Shale went cold all over. He ran around the corner of the hut, to look in the other direction. More men and pedes were silhouetted against the skyline there, too. Below, the wash was full of moving shapes.
“Nowhere to run,” he said, coming back to Mica. “Got t’wait and see what they’re after.” He held Citrine tight, joggling her to keep her quiet. As more light poured across the plains, silhouettes sharpened into packpedes and myriapedes, riders became armed men, each with his lower face muffled, wrapped in the ends of a red head cloth. Each wore identical red robes without any adornment. There was nothing to show which tribe they were from or which dune.
“I’ll get Pa,” Mica whispered.
As Mica dived back into the hut, Shale saw one of the packpedes peel away from the waiting line and head their way. There were eighteen riders on its back, one to each segment. He wanted to run, to hide. Instead, he clutched Citrine still tighter. She squirmed and giggled, thinking it was a game, and then plucked at his fist. “Shalie,” she crowed, spotting the piece of jasper, “Shalie give!” He relinquished the gem to her. The packpede slid to a halt thirty paces away. No one moved.
Mica came back with their parents. One glance and Galen’s swearing faded, and Marisal reached to take Citrine back. They all knew there was nothing to be done. There was nowhere to hide on the plains and you couldn’t outrun a zigger. Shale surrendered his sister and slipped his water skin over his shoulder.
Out of the air there arose an unearthly sound, a bullroarer’s buzz that settled into a deep fluctuating whirr as whoever held it twirled it faster and faster. Another began to sound in the wash, and the message was taken up by a third and a fourth, then another so far away it must have been on the other side of the settle.
Shale shivered. It must have been a signal for the Reduners to move, because down in the drywash men rose out of hiding and raced towards the settle. Many clutched scimitars, others chala spears, and some lighted torches from smouldering tinder as they ran.
“Goin’ t’fire the thatch,” Galen said flatly.
Shale wondered how he knew.
As if in answer, Galen said, “My grandpa tole stories about nomad raiders. Back in the days when they took slaves. They’d light the thatch first, and when people ran into the streets…” He shrugged.
“They don’t take slaves no more,” Marisal said. She sounded more puzzled than frightened.
“Whadda they want, then?” Galen asked. He ducked back into the hut to fetch his skin of amber, then continued, “Whatever it is, we’re dead meat, Marisal. They may take the young’uns, but they won’t want us. And maybe they won’t want t’leave any to tell the tale.” He drank heavily and, ignoring Shale, offered the skin to Mica. “Here, drink. Better not t’know what’s comin’.”
Mica shook his head dumbly and slipped a hand into Shale’s.
The men on the myriapede in front of them, following an unseen signal, dismounted and ran to surround the huts. When Gissek the forager rushed out of his door to see what was happening, one of the Reduners casually speared him through the chest. Rushing out behind him, his wife tripped over his body and fell. The toddler she carried, the little girl everyone called Sooks, went sprawling. She took a deep breath as a prelude to a wail, and another Reduner stamped on her throat before any sound emerged.
“Oh, waterful mercy,” Marisal gasped, and clutched Citrine even closer.
“Don’t move,” Mica pleaded. He was shaking with fear and his voice wobbled. “Don’t move.”
Galen gave a sour smile and drank more amber. “That’s not goin’ t’make no difference.”
Another pede approached, this time one man on a myriapede. His glance swept over the group of people in front of the huts. Shale looked around, aware of his trembling but unable to stop it. All their neighbours were outside now, faces pale in the dawn light: Ore the stonebreaker and his family; Demel the widow and her two children; Topaz the scrubber; Parman the legless. They were all staring at Gissek and Sooks, so obviously dead. Gissek’s wife was sitting up, her shock so deep she wasn’t able to move.
The man on the myriapede looked them over and ordered, “No trouble!” His tone was hard. Uncaring. They didn’t need to be told he was in charge. And he didn’t need to threaten them further. He had a zigger cage tied to the segment handle. The creatures were agitated, their high-pitched humming frenzied. The Reduners who had dismounted had their spears levelled.
None of the settlefolk moved.
The man spoke to several of his men in their own tongue. As they scattered to enter the huts, he turned back to the settlefolk saying, “Men search. Even sand-ant hiding, we find. Then fire roofs.”
Marisal drew in a sharp breath; Galen dug her hard in the back. “Shut up, woman,” he growled.
Shale felt removed from what was going on around him. Remote. Being detached was the only way he could handle it; the only way he could stay silent. Stay
still
. He wanted so badly to run, yet knew he would die if he did.
They had a good view of the settle from where they were. Fires already flickered across the roofs of the houses. Although the stone and mud-daub walls would not burn, the roofs were another matter. There was no better fuel than bab fronds dried under a desert sun.
A while earlier, he had been about to look for fronds to burn.
Shit.
As the villagers fled their homes, Reduners cut them down in the streets. The whirr of the bullroarers finally ceased. The screams went on. He knew he would never forget the screams. Images burned into his memory. Iolite the seamstress on fire. Gamath the resiner decapitated as he tried to reason with one of the raiders. Rishan thrown alive into a burning house. A woman, he didn’t know who, raped on the back of a pede, then tossed to the ground like a sack of stones. Reeve Gravel being dragged through the street behind a pede.
It was then that Ore the stonebreaker went berserk. He picked up a heavy rock from the ground and leaped at the closest of the Reduners. His initial rush caught the man by surprise; his spear wavered and Ore slammed into him, battering him with the rock. The man went down, unconscious and bleeding heavily from the nose and eye. Ore’s arm went up and punched down twice more, even as the first of three or four spears thudded into his back.
Shale drew in a shuddering breath. Refused to think. Refused to ask himself why. The answers were all too terrible. And much too personal.
Beside him Mica stood, wide-eyed and shivering, Marisal pressed Citrine’s head into her shoulder so she wouldn’t see what was happening and Galen drank himself into unthinking numbness.
The Reduner leader sat for a while on his mount, watching what was happening down in the settle. Then he turned his beast and came back to where Shale and the others huddled together in front of their burning homes. He looked them all over and then homed in on Mica. “You,” he said. “Name?”
“M-mica Galen, pedeman.”
He switched his attention to Shale. “You?”
Shale’s mouth went dry. “Chert,” he said, giving the first name that popped into his head.
Fortunately the man was not looking at Mica, or he would have known Shale lied. He turned his attention to one of the younger boys in the group, Demel the widow’s eldest son. “You?” he asked.
“Crag, pedeman.”
“Crag, answer true, me not kill. Understand?”
No,
Shale thought, scuffing a toe in the dirt as if he wasn’t scared.
No. He’s not going to ask about me. He’s a Reduner. Reduners wouldn’t be looking for me.
The boy nodded, trembling. He was eight, and so frightened he’d wet himself.
“Who Shale Galen, Crag?”
Crag, trembling, pointed to Shale. “Th-that’s Shale, p