armsman has to be face to face with his enemy, risking his own life. A waterpainter can do it from the other side of the Quartern.” He sighed. “El, they’re taking her to their own place. And they don’t ever intend to let her go.”

  He’s probably right at that, Elmar thought.

  “Do you think they dropped Russet off back there at his family home?” Dibble asked. “The fence-builder was sure there was no old man among them.”

  “I bleeding hope so. I don’t want to meet that sun-blighted old niggard again.”

  “Me neither. I don’t think I like these Khromatian waterlords very much.”

  Elmar looked across at him. “They aren’t much good at showing a fellow a good time, are they?”

  For a moment they stared at each other, deadly serious, and then simultaneously guffawed.

  Three days after that conversation, they had their second piece of luck. They were trudging along in the interminable rain, their boots clogged with mud, the bottom of their trousers clinging wetly to their legs, the rain dribbling down their cloaks in cold rivulets. After spotting what appeared to be a shelter of some kind at the side of the road ahead, they quickened their pace.

  The shelter was occupied by a farmer and his son, waiting out the worst of the rain before returning to the fields. The farmer plied them with bread and cheese and conversation while they waited for the shower to pass. The rain stopped, and after they were on their way again, Dibble could barely contain his excitement.

  Elmar kept silent until the farmer was out of earshot. “All right,” he said, “what did he say? You mentioned Terelle to him!”

  “Yes. Seems one of their mounts dropped a shoe. I’ll be withering witless, though: did you notice the alpiners wore shoes? I certainly didn’t. But I’m sure that’s what he said.”

  “Go on, go on. I’m not interested in animal boots!”

  “Well, apparently they had to stop to put the shoe or sandal or whatever back on, otherwise the beast would have started limping. So they came to the farmer’s place and he did it for them. I thought he said he nailed it on, but that can’t be right.”

  “It doesn’t matter! What about Terelle and the Verdigris bastards? Was she with them?”

  “He said there were two tattooed waterlords, two women and a number of armsmen. He said one of the lords told him he was Rubric Verdigris, and the other was his brother. The farmer asked the women if they would like a glass of milk and one of the women sounded real funny when she replied. Lord Rubric called her Lord Something, but it was a really odd name he couldn’t remember. I asked if it was Terelle, but he still couldn’t recall it.”

  “It would be her, all right. You asked how long ago this was, didn’t you? What was the answer?”

  “It was the same day as the goats at Hassle’s farm got out and ate all the apples in his orchard,” Dibble said dryly. “That’s as close as he could say.”

  “Wonderful. And what about where they were going?”

  “Ah, now there’s the good news. The farmer asked Rubric where they were heading, and he said to Verdigris Manor. The fellow doesn’t know much about where that is, but he said he’s heard that if you get to the top of the pass, and look down the other side, you can see the roof.”

  The taproom of the Salted Pan in Marchford was full, as usual for that time of night. It was the only place in the town that sold amber, imported from the Gibber Quarter through Samphire, and it was the only place close to the foundries where the Alabasters could gather without being hassled or pointedly ignored. The inn was owned by a Watergiver, but the man behind the bar was an Alabaster, and so was every other person in the building, from the scullery skivvy to the chambermaid.

  Until the door opened and the stranger stepped in.

  Conversation died as if someone had closed a spigot on the spoken word. Heads swivelled. Movement ceased.

  The man stood for a moment in the open doorway, then carefully pulled the door shut. He was not a large fellow, but his cold dark eyes and the authority in his stance made him a commanding presence. The pack on his back he allowed to slip to the floor, placing it against the wall, together with his staff. He shrugged off his cloak to hang it on one of the many hooks around the walls.

  His gaze roved round the room, shifting from face to face, hesitating where anyone dared to hold his stare, only moving on when the person looked away. His eyes were brown, his skin too—a combination common in the Gibber Quarter, but rare in Khromatis. Still, Gibber grubbers were unheard of on this side of the Borderlands, so the fellow was doubtless Khromatian. Certainly, the cloak and garments he wore spoke of Khromatian weaving and the boots were the product of a Khromatian bootmaker. Worse, he wore a sword, and no one was permitted to do that unless he was a Watergiver or an armsman of the forces. Yet neither would ever deign to enter this taproom, surely. The Alabasters regarded him cautiously.

  Once he had scanned the whole room to his satisfaction, the man spoke, and the language he used was their own.

  “I’m looking for Marrake Khorash,” he said.

  Heads turned away from him then, and gazes sought and found a man seated at the bar. “I’m Marrake,” said the target of their combined gaze. “Who wants me?”

