Jasper struggled to give voice to what he needed to say, the heartfelt truth. "I wish-I wish we had known each other in better times, my lord. I understand what you tried to do, the way you tried to rule your city, and why. I wish you could have been my father. Although I would have been a poor son."
A smile ghosted on the tortured mouth, and Nealrith's hand patted his. He mouthed and gestured to make the words clear: "You will father my grandchildren."
Jasper bit his lip and struggled to find the right words of ritual. "You are a true rainlord," he said finally. "Your water is precious to us." He licked his dry lips. "I will be safe, I promise, and Taquar will never rule this land. Never. And neither will Davim."
The wounded man nodded.
"Are you ready, Highlord Nealrith of Breccia?" But as he spoke the words, he hesitated. I can't.
And then, with his last strength, Nealrith gathered vapour from the air to form letters, as if this was his last defiance, his last action as a mover of water, his last benediction. Lighted by the flickering torches, the letters danced red in the air in front of the cage: Farewell, Cloudmaster. And his ravaged mouth smiled. It was a travesty, a rictus of blood, but he did it for Jasper.
Jasper braced himself against his own revulsion. "Goodbye, Rith," he said. The huskiness of his voice made him sound old. He sought the comforting words of the funeral ritual the waterpriests had taught him: "Go back to the living water. Be at one with life."
Nealrith indicated his readiness.
And Jasper thrust his sword into the cage and slit the rainlord's throat. Nealrith fell forward against the bars. Blood pulsed, then slowed. A hand went into spasm, then was still.
The first man he had ever killed, and it had to be the man he had come to most honour, to most admire. A man he would have liked to call father. And he couldn't even take his water in a final gesture of respect. He'd had to use his sword.
There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the Reduners, and the Gibberman doubled over, retching. All that was left of Nealrith hardly looked human any more. Jasper struggled to rise.
"I could kill you all now," he told the guards from between gritted teeth. It was true; his revulsion at Nealrith's death had banished all compassion. And they believed him. The Gibberman tried to speak, but Jasper slapped the water over his mouth, gagging him. He struggled to speak anyway. None of the sounds made any sense. The Reduner beside him glared. The Gibberman sagged to his knees, gesturing, grunting.
Jasper knew what he was trying to say: I am a Gibberman like you. Not one of them. The Reduner lashed out and sent the grovelling man sprawling in the dust. The tribesman glared at Jasper and folded his arms in defiance. The second Reduner moaned and huddled against the wall, trying to make himself look small. Jasper gagged both of them as well, but refrained from covering their noses this time. Then he stumbled away, sickened.
Just before reaching the street that led upwards, he turned back. The Gibberman scrambled up on his knees. They stared at each other across the space, and for a moment Jasper knew they were thinking the same thing: there had been a time when they were not much different. Grubby Gibber brats from a drywash town somewhere, eking out an existence as best they could.
"Did you ever meet a man called Mica?" Jasper asked him. "About the same age as me? From-"
He stopped. The man's expression told Jasper he was torn, trying to decide whether a yes or a no would bring him most benefit.
There was no way to know if the answer was going to be honest. Jasper turned to walk away. A desperate grunting made him glance back over his shoulder. The man uttered a few more guttural sounds without opening his mouth, and then repeated them. Jasper stood, rooted, wanting to hear, wanting to believe. He decided to give the man a chance to speak. He allowed the water to peel away from the Gibberman's mouth. But instead of speaking, he shrieked and dropped. Behind him, the defiant Reduner stood swaying: he'd jammed a knife into the hapless Gibberman's ribs. Without thinking, Jasper expanded the water to cover the tribesman's nose as well as his mouth.
Someone shouted from the top of the wall. Voices responded. A Reduner on the wall pointed in Jasper's direction. Hurriedly, Jasper clutched the mist around himself once more, grabbed up his lantern and left at a shambling run. It was all he could manage.
By the time additional tribesmen arrived at the gate, he was no more than a white patch rolling upwards, misty gossamer in the dimness of starlight. The newcomers looked from the bloodied cage, to the dead Gibberman, to the guard dying as he gasped for air he could not find, to the other Reduner with water held, impossibly, over his mouth-and then to that unearthly shape.
Not one of them chose to follow in pursuit.
Jasper blundered on, hearing over and over the name he was sure the Gibberman had tried to utter: Wash Drybone. Wash Drybone.
The man had known a man named Mica from Wash Drybone Settle.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Scarpen Quarter Breccia City "What happened?" Kaneth asked. His normal insouciance was gone; what had replaced it was hard-edged and angry.
"He insisted on going out alone. When he came back he was like this." Laisa looked down at the sleeping form on the pallet. "Absolutely exhausted."
"He almost drowned us all," Senya said. It had happened hours before, but her words still crackled with indignation.
"He came stumbling through the door," Laisa explained, "and collapsed where he is now. He let go of his hold on the water in the cistern, and if I hadn't been quick, it would have come pouring in the door with the force of a rush down a Gibber wash."
"And all he could say was that Nealrith was dead?"
"He said that much, and then he just wasn't here any more. At first, I wasn't sure if he was asleep or unconscious, but I think it's just sleep."
Kaneth knelt at the edge of the pallet and shook Jasper's shoulder, hard.
Jasper stirred restlessly, muttering. "I killed him." His head tossed from side to side. "I killed him."
"Come on, Jasper, wake up."
Jasper's eyes flew open. For a long moment, he didn't know where he was. For a moment, the horror of the dream seemed unreal; then he remembered. It wasn't a dream. He had killed Nealrith.
"Kaneth…" he said, but couldn't go on.
"Are you all right?" Kaneth asked.
Jasper sat up slowly and replied even more slowly. "Yes," he said at last. "Tired. Very, very tired."
"You should eat," Kaneth reached out a hand and helped him heave himself to his feet. "You should eat a lot. You've been over-using your water-powers."
"Oh, Kaneth," he groaned, "I thought I could save Nealrith. But they had him in a cage that had no door. And they had-" He stopped, suddenly aware that he was also talking within the hearing of Nealrith's wife and daughter. "I am sorry, Laisa, Senya. He died. I was holding his hand."
Laisa raised an eyebrow. "You killed him?"
Senya's eyes grew round. "You killed him? You killed my father?"
Jasper was silent.
"He asked you to?" Laisa suggested.
"He knew he did not have long to live, and no man would want to live another moment like that…" He trailed off. "It was his wish."
Senya glared at him with righteous hatred, her chin quivering. Her mother stepped in, gripped her arm tightly, and said without expression, "I am sure you did what was best, Jasper."
"Best?" Senya's fury was about to explode, but Laisa tightened her hold in warning, and Senya took refuge in a storm of hysterical tearless weeping instead.
Jasper and Kaneth sat in awkward silence at the table. Jasper hunted for something to say, but it was Kaneth who spoke first. "That took courage. Would that we all could have such friends at the last. You will make a fine Cloudmaster, Jasper."
Jasper winced. "Is that what makes a good ruler? The ability to kill when you need to? Anyway, I'm not even a stormlord. We all know that." His stomach heaved. "What time of day is it?" he asked. Anything not to remember. Not to feel the grief swelling unasked in his throat.