Stormlord’s Exile

by Glenda Larke

  “But why? That will be ages yet. Maybe a whole cycle!”

  “Because after we act, Jasper needs to be kept busy stormshifting. The main reason, though, is that I want to give him time to be utterly wrapped up in his daughter first. That is the key to our success. And babies get cuter the older they are. I think the best plan is for you to drop all interest in Amberlyn. Stop visiting her. Ignore her. That’ll make him feel sorry for her.”

  Senya shrugged. “Good. I hate babies. They smell horrid and spit up all the time. But I don’t understand why you want Jasper to become besotted with her.”

  “Senya, when you want someone to do something that they will hate doing, you must give them a reason. A very good reason. Amberlyn will be that reason.” She looked back at the waterpainting. “I think I had better do a drawing of this, so I don’t forget the details…”

  Taquar Sardonyx was sure he was slowly going mad. At first he’d thought it would be easy enough to escape. Now he knew he’d been too complacent. His jailers had anticipated every possible weakness of his cage and taken steps to strengthen them.

  After his first optimistic days he’d swiftly descended into the grimmest black of despair, until he’d even lost track of how long he’d been imprisoned. Half a cycle, perhaps? Although it seemed much longer. At first he’d marked off the days. Then he’d had days when he’d forgotten if he’d done it or not. After a while, he decided it didn’t make any difference whether he knew how long he’d been there or whether he didn’t. What did it matter?

  Days passed when he didn’t care about anything much. He stopped taking pains with his appearance, stopped washing his clothes, stopped cleaning his teeth. Then one day he’d thought of Jasper, spending four years in a place not much different. You are not weaker than Shale Flint, he thought. You are twice the man he is.

  Enraged by his own weakness, he began to climb out of the abyss. He developed a strict regime of exercise and cleanliness, of reading and writing to stimulate his mind. He climbed the grille every day, using only his arms to carry his weight. He sacrificed a plank from the wooden table in order to carve a wooden sword with the small table dagger he’d been allowed to keep. Using the pede kibble left behind by the men who’d rebuilt the grille, some sacking and the cord that had tied the supplies together, he constructed a quintain, which he strung from a projection on the roof of the cave. He practised swordplay with it every day.

  His frustration and fury did not diminish, but he was pleased with his new leanness and toughness. His muscles were as hard and strong as they had been when he was eighteen. He examined every inch of the cave looking for a way out, and every time Iani came, he waited for him to make a mistake. But Iani was too canny. He would not deliver the food and other items to the front of the grille until Taquar had retreated to the back. He listened to Taquar’s requests, and usually brought what he asked for on the next trip—but he never answered a question, nor did he engage in any conversation. After dumping the supplies, he’d leave in as short a time as possible.

  Whenever Taquar felt him coming, he hid the quintain and the wooden sword, but Iani must have noticed how fit his prisoner was becoming. He never remarked on it, and his indifference was an insult. Of all the people who had been involved in his incarceration, Iani was the only one Taquar actively wanted dead. He wasn’t even sure why; it was just something in the way Iani looked at him, a visceral emotion so appalling that Taquar knew he would take pleasure in seeing it die along with the man.

  As for the others who had put him in this cage—Terelle and Jasper, even Ouina—those people he could in some perverse way admire for the way they had turned the situation to their favour. But not Iani.

  And then there were Laisa and Senya. Senya he dismissed as of no import. She was immature and ridiculous, easily manipulated. Her mother was another matter. He smiled when he thought of her, remembering the angry passion of her sex, the way she could both love and hate him in the one moment. Laisa was not easy to categorise, and he wasn’t sure he liked that. He preferred to be able to predict people and felt safest around those he could manipulate. Laisa was many things, but he was never quite sure of what she would do next—and he was relying on her. Unwise? Probably. But what choice did he have?

  In the end, she did not fail him. She came alone, riding a myriapede, unruffled and competent and calm. At the time, he was stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat from a vigorous bout with the now-hidden quintain.