  The stranger threaded his way through the tables. “I have a letter for you.” He dug into his belt bag to produce a small piece of parchment closed with a wax seal and handed it ov
er.

  Marrake took the letter, his astonishment clear. He fumbled for his knife, broke the seal and read the letter. Then he handed the sheet to the man behind the bar so he could read it as well, saying, “A room where we can be private, please, Breth.” He slipped off the barstool to stand. He was short, barely taller than the stool itself.

  Breth read the letter, nodded at the newcomer, and said, “That way.” He indicated the stairs to the right of the bar. “The room at the top, to the left.”

  The stranger indicated that Marrake was to precede him and held out his hand to take back the letter as he passed the barman.

  Only when the two of them had disappeared upstairs did anyone speak.

  “Who was that?” someone asked.

  The barman shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But the script was signed and sealed by the Bastion, saying that he expected everyone to be giving the lord who was bearer whatever he wanted any time he wanted it, in the name of God.”

  Upstairs Jasper turned to face Marrake. “I need help.”

  “I assumed that,” the little man said wryly. He waved a hand at the letter Jasper held. “Ye know he’s my cousin?”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “A bastion is supposed to be cutting himself off from his family.”

  “He’s not that sort of man.”

  “No. Is this about Feroze’s death?”

  “Yes, in a way. I didn’t know if you’d heard about that.”

  “Oh, bad news travels fast among the Alabasters here. Him being a relative of mine, I’d appreciate hearing the details, though, if ye know them. I take it ye are a Gibberman, not a Watergiver.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And a lord?”

  “Of sorts.”

  Marrake climbed up onto the bed to listen, sitting with his feet dangling because they were too short to touch the floor. His size made him seem childlike, but Jasper sensed that to underestimate this man would be a mistake. His eyes were shrewd, and there was something in his voice that told of an innate belief in his own value. Jasper related as much as he knew of how Feroze had died and the unknown fate of Terelle.

  “And who are ye, that ye’ve the Bastion’s ear and support?” Marrake asked. “And what, for the love of God, is your mission here? If ye’re caught, the penalty is surely death.”

  “They’ll not kill me so easily. My name is Shale Flint, and I’m a… a rainlord. I don’t speak the language of Khromatis, and I need a guide and a mount to travel to the north, into the mountains. That’s where they’ve taken Terelle. I intend to fetch her home. Ahead of me are another two Scarpermen with the same aim.”

  “You want a Khromatian guide?”

  “The way I understand it, it’s not possible for an Alabaster to go further north than the Southern Marches. So, yes, I do.”

  Marrake frowned in thought, swinging his legs. Once again Jasper was reminded of a child and had to thrust the thought away.

  “My lord, the people of this land aren’t brought up to treat outsiders with compassion or equality. Outsiders are inferior; it’s as simple as that. To be finding someone who’ll not betray ye will be difficult.”

  “There are always people who can be bought, surely?”

  “Yes, and they’re the same people who’ll take your coin and then betray ye.”

  “Then I’ll go alone. I’m not without a talent for mayhem, if need be.”

  “A man after my own white heart.”

  “But what about a mount? I need something to ride. I must catch up with the men ahead of me.”

  “And ye’ve never ridden an alpiner before?”

  “No. I’ve never been to Khromatis before.”

  Marrake’s smile spread into a gleeful grin. “That should be very funny indeed.” Just when Jasper was wondering if he should revise his opinion of the man’s maturity, the grin vanished and Marrake said with renewed seriousness, “That gives me an idea. My lord, tell me about this woman. Ye said Terelle Grey is a waterpainter because she has Watergiver blood?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “Grey is the name of a family from around here. They breed alpiners and manage eel-beds.” When Jasper looked blank, he added, “They raise eels for food. Used to be quite prosperous, but not so much now. All because of a scandal a long time back, before I ever came to Khromatis. One of their young lads ran off with a woman from one of the waterlord families. Heir to the Pinnacle, she was.”

  “Sienna Kermes. No, Sienna Verdigris. Kermes was her grandfather.”

  “I don’t remember her name, but the lad she ran off with was called Erith Grey. The joke around these parts was that she preferred ‘perspiring in an eel-bed in the peat’ to ‘aspiring to be Pinnacle in the Peak.’ Ye telling me it’s their daughter ye’re chasing?”

  “That’s right.” Jasper still had no idea what an eel was, but he didn’t bother to ask.

  “No wonder the Verdigris family wants to kill her. She could claim the Pinnacle’s seat.”

  “That would have no interest for her.”

  “No, but it might be of interest to the family Grey.”

  “In what way?”

