"Clean this place!" Volrath ordered. "How can you fix anything when there's so much blood in here?"
A freak thunderstorm rose from the evening seas beside Rishada. It formed misty hills and then massive mountains and then anvil-headed continents. At their heights, lightning argued like gods.
Fitful, hot winds crowded beneath the clouds. Ships shook in their moorings. Lines and stays moaned in dread. Rishadans packed up the last of their market goods and fastened shutters and rushed for the safety of cellars.
The storm was not intent on them, though. A tan wind came off the plains and tried to shove the storm back out to sea, but it was not intent on Saprazzo either. Like a huge black wolf, the front only gathered on its haunches and leaped over the wind, out onto the vast plains. High in the sky it went, bounding, sending down cyclones like clawed legs and hurling itself forward-toward Mercadia.
Like a wolf, it ran toward the city… Or like a vast, running river, leaping its starry banks.
It had been centuries since such a storm hit Mercadia. The dusty plains ate away most moisture before it could arrive, but this storm had a predatory instinct. It fell upon the city, blackening the already deep night. It flung down its drops in a trillion pounding fists. The few folk left in the streets ran as though from murdering brigands. Some even barred their doors, as though the rain might ram them open. White ghosts of mist danced through the streets. At their feet, water sank into every dry crevice and joined and mingled to wash away ancient dust. Soon, torrents followed the recursive roads, some streams spiraling endlessly back upon themselves, growing deeper and faster as liquid sought escape. Yellow and brown serpents of water ruled the street. They coiled and slithered, fusing into a vast and multi-limbed creature that gripped the whole city.
The tower at the center of the city was held tightest of all. Cyclones descended from the black heart of the storm to coil about the tower. Sand grit mixed with rain, scouring stone walls and bedeviling guards.
The storm was crudest to them. They had to stay out in it, at their posts. At first, they had thought their thick yellow riding cloaks would be proof against the drops, but fabric that kept out dust only greedily soaked up rain. Soon each cloak dragged like a fully loaded pack on the backs of the guards. Scarves protected faces from the slapping fingers of water but also channeled the stuff down necks and across spines and shoulder blades. Eyes squinted, near blind. Ears strained to pick orders from the shouting air. Mouths streamed. Throats shouted. Every patch of exposed flesh was pounded to numbness.
The guards outside Gerrard's tower prison were no exception. Indeed, the storm converged with a particular vengeance on that spot. They couldn't see farther than ten feet up or down the stairway. The guards in the corner towers were driven away from their windows.
All the while, Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn were warm and dry within.
"Who's the prisoners here?" shouted one guard to his comrade. Though the man stood just opposite him beside the triple doors to the cell, there was no hope of hearing. "I said, who's the prisoners here… them, or us?"
The other man only shook his head, mouth clamped grimly shut.
Soldiers approached from below. Yellow cloaks shouldered up the stairs. They were led by a half-collapsed parasol, a cringing Kyren beneath. A relief contingent? At least somebody was thinking of the soldiers out in this storm. Already, the relief troops were bedraggled. Their hair was plastered to their faces. Some looked dark with bruises, others pale with fear. Three of the guards were so young they seemed mere women within their voluminous riding cloaks. Another had a long scar on his cheek. The goblin ahead of them was the most pathetic of the lot, though. He seemed to have shrunk within his bedraggled robes, and his rain-lashed face looked pugnacious. As he approached, his worthless little parasol was ripped from his hands and carried away to smack a nearby rooftop.
The goblin was in a bad mood. He shouted something to the guard at the door. The guard leaned closer, cupping a hand. Again came the shout. "Aren't you sick of this?"
"Sick to hell, sir!"
"How 'bout if you stand down?"
"Love to, sir."
The guard motioned to his partner and headed down the stairs. Two of the relief soldiers took their posts. Eager to get out from under the hammering heavens, the guards descended to the street.
"Glad somebody thought of us."
"What?"
"It's unusual… somebody thinking of us…"
"What?"
Instead of responding, the guard glanced back up the tower, where the relief soldiers stood their posts. In the dim heart of the storm, a light shone, as though the door had opened to the prison cell. Perhaps the goblin had some word for the prisoners. Or perhaps this was an escape. Ha, that was a funny one. Who would leave a warm, dry cell to come out in this?
"We were the real prisoners," the guard shouted.
"I can't hear you!"
"Never mind." Already, the guard could think only of his warm, dry bed.
"Ain't you ready ta get outta here?" came a shout at the door. It swung open, and in came a drenched Squee.
Gerrard had been leaning next to the window. He came away from the wall and smiled, shaking his head. "You couldn't wait until after the storm?"
"We brought the storm," said a new voice-Orim. She strode into the room, her riding cloak streaming on the floor. At her side came a handsome olive-skinned man with coins braided through his hair. "Water magic. Cho-Arrim can bring rivers coursing over dry land and rivers coursing across the sky."
Gerrard strode toward the pair. He smiled happily, embracing Orim despite her dripping cloak. "I'm so glad you're safe. There were terrible rumors. Takara heard you'd been imprisoned, the Power Matrix stolen."
"All that did happen," Orim said. "I would still be imprisoned if it weren't for Cho-Manno."
Reverent eyed, Gerrard regarded the chief of the Cho-Arrim and extended his hand. "So, at last, we meet face-to-face. 1 have much to apologize for."
"The regrets of the past are many-too many. We cannot allow them to doom the future," Cho-Manno interrupted, taking Gerrard's hand.
"How did you get into the city?"
Cho-Manno gestured upward. "We can move in rivers and storms just as the Mercadians move in clouds of dust. Our skyscouts and wizards have mastered the warm air currents. This storm brought us and rained us down into abandoned streets. The rain fills the city with my folk." He nodded toward a scar-faced man who came in beside him.
"We will join the Ramosans and prepare an uprising."
"Great news!" Gerrard said.
"Not all great," interjected a new voice. "After all, the Mercadians do have the Power Matrix."
"Hanna!" Gerrard cried, wrapping her in a happy embrace. He kissed her, stopping only to stare into her eyes. "You can't imagine how much I've missed you."
"And I you." Hanna's face was beautiful despite the rain that dripped from her blonde hair. Her expression turned sad. "Even so, we'll be apart again soon, I fear. I must seek out Weatherlight and find out what they've done with the Power Matrix."
"I'll help you. It's my ship after all."
"No, you've got to go after the Bones of Ramos," said Sisay, behind. "I'll go along, and Tahngarth, and whatever fighters we can scrounge up from the ship's crew-Chamas, Tallakaster, Fewsteem…"
Hanna supplied the names of three others. "Dabis, Ilcaster, Takara."
Tahngarth rumbled, "I think we'll leave Takara out of this one."
"Hold on, everyone," Gerrard interjected, gripping the sides of his head. "What's all this about the Bones of Ramos?"