  “Hello, Taquar,” she drawled by way of greeting, her gaze roving over his body in open admiration. “Who would have thought a hermit’s retreat could be so beneficial and… invigorating?”

  “Shut up and get me out of here.”

  “Now that’s no way to greet your rescuer.” She slipped down from her mount. “Pump some water through to the trough for the pede, will you?”

  He did as she asked, and he knew she was assessing his awkward gait as he limped his way to the back of cave.

  As she opened the trough spigot outside the cave, she said, “Don’t get your hopes up. I am not here to rescue you—yet. It is going to take a while to organise.”

  “What the withering blazes do you mean? Just get a prybar and a mallet and from the outside you can bust these locks wide open—”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, while the pede drank, she began to take things out of the pannier. “Does Iani ever search your, er, quarters?”

  “No, he doesn’t dare enter. He knows I’d kill him in an instant.”

  “Good. Then here’s some wine I managed to find. It’s withering scarce these days. So be suitably grateful.” She passed two bottles through the grille. “And a sword. Some silk sheets.” When he regarded the latter with blank astonishment, she said, “A little luxury never goes amiss.”

  “You’re weeping sandcrazy.”

  “Don’t be rude to your saviour.”

  “Silk sheets? Laisa, I just want to be out of here!”

  “And you will be. Eventually,” she said calmly. “Here, take this.” She handed something else through the bars.

  “What is it?”

  “A suit of clothes.”

  “Red? You’re sun-fried!” He was more angry than puzzled now and had to force down an impulse to grab her through the bars and wring her neck.

  “Calm down,” she said. “They have to be red for a reason. I have a lot to tell you. You’d better draw up your chair and listen, very, very carefully. This is going to take a long time. How much do you know about what has happened since you left Scarcleft?”

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then make yourself comfortable.”

  He took a deep breath and fetched the chair. She took the saddle from the pede to sit on and settled herself before she began. Then she told him how Davim had been defeated, and what Terelle was, and how Amberlyn had been born. And then, right at the end, she told him he might have as long as another half-cycle before she thought it would be safe for him to venture out.

  No matter what happened, no matter what she did for him, he knew he would never forgive her for the delay.

  Right then, he hated not just Iani but the whole world. Iani would be the first to die, but he suddenly had enough savagery to wreak vengeance on them all. Especially on Terelle and Jasper. Oh, yes, especially those two.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Red Quarter

  God’s Pellets

  The table under the canvas shade was spread with a map, weighted down at the corners with small stones. Ryka had her index finger resting on the red line of a dune sketched across the sheet of paper, and blessed the fact that she had no problem seeing things under her nose. “This is Dune Agatenob, pedemaster. This tent symbol here marks the position of your tribe’s encampment.”

  The man she was addressing, a Reduner pedemaster called Gilmar who had just ridden in to bring them news from his dune, nodded sagely, although she doubted he had much understanding of maps.

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p; She was proud of her mapmaking; she’d spent hours talking to those who knew the dunes, asking them about the distances between camps and dunes and waterholes, about where the sun rose and set as seen from their encampments at different times of the year, about the valleys and slopes of the sands. In addition she had organised some of the women to make paper from the jute plants growing in the valley. Reduners usually cultivated the plants to make canvas and cloth and rope, but she needed paper if she was to devise better maps than the atrocious things the Scarpen had relied on for the Red Quarter.

  Gilmar was not the only person looking at the map. Also grouped around the table were Kaneth, Vara Redmane, Davim’s illegitimate son Cleve and, hovering in the background, Cleve’s mother, Robena, joggling a restless Kedri up and down on her shoulder.

  “And you say that Ravard has emptied your waterhole, pedemaster?” Kaneth asked Gilmar.

  “Almost, yes. Seemed like every bleeding pede on Dune Watergatherer descended on us one night, with every pannier they own, with every warrior—and all their allies likewise.” He shook his head at the memory. “Too many of them. No point in resisting. By the way, did you know that Ravard has lost an eye? He wears an eye patch now.”