  “Lord Shale, the Greys were ostracised and much of their business ruined when they crossed swords with the Verdigris lot. I’m only an Alabaster, and no one tells us much, but it’s common knowledge that the Grey family was darned upset when Lord Bice Verdigris was made Commander of the Southern Marches and he showed up here with his three sons and started lording it over folk. Never missed a chance to be humiliating any of the Greys, I can tell ye. Refused to be buying their alpiners for the Verdigris armsmen, stopped the barracks from buying their eels. The Verdigris family are not well liked around here in general, and they’re hated by the Greys.”

  “So you’re saying the Greys might be prepared to rescue one of their own?”

  Marrake swung his legs up to sit cross-legged, then propped his chin up on a hand. “Exactly. And they have alpiners, too. Think, Lord Shale. If they can show everyone that the Verdigris family is after murdering the real ruler to the land, there’ll be a far bigger scandal than Erith Grey’s misdemeanour ever was. It’d be the end of Lord Bice here. Oh, yes, I think the Grey family might just be delighted to be meeting ye.”

  “Good. When can you take me to meet them?”

  And I wonder what the waterless hells Terelle will think of this? In his gut he knew she wasn’t going to be at all happy to be welcomed by her father’s family because they thought she was going to be their saviour.

  Oh, spitless damn. Why is nothing ever simple?

  Terelle’s uncle now ran the Grey farm.

  For some reason, Jasper found it odd that Terelle should have close relatives, ones she knew nothing of and had never cared to find. She’d had only poor experiences with the single relative she’d known.

  Her uncle, Gelder Grey, was a muscular farmer of sixty, heavily tattooed on the face and hands the way Russet had been. His sad eyes and weak, tremulous voice didn’t match his bulk. His character was similarly conflicted, or so it appeared to Jasper. He loathed the Verdigris clan with a passion, yet cowered before their power. He delighted in the idea of having his brother’s daughter in a position to topple the Pinnacle, yet was reluctant to help her.

  He was welcoming to “Lord Shale,” jumping to the conclusion that he was in a similar position to Terelle—a Khromatian who had, through no fault of his own, been born in the Quartern. His Quartern language was ungrammatical but understandable.

  While they were talking, a large, broad-shouldered man of about thirty appeared, lightly tattooed on the face, whom Gelder introduced as his son Umber. “He cares for our alpiners. Umber, this fellow be looking for Erith’s daughter. Wants to be taking her back. He’s a waterlord. Marrake says the Bastion be vouching for him.”

  “I heard what happened at the Commander’s manor in Marchford,” Umber said, greeting Jasper with a friendly smile. “Did my father tell ye?”

  “I was surprised he knew so
much,” Jasper said, sizing the son up as a bluff, amiable man in spite of his intimidating size. “He’s just told me a groom there was married to one of your family and he actually spoke to Terelle.” The rush of joy he’d felt at the news was still with him.

  “Yes, Eden Croft. He was there. Saw what happened. His wife wheedled the story out of him and told him to be telling us. The Verdigris took your lass to their family manor. That’s up on the Low Plateau Pale, on the other side of the pass.”

  “I hope she’s still alive.” He couldn’t sense her and her absence was a constant ache to his soul. It’s because she’s too far away. It must be. The mountains block her, and there’s too much water.

  “Well, the old man certainly isn’t. The Kermes fellow. He died in the fire. Eden Croft found out that much. They tried to be killing your Terelle, but couldn’t because she’d been waterpainted. That true?”

  “As far as I know, yes.” But even as he said the words, he knew that had changed. Russet was dead. Sunblast. That means she could be free of the magic—but vulnerable. Oh, sweet waters. “Where is she now?”

  “Jet and his younger brother Rubric left with her the next day, apparently heading for their home on the other side of the mountains.”

  “I need to rescue her, urgently. I need mounts and a guide and I need to leave as soon as possible and travel fast.”

  “He says he can pay,” Marrake said from where he had perched himself on the back of a sofa. Jasper guessed that he liked to sit up high so he could look people in the eye.

  Gelder leered at Jasper. “Want us in danger? Cost ye plenty!”

  “I have coin. I also have a sapphire or two. Valuable, good-quality ones you can have instead of the coin.”

  “Let me look.”

  Jasper dug in his purse and produced two of the gems he had there. The rest he had secreted in various seams of his clothing. “Near perfect,” he said. “For these, I need four mounts, with tackle and feed, and a good guide who is familiar with the trail and knows where Verdigris Manor is. Someone who can speak my tongue. He would have to get me there and bring me and Terelle back again. I’ll pay for any other food or accommodation along the way.”