"That's true. I even heard random rain has fallen along The Spindlings. Granthon is not even capturing all the natural-born clouds."
"I hadn't heard that. I'm not surprised, though. Cloudmaster Granthon has even let the cisterns of his own city drop dangerously in level." He gave a snort of contempt. "He would let his own people suffer along with the rest of the Quartern. Did I walk his path, the Gibber or the White Quarter would have suffered first; but no, he tried to be fair. Fair! As if you can rule a land such as the Quartern fairly. He knows nothing about rule."
For the first time in their conversation he was showing emotion and Davim hid a smile. The Traitor had a weakness after all. It was worth remembering. "The Cloudmaster is a fool. Fortunately for us, you say he also birthed a foolish son," he added softly, soothing.
"Yes. When Granthon finally dies, you and I will be there to take his place, not Highlord Nealrith, never fear."
"I will have the Red and the White Quarters. You may do what you will with the rest." He could not help the joy of anticipation that edged his words. "Don't make it too long, lord."
"Granthon's death comes. Possibly even before the next star cycle completes itself. Already he is desperate. He now wants to send rainlords to the Gibber to look for potential stormlords." Once again his contempt broke through. "The Gibber, of all places! Next he will be sending us across the Giving Sea, searching lands where men have no water sensitivity!"
"He hopes to suck water from stone. I almost pity him."
The Traitor smiled. Behind him, his packpede arrived at the top of the slope and clattered its segment plates with a shake, in an attempt to rid itself of sand. "Not I, Sandmaster. Not I," he said.
"Will he further cut water to the Red Quarter?"
"No, I think not. He knows that would only rouse the dunes to frenzy. A number of people have, however, sown the idea that perhaps the Gibber and the White Quarters are not exactly as important. It will make our taking control of those two Quarters easier if they are thirsty."
"How long?"
"Hard to say. Granthon is weak, but there is a sinew of toughness in that old man that will hang on to life and power. And a senseless streak of softness that will keep him sending water to the Gibbermen and the 'Basters as long as he can." He paused as the sound from the heart of the dune thrummed in quickening rhythm. "What says your dune god?"
Davim gave an unpleasant smile. "He warns of treachery. Beware, brother. Do not cross us or you will learn to fear the power of the dune drovers."
The Traitor shrugged. "I have no reason to contemplate treachery. How goes the training of your men?"
"Well. They will be ready whenever the wind is right. They are loyal, utterly, to my leadership of the Watergatherer. And I build numbers by taking in the unwanted. We never refuse water to anyone. My men slit their throats if they do not prove their worth within ten days or so, but that is rarely necessary. We are warriors as great as the dunes have ever seen. True men see and admire and long to follow."
"The other dunes? Can you deliver them as promised, when the, er, wind is right?"
"Show them you control the rain and that you supply us with water at my bidding, and I could have them at my feet tomorrow. Already the weaker dunes offer their tribute to me wordlessly with fear in their eyes. If I could tell them I had a stormlord at my side to fill the waterholes to the brim as in the past, then they would come willingly, not dragging their feet through fear, and the larger dunes would follow. You understand the difference, I think?"
The Traitor shrugged. "Between threats and rewards? Oh yes. But one man's way is not another's. I demand nothing but loyalty. What prompts it is irrelevant."
Davim gestured with an upturned palm, indicating his indifference to the other's preference. "Just remember this: I prefer to bring the other dunes in with a bribe-a stormshifter, cloudbreaker, stormlord, whatever name you like-but I have other plans if you fail me. You may not like them as much as the present plan."
"Threats are unnecessary," the Traitor said coldly.
Davim smiled. "Do you stay the night in our camp? I offer the hospitality of my tribe."
"Another time perhaps."
"When do we meet again?"
"Not for a while, I think. If you have a message, you know how to contact me." Without farewell, he swung his pede around, picked up the reins of the packpede in passing, and set them both at the gentler slope. The animals gathered momentum, and the red dust rose in a cloud behind them, obliterating any view of their departure.
Davim remained where he was for a moment longer. The smile he directed after the travelling pede was brittle. "You are a worthy ally, my traitorous friend," he murmured, "and one day you will make an even worthier enemy. One day all the Quartern will be mine, and we will depend on rainlords and their filthy water magic no more."
Beneath his feet, the dune god growled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Breccia Hall, Level 2 "Mercy! Has he gone mad?"
Nealrith braced himself for the tirade that was sure to follow. His wife, Laisa, stared at him, her dark blue eyes wide with unfeigned shock. She had just freed her long blond hair from its combs and it tumbled over her shoulders in thick waves, but for once she appeared to be oblivious to the impact of her sensual beauty.
He took her question literally. "No, no, not that." He was tired. Too much had happened. Too many things over the previous ten days, all worthy of worry. He sat down on the bedroom stool and chose to look up at his wife as he listened. Dispassionately he wondered just how she was going to react to all he had just told her, once she was beyond the initial surprise.
She said, obviously irritated, "It was bad enough to know that sick old man was sending you caravanning off on a fool's journey with Iani, but now he would send me, too? To the most water-forsaken cracks in the world, looking for a new stormlord-this when we couldn't find one after years of searching the most likely places?"
"Yes. You and Taquar."
"His head must be stuffed with sand. He has gone crazy since someone stole his storm. Why me? Why Taquar?"
"He says he's come to the conclusion that we are all needed to protect the sensitives we may find there. He feels that this rogue rainlord who stole the cloud wants all the potential stormlords dead. That he may have killed before. Remember all those deaths before we were married, when Taquar almost died?"
"That's ridiculous! They were accidents, illnesses-"
"So we thought. But then someone stole Father's storm. And, it seems, later dumped it into a drywash in the Gibber Quarter. Father sensed that much. He suspects the thief must be either a Gibberman, or someone who lives there. It's another reason he wants us all there-to look for this man. Or woman."
"This gets more and more silly. It must be fifteen years since Lyneth disappeared. And even longer since the others died. And he thinks the same person is responsible? And a Gibber plains-grubber at that? Your father is going senile. What's to say the rogue who stole the cloud is not one of us?"
She started pacing, long hungry strides that ate up the floor space, forcing her to turn and start back the opposite way. Her silks-imported from across the Giving Sea-swished and shimmered, as intense and as beautiful as she herself. A concealed split up one side of the skirt allowed tantalising glimpses of a shapely calf and thigh.
She stopped pacing abruptly and considered him, head on one side. "Nealrith, could you do that? Seize a storm from him by force?"
He blinked, stupid with fatigue. "Of course not."