  “We did hear that, yes. Rumour has it the Cloudmaster was responsible.” He faked disinterest. Ryka was not fooled; Kaneth was pleased to have Ravard’s loss of an eye confirmed. He asked, “How much water does your tribe have left?”

  “Barely enough to last another five days, Kher.”

  Vara stared at the listeners, unblinking, like a lizard awaiting prey. “Reduners do not steal water. Ever. If Ravard’s done this thing, then he’s gone to a place where no true warrior of the dunes would tread.”

  “Seems he’s taken half the Reduners of the Quarter with him,” Kaneth said dryly. “Draining a waterhole was not something he did alone.”

  Vara’s scowl was ferocious. “He leads the tribes astray, into outlander crimes. He must be stopped. Soon! Before he diverts all drovers into twisted ways.” She switched her gaze to Gilmar. “We’ll send you water. Better still, bring all your tribe here until the Cloudmaster sends more rain.”

  “Will that be necessary?” Ryka asked. “Jasper will surely have sensed a huge movement of water like this theft. He’ll replace it as soon as he can.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kaneth said, “because he won’t know it was stolen.”

  “We have to stop Ravard,” Vara growled, “or he’ll do this again.”

  “We need more rainlords,” Ryka said. She gave Kaneth a meaningful look. “If we had more, we could intercept Ravard every time he and his warriors leave Dune Watergatherer.”

  He ignored the look and said in reply, “Unfortunately, no rainlords seem to want to join us, or so Jasper said in his last communication. Anyway, I agree with Vara on this. Bring your whole tribe here, Gilmar.”

  “That’s a decision for my tribemaster and our sandmaster,” he replied, but he smiled his thanks. “I’ll return to my dune to tell them of your generous offer, Kher.”

  “No, some of us will go,” Kaneth said. “And we’ll take water, too, so they have enough for another few days while they consider the suggestion. The rules here are that newcomers such as yourself are not permitted contact with dunesmen from outside until we’re sure of your loyalty. If you leave God’s Pellets, it’ll only be with our trusted men.”

  “Ah. And how can I become one of your trusted warriors?”

  “Kill some of Ravard’s men in one of our skirmishes,” Clevedim said with the easy pride of a man who had done just that. “Simple enough.”

  Gilmar glared at him. “You’re Davim’s get, aren’t you? From Dune Hungry One? With your parentage, you have a lot of killing to do before you prove your loyalty to me.”

  “He had more than one parent!” Robena snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. “And I’m the one who raised him, you sandworm.”

  “That’s enough,” Kaneth said. “We have enough enemies outside the valley without making more within.” He fixed Gilmar with a piercing gaze. “Is that understood?”

  Gilmar looked down, contrite. “My men and I came to fight for Uthardim. We’re willing to fight alongside anyone who fights for you, Kher. My apologies.”

  Robena opened her mouth to say something more and Ryka hastily stood on her foot.

  “We’ll be warriors together,” Clevedim said calmly.

  “Good. And Gilmar, you don’t fight for me,” Kaneth said. “You fight for the dunes. For Reduners everywhere. For yourselves. Cleve, can you see that Gilmar and his men are settled, and that they’re fitted into the roster of duties?”

  Cleve nodded and led the pedemaster away, apparently without rancour, while Vara and Kaneth discussed the logistics of transporting water to Agatenob. Ryka held out her arms to take Kedri from Robena, and the older woman relinquished him reluctantly. “Any time you want me to look after him,” she murmured, “you have only to say. And any advice you need on raising a son, I can help there too.” Her gaze followed Cleve, as if to say, Look at what a fine job I did with my own.

  “I know. You’ve been so helpful,” Ryka replied, feeling guilty that she didn’t like the woman more than she did.

  “You’ll learn,” Robena told her. “I’m sure you’ll do a good job in the end. It might help if you were more focused.” She glanced at the map on the table, her meaning clear. “One of the other women was telling me you were intending to start teaching the boys to read and write. That’s Scarpen thinking. On the dunes, it’s not proper. Scribing is for the learned shamans who’ve been blessed by a dune god.”

