Glenda Larke: The Last Stormlord

Nealrith was appalled. "You want two rainlords out searching the Gibber? Why? Anyone can conduct the tests for water sensitivity. It doesn't need a rainlord!" And I have a city to run.

"I may not be much of a storm gatherer nowadays, Nealrith, but I am still in full command of my senses."

"You must have a reason."

"Other than desperation? Yes, two, in fact. My passion for our land's history has rendered up a reward. A name and a place. I didn't do the actual research work; I passed that to Ryka Feldspar. She has a scholar's mind." He smiled at Ethelva. "I wonder sometimes if we don't underestimate our women, Nealrith. She found that one of my predecessors-from a very long time ago-bore a name that sounds as if it came from the Gibber. Gypsum Miner of Wash Drybarrow."

Nealrith stared, speechless.

"The long history of mining in the Gibber means they have more family names related to that ancient occupation than we do," his father continued. "Their constant fossicking has led them to use minerals and rocks as personal names all the time. And 'wash' is the Gibber word for dry riverbed, what we'd call a gully."

Nealrith was impatient. "Wash Drybarrow is an actual Gibber settle?"

"Well, Ryka found a Wash Dribarra, which has a settle. After that, I sent some of my people out to talk to Gibber folk down on Level Forty."

He was intrigued in spite of himself. "What did they find out?"

"Gibber reeves manage matters pertaining to water. However, unlike our reeves, who must have water skills, they usually have none. There are occasional water sensitives among Gibber folk, but they are regarded as potential water thieves. As a consequence, a child exhibiting water sensitivity usually has the tendency beaten out of him."

Ethelva gave an unladylike snort. "Or rather, they have the tendency to admit to it beaten out of them."

"Exactly. Rith, I want rainlords testing in the Gibber because I don't want the slightest chance that a water sensitive child, or an adult for that matter, is missed. I want more than standard tests. I want you to hunt for any sign of people there who may be hiding their talent deliberately."

Nealrith considered that. "I suppose it doesn't make sense that there should be water sensitives here but not in the Gibber. We are supposed to have had the same origins."

"Even Reduner sandmasters and tribemasters have some talent with water," Ethelva said, "and they aren't supposed to be related to us at all."

Granthon nodded. "We have searched the Red Quarter and the Scarpen-scoured them, more like-for the past twenty-five years, and found nothing. Think, Rith. The three new talents we identified in that time, we found right here at home. Your daughter Senya, Iani's Lyneth, and Ryka Feldspar. Ryka may be the daughter of a rainlord, but her power is weak. And Senya looks to be no better. Lyneth, now-but we all know what happened to Lyneth."

He fell silent, and Ethelva squeezed his hand. Even Nealrith was discomforted by the memory. How could he forget? She had been the hope of the Quartern, Iani's lovely six-year-old daughter. Dark-eyed and dimpled and plump, she had charmed them all with her lively inquisitiveness, her mischievous charm. And she'd been stormlord-talented. Then one day some fifteen years past, on a routine journey with her parents to attend a family wedding in another Scarpen city, she had wandered off into the desert. Nealrith felt sick about it even now. They had never found her body, and her father had never recovered from the shock. Iani the Sandcrazy-he had blamed himself because he was the rainlord of the group; he should at least have been able to follow the trace of her water.

Granthon stirred restlessly. "Only three children in almost thirty years-and we didn't even have to look for them, as they were all born to rainlords. What harm can it do to search the Gibber?"

"Father, it'll take a year or more! What about my duties here?"

"They can be shared by the city's other rainlords. This is important." Granthon lay back, fumbling for the support of the cushions. "Let's just say that we found a child in the Scarpen or the Red Quarter who has the potential to be a stormlord. It would be many more years before they would be skilled enough to help me." He gave a sick smile. "By that time we could all have died of thirst. On the other hand, if you find someone in the Gibber, they could perhaps be older and closer to attaining their full powers."

Nealrith grimaced. "I once had my purse cut by a waterless Gibberman, and I've seen how they live down on the last level. Hovels, reeking with vermin. And you should hear what caravanners say about travelling through the Gibber itself. They have to pay outrageous taxes just for passing through, whether they take water or not. If they don't pay up, they risk getting raided. Murdered even. Is that the kind of person we want as a new stormlord?"

"You are not usually so quick to judge!" his mother snapped. "Every pot is black on the bottom. They are not the only ones with a dark underside. There will be many good folk among them, too."

He forced a smile. "I'll try to remember that."

"Do so," she said with some asperity. "If there are ills on Level Forty, then ask yourself if that is not the fault of the city's ruler." Before he could retort, she added, "Perhaps the two of you should ask yourselves this: Why do we lack talented children all of a sudden?"

"What do you mean?" Nealrith asked, still smarting from her implied criticism of his rule.

"Just that. Never before has the Quartern been short of stormlords, let alone rainlords. Perhaps we should be looking for the reason."

It was Granthon who answered. "There's nothing so unusual in going for a time with so few stormlords born. My study of history has taught me that much. It will change; it always does. In the past it never mattered much if there was a gap in births, because there were enough older rainlords or stormlords to manage until a new generation came along. It's just that this time we have been unlucky. We lost a lot of young, talented people."

Nealrith nodded. He'd numbered good friends among them.

"Two were probable stormlords and the others were possibles. Such a tragedy. Iani's Lyneth was just the last," Granthon said.

"Garouth called the deaths an unnatural coincidence," Ethelva said thoughtfully, then reminded Nealrith, "Your grandfather put all you younger rainlords-those who might have developed into stormlords-under guard after that."

"Unnatural? They were just unfortunate accidents and illnesses," Granthon said, but his protest was hesitant, as if he doubted its truth. "Two disappeared during a spindevil windstorm, I remember. We nearly lost Taquar Sardonyx then, too." He shook his head sadly. "I had high hopes of Taquar. I thought he might just make a stormlord. He came so close, but never had quite enough pull. I wondered if what he suffered in the sandstorm might not have been the reason he lost the edge a stormlord needs. So close, so close, and he took it badly."

He shifted position, trying to get comfortable. "He offered me his aid recently, you know. He added his strength to mine, to see if it helped me."

Nealrith tried to quell the jealousy that raged through him at the thought. It should have been me. But then, what would have been the point? They both knew the limitations of Nealrith's rainlord skills.

"No, I didn't know. When was this?" he asked.

Ethelva came to rearrange the cushions at Granthon's back as he elaborated. "Last year when you were out inspecting the tunnels. I tried to teach him the knack of gathering a cloud out of the sea." He sighed. "He is stronger than you, certainly, but not as strong as I hoped. He had nothing to lend me that would make any difference."

"Oh. He wouldn't have been holding back deliberately, would he?"