“That’s new,” Kaneth said at her elbow. He sounded upset, and she knew he was glad to find a neutral topic of conversation. “There used to be a picture of the clouds over Warthago Range, which was more appropriate for a cloudmaster’s villa, I would have thought. This looks too, um, too personal. Although I’m damned if I know where it is. I’ve never seen a range like that one.”
“I don’t like it,” she said, shuddering, not sure if it was the painting or the Cloudmaster’s anger or the commitment she had been obliged to make that was making her so fearful. “In fact, I don’t like waterpaintings.”
“Why not?”
“They are too powerful. They…
dominate
the room they occupy. And you are right. This one is too personal. That has to be a real portrait of someone. And she looks…” She searched for the right word. “She looks
haunted
.”
He glanced down at the painting again. “No, not haunted. Hunted. She looks hunted.” He turned back to Ryka. “And I don’t know why we are talking about a damned painting when we should be talking about what we are going to do.”
She didn’t look at him, but started on her way down the stairs. “There’s nothing to talk about. We have to go through with it.” She strove to sound cool, insouciant. “All we have to do is decide what we opt for: marriage or just a liaison.”
“Marriage,” he said.
She waved a careless hand, trying not to read anything into the choice. “As you wish.”
Inside she wanted to weep.
Gibber Quarter
Wash Drybone Settle
Shale kept his promise to Taquar.
He told no one he had been tested and had passed the test. He even explained away all he had previously said to Mica. “I was making that up ’bout knowing which bowls had water in them,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known, no way. I
did
know the rush was comin’ down the wash that time—I saw the grey things in the sky, that’s all. Clouds. Anyone could tell the rush would come down after that.”
Mica looked relieved, willing enough to believe the lie in place of the more inconceivable truth. “I’m glad there’s not somethin’ funny ’bout you. I was worried ’bout what Pa said. ’Bout the rainlords not liking anyone to meddle in their business.”
“Yeah,” said Shale. “Me, too.”
In his heart, though, Shale wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, lying to Mica. The oddities of the conversation with Taquar had soon come to haunt him. First the rainlord had said a water sensitive was valuable and that Shale was in no danger, then he’d said water sensitives had been snuffed. First he had said no one in the rainlords’ caravan would harm him, then he had told Shale it would be dangerous to tell any of the rainlords that he was a water sensitive.
The inconsistencies worried him, but by then the caravan had gone, leaving nothing except the unreality of the memory. He could not even ask anyone in the settle about just what a stormlord was, because no one knew. When a small Reduner caravan passed through a couple of weeks later, collecting the settle’s resin, he asked several of the servants about stormlords, but the answers were unsatisfactory. “A Scarperman,” he was told. “The sandmaster of the Scarpermen,” another added. “The stormlord breaks the clouds to bring rain to the waterholes.” But none of them had ever seen a stormlord, although they had all seen it rain.
Shale couldn’t make sense of it. If a stormlord was a Scarperman or a sandmaster or powerful enough to bring rain—well, Shale was sure he was none of those things. Just knowing about water was a far cry from breaking clouds to make water fall from the sky. He continued to mull over the question, keeping his uncertainties to himself.
In the meantime, life went on. His caution stopped him from trying to sell the jasper to any of the caravanners or telling his father about it. He had a feeling he might need the tokens it would fetch at some future date. For now, he continued to wander the plains collecting resin.
Mica worked in the bab groves or the clay pit or the stone quarry, wherever there was casual work to be done that would earn them a few tokens to buy water and food. Marisal sold her embroidery—and perhaps her services as well—directly to the caravans, and then lied to her husband about how much she was paid. Galen did little except drink away as much of their earnings as he could.
But Shale had gained something from Rainlord Taquar’s visit: hope. For the first time in his life he had a vision for the future that didn’t include his father, or being scared of him. He had a confidence he’d never possessed before. He no longer cringed before Galen. If he could, he simply walked away; if he couldn’t, he stood his ground. Galen’s eyes would flash with anger, but he no longer beat his son. Nor did he again broach the idea of prostituting him for money. The idea was dropped as if it had never been suggested.
Patiently, Shale waited for the day when Taquar would return.
Life seemed better than ever before.
One morning early in the next star cycle, about a hundred days after the Scarpen rainlords’ visit, a kick to Shale’s ribs woke him from a troubled dream. He rolled over, aware only of a feeling of terrible wrongness. His head ached with the oppression of it.
“We’re outta fronds to burn. Go get some from the grove.” His father’s voice, still thick with the results of a drinking bout the night before. Dawnbreak had not yet come, and Galen had lit a rush light. Shale knew what he was supposed to do: sneak down to the palm grove and steal some of the fallen fronds under the trees. Anything that fell from the tree was the property of the tree owner, and such fronds were valuable as fuel or roofing thatch or for the weaving of mats.
Shale could filch fruit from a garden orchard before the sandgrouse alerted the household, or shin up a palm tree and pinch the bab fruit from the back of the bunch without the owner ever realising it had been pilfered, or relieve settlefolk of their property in a hundred similar ways. But he didn’t
like
doing it. It made him feel dirty inside. How could he feel right about stealing, say, from Rishan the palmier, when it was Rishan who occasionally gave him the leftovers from his kitchen or a few extra eggs from his sandgrouse?
He staggered out of bed rubbing the sleep from his eyes, unable to say why he felt so rotten. So heavy-headed, so suffocated. That feeling of something botched was back. He glanced over at Mica, still curled up asleep, and contemplated waking him, but a fierce look from his father sent him stumbling straight out into the morning cold. His breath made clouds in the air and he regretted not having picked up his blanket on the way out. He thought about returning to get it, but the memory of the anger in his father’s voice banished that idea, so he plucked the empty burlap sack from where it hung on the outer wall to put around his shoulders in its place. As he headed for the edge of the wash, he decided he must be sickening with something.