  “Actually I wasn’t thinking of teaching boys,” she answered sweetly. “I thought maybe the girls would be more interested.” That wasn’t quite true—she had wanted to teach any child who professed an interest—but her wicked streak couldn’t resist the temptation to shock Robena. When she was rewarded by an appalled look, she sighed at her own lack of restraint. The woman was so pretentious, and so easily shockable.

  Kaneth grinned at her as Robena and Vara left together some time later. “Not the easiest of women, is she?”

  “I swear, if she wasn’t so utterly devoted to Kedri, and so good with him, I’d pull her nose. How is it that someone so helpful can also be so blasted irritating? She’s like a stone in your sandal when your hands are full. It’s not that she tries to be obnoxious, it’s just that, well, she is obnoxious.”

  “I feel sorry for Cleve. Poor fellow, when we dropped by his tribe he jumped at the chance to join us, but then she was equally adamant he wasn’t going without her. He would have liked nothing better than to leave her behind. What do you think of him, Ryka?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” she admitted. “I’ve noticed you’re trying to include him as an observer to your decision making, but I’m not sure he’s the potential leader for the dunes you’ve been hunting for.”

  “He’s young yet.”

  “True. Nineteen?”

  “About that, yes. The young men from his tribe admire him, look up to him. You’d think that because he’s Davim’s son they’d resent him, but it doesn’t work that way. Reduners respect lineage. They like it when a position passes from father to son.”

  “I do know that,” she said wryly.

  “Sorry. Of course you do. He’s a fine fighter. One of the best. Marvellous rider, too.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you dubious because he reminds you of his father?”

  “No. He’s not Davim. Davim was cruel by nature. Cleve is not.”

  “Come on, Ryka, what’s your problem with him?” He followed as she turned to enter their tent strung between the trees behind them, a spacious pavilion of several rooms.

  Inside, she removed Kedri’s dirty clothing while he gurgled at her happily. “Well, for a start, he doesn’t respect Vara,” she said at last. Handing a naked Kedri to his father, she went over to open the family jar, scooped out a basin of water and dropped Kedri’s clothing into it.
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  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. So far.” She rinsed the clothing, then extracted the pure water and returned it to the jar.

  He grinned at her. “Maybe that’s his mother’s fault.”

  She smiled back at him as she shook out the dry clothes. “Possibly. But he’d better learn to be adaptable—that’s the mark of a good leader. Here, let me have the lad back so I can dress him again.”

  He handed Kedri over and took the basin out onto the veranda, where he threw the dust it contained into the wind. When he returned, she said, “Kaneth, it’s time I was riding out with you.”

  “No.”

  “You’re in danger when you don’t have a rainlord with you. I’m a rainlord. So—”

  “No.”

  “Sooner or later there’ll be ziggers out there. The main reason tribes in the past didn’t make full use of ziggers is that they knew other tribes would turn around and do the same thing back to them. But we haven’t got ziggers and we don’t use them. The only reason Dune Watergatherer and their allied dunes are not using them against us now is that they don’t have enough of them to risk, because we destroyed so many during the battle. But they will have been breeding them up again. When they have sufficient they will turn them on us. When you meet an armed force out there, they won’t attack; they’ll open cages instead.”

  The look he gave her was stricken. “Ryka, love, your poor eyesight makes you especially vulnerable to zigger attack.”

  Her tone gentled. “Kaneth, I love our son and I want him to grow up with a living father as well as a mother. And the best way to make that happen is for me to ride with you. I make use of my water-powers, not my eyesight, to sense ziggers.”

  His gaze dropped away from her to look at Kedri. The boy was sitting on the carpet, unaided, looking up at his father in an interested way and drooling over his clean clothing. Ryka was certain he was getting his first tooth.

  “Kedri needs you still. At home. With him every day. Ride out with me and you’ll be gone for twenty days at a time! And you know your water-senses aren’t that brilliant.”