Ethelva and Granthon exchanged glances.
"Doubtless it is just an update of the places in need of rain," Ethelva said, not believing her own words.
Granthon scanned it quickly and then started to translate it aloud for the benefit of Ethelva and the seneschal. "The representative of the Sandmaster of the Tribes of the Scarmaker bids the esteemed Cloudmaster of Quartern greetings and may his water be plentiful, with-"
"Yes, yes," Ethelva said. "Let's dispense with the flowery bits."
"Then there's nothing much else. He wants me to grace his encampment, being reluctant to cause me any discomposure by venturing to Breccia Hall, and so on, and so on." He gave a cynical laugh. "They care little for my discomposure, of course; they just hate to enter anything with solid walls and a roof."
"Oh, my dear," Ethelva said in concern, "for you to go all that way, when you have to sit through the religious ceremonies this evening-"
"I am not decrepit yet," he said mildly. He turned to Mikad. "Have a pede and driver made ready for me, with a chair saddle. I'll take ten men from the guard. In the meantime, send water to the Reduner camp. One dayjar for each man and beast. Do that every day they are our guests."
The seneschal bowed and retreated.
Ethelva looked at her husband in concern. "You didn't even ask how many of them there were before ordering the water! Granthon, we cannot spare-"
"Hush, Ethelva. Apart from our duty as hosts, we can ill afford to offend them now. I have been short-sending their storms for several years. They will have no reserves. All their waterholes will be operating at the bare minimum."
"Was that… wise?"
"Wise?" He snorted. "Wise to cut the allotment of a volatile quadrant of nomads who live just to the north of us, all well armed with ziggers, scimitars and spears, warriors renowned for their ferocity, mounted on the best pedes in the Quartern?" Troubled, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. "So far they have enough, but the cuts will have worried them."
He closed his eyes briefly. "It will be an awkward meeting at best. Fortunately for me it is the Scarmakers who have come and not that young hothead Davim from Dune Watergatherer. That lot would feed my eyeballs to their ziggers as an appetiser." He levered himself to his feet.
Ethelva rose immediately as well. "I wish one of the rainlords was available to accompany you."
He looked at her in affection. "I am hardly in danger from these men. And I am not defenceless, either. Not yet. I feel sure I can still take a man's water."
"I'll see that your clothes are laid out." She walked out without waiting for him, knowing he would bless her for it. He hated her to see just how slow he was nowadays. How old. There was a strong smell in the nomad tent.
It wasn't that the Reduners never washed-they did in fact, often, because they liked to swim and had no qualms about doing so in the same waterhole that supplied their drinking water. The smell was exuded not by people but by the ziggers in their cages.
Granthon had long since had them banned from Breccia City. If he'd had his way, they would have been banned throughout the Quartern, but the Reduners regarded them as part of their heritage and would never have countenanced limitations on what they called their ancestral right to own and travel with ziggers. They had a point. As a hunting people, they might have starved without the use of their traditional hunting weapon.
Some cities of the Scarpen Quarter allowed ziggers to be carried for protection or used for hunting for sport, even though the number of citizens who died as a consequence of zigger accidents was, to Granthon, astonishingly high. They also fell into the hands of criminals from time to time, and then there would be a spate of robberies where victims were threatened or killed by zigger-carrying bandits.
The smell of them in the tent was strong but not all that unpleasant, except that it reminded Granthon of his reluctance to impose his will on the Red Quarter.
He avoided looking at the cages and glanced around the tent. The man who came forward to greet him he knew: Tribemaster Bejanim, who carried the title Drover Son with the honorific Kher, because he was responsible for Dune Scarmaker's pedes. He was also the younger brother of the Scarmaker sandmaster and he spoke the language of the Quartern fluently. Granthon was pleased to see him and acknowledged his gesture of salutation before turning his attention to the rest of the tent. The usual mats and cushions: basic colour, red. Refreshments laid out. Four other tribemasters (he knew them all). At least they were still smiling. As he returned their greetings and spoke the usual Reduner set phrases of hospitality, he reflected that Nealrith wasn't the only one who was too weak to rule the Quartern; he himself had displayed weakness and a deeply rooted disinclination to do anything that would result in confrontation. He should have banned ziggers from the Scarpen Quarter at the very least.
With the formalities finally out of the way, including the ritual offering and acceptance of water, Granthon turned to the reason that the Reduners had crossed the Warthago Range and the Sweepings to come to Breccia. "Well, Kher Bejanim, old friend," he said, "what is it that causes you to honour my city with your presence?" He stirred uneasily. His joints did not take kindly to sitting cross-legged on a carpet. I'm too old for this, he thought.
"Not a happy ride, m'lord. Our waterholes are little more than mud wallows. My brother, the Sandmaster, wishes to remind you of the ancient handclasp between the people of the Red Quarter and the stormlords of the Quartern. He says to inform you that the tribes of the Red Quarter have kept their clasp tight."
"Indeed they have. They are an honourable people." A lie, that. The Reduners were renowned more for their breaking of promises than for the honouring of them. However, Granthon was well aware of the terms of this particular agreement-the scribes of Breccia Hall had written it down even if the Reduners had not-and it was true that the Red Quarter had followed most of its clauses. They'd promised not to raid the other quarters as they had done with terrifying ruthlessness for generations. They'd acknowledged the cloudmaster as the head of all the Quartern with certain rights to taxes and privileges. In return, they'd received regular rain at places specified by the Reduners themselves.
Granthon added smoothly, "We, too, have followed the agreement."
Kher Bejanim's red face flushed still deeper in colour. "Not so. Our water is too little."
"We promised regular rain in sufficient quantities. We have done that. You do not thirst."
"No, not yet," Bejanim admitted. "But if the next storm around my dune's main waterhole was but a week or two late, the result would be unthinkable."
"Kher Bejanim, I'll not lie to you. I cannot maintain previous levels of rainfall, not when I have to do it alone. The reduced levels will continue until such time as another stormlord is found. This is not negotiable. I do not have the strength for it to be any other way. My reduced storms are still more dependable than rain based on the vagaries of nature. Believe me, you do not want a return of the Time of Random Rain."
The four men were silent and motionless.
"This is not good news," Bejanim said finally. "It grieves us."
Granthon found he had to suppress an involuntary shudder at the flint he heard in Bejanim's tone. He said quickly, "Even as we speak, our rainlords scour the Gibber for new blood to restore our ranks. We have every confidence of success."
"Cloudmaster, I hope you're right." More levels of meaning there, stacked one on the next. Bejanim gave a fleeting glance at the man next to him before continuing. "You've been honest with us; I'll be honest with you. We older tribesmen, those of us from dunes that follow the traditions closely, are losing control of some of the younger pede hunters and drovers on other dunes. They are angered by the diminishing rain. They blame you city dwellers. They speak of returning to the old ways."