The watercourse was black with night, the sun still hidden below the desert rim. A touch of colour tingeing the horizon indicated that dawn was on its way, but the bab palms were just indeterminate shapes barely rising to the level of the bank. It was too dark down there to be able to see anything.
Yet it was all wrong. His awareness of water was telling him things that didn’t make sense.
He stood on the lip of the wash, knowing his world had been changed while he slept. There was water everywhere. The beginnings of panic finally snapped his eyes wide, tensed his muscles ready for flight, banished sleepiness.
He forced himself to concentrate, and the details came into focus. Too much water. Surrounding him. Surrounding the settle. Once he concentrated on the pieces instead of the whole, he was able to put a name to what was happening.
People.
Not water by itself, but water inside people.
Everywhere.
The settle was surrounded by people and pedes, too many to count. Far more people than had ever visited Wash Drybone at any one time before, far more pedes than Shale had known could ever be gathered together in one place. The reality of it hit as hard as his father’s fist in the stomach. This was all wrong. Caravans didn’t sneak up in the pre-dawn and come on the settle from all sides. And caravan folk didn’t sneak along the wash, either.
Vague tales of nomad raids and rumours about recent water thefts in some of the settles coursed through his mind, even though common sense told him that nomads raided cargo-rich caravans or gem-rich wash towns, not water-poor settles. Not Wash Drybone Settle.
His second thought grew with his fear:
it can’t be because of me… can it? I didn’t tell anyone, Lord Taquar!
He shuddered and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t that important. That no one surrounds a settle with tens and tens of people just to kill one boy. And yet his fear scudded into terror.
He was outlined against a sky that was getting lighter by the moment. He abandoned the sack and dropped down into the wash, where it was darker. He doubled over as he ran into the shelter of the grove. When he sensed strangers among the trees, he gave them a wide berth and dropped down still further, this time into an empty slot. He pelted up the narrow stone drain, his bare feet skidding on the sifting of sand that covered the stonework.
When he reached the grove’s holding cistern, he climbed out and ran into the settle street. Arms pumping, he pounded upward to the top house in the settle: Rishan’s. He desperately needed to pass on the problem to someone who would know what to do. Luckily no one in the settle ever barred their gates, so he was able to enter the garden and bang on the house door, yelling at the same time.
Rishan himself came to answer, bare-chested and yawning, his wife behind him uncovering the coals in the fireplace to light the candle she carried, his two sons hanging back, stupid with sleep. “
Shale
? What is it? What’s the matter, lad? Your pa hasn’t gone killed your ma, has he?”
“Somethin’s botched, Palmier Rishan. There’s folk all round the settle. More than I can count—they’re sneakin’ up through the wash, an’ ’cross the plains!”
The two boys woke up properly at that and came up behind their father, full of questions. Rishan ignored them and took the lighted candle from his wife. “Is it a caravan, lad?”
Shale shook his head vigorously. “Too many folk. Tens ’n’ tens of pedes. As many men as settlefolk. No—more. I’m scared, palmier.”
“You saw them?”
He thought of explaining—and opted for an easier lie. “Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“Dunno. Too dark t’tell.”
Rishan didn’t move. He was holding the candle high, as if to study Shale’s face, but his eyes had gone blank.
Shale was panicking. Why didn’t Rishan
do
something? He began to hop up and down, unable to contain his agitation. He needed to get back home. He had to warn them. “I got t’go—” he began.
Rishan came alive and turned to his sons. “Warn everyone, quickly.
Run!
” His face was dead white.
Shale fled. As he ran down the street, he could hear Rishan and his sons beginning to pound on doors to wake their neighbours. He himself went straight back home, flung himself into the hut, shouting, not even sure what he was saying between his gasps for air. He was aware, horribly aware, of the people out there, all around him, closing in on the settle, getting closer. Waiting for the sun to come up, to do whatever it was they were going to do. He tried to explain to them all, to Mica, raising his tousled head from the filth of the blankets, to Galen who had gone back to his sodden sleep after Shale had left the hut, to his mother who just looked at him blankly, with no alarm or interest.
“What’s it matter?” she asked. Citrine had woken screaming and she pushed the child at him. “You woke her with your noise, you can shut her up.”
“Don’t you unnerstand? Those folk out there, whatever they want ain’t good! They’re sneakin’ up on us like marauders—”
Galen propped himself up on one elbow. “So? What you reckon they goin’ t’steal from us, boy? Half a jar of water? Fuel to light the cooking fire? Where’s your sense? You got sand for brains? Let ’em come!” He flopped back onto the bed and turned his back.
Shale, Citrine in his arms, gave Mica a despairing look. “Please,” he said. “Please.”
To Shale’s relief, Mica didn’t question him. He nodded and grabbed two water skins from where they hung on the wall and went to fill them from the dayjar. In the Gibber Quarter, no matter what you did, you thought of water first. Shale hurriedly unearthed his piece of bloodstone from where he had buried it under his sleeping sack.
“We’ll hide in the wash,” Mica muttered.
Shale was already pushing his way through the sacking of the door, trying to hush Citrine’s cries. She was calming and her screams became a few muffled sobs. He ran out, looking around, wanting to assess which way to go, which way was free of people.
And stopped dead.
In the few moments he had been inside, the sun had sent its first rays racing over the land. The shadows were long fingers stretching across the purple of the plains: shadows of men on pedes, each rider with his chala spear in his hand and his long-handled curved scimitar at his waist.
“I’ll be bleeding withered,” Shale whispered.
“Reduners,” Mica said, expelling the breath he had been holding, as if he didn’t know whether to be frightened or just puzzled. “Never seen so many. What could they
want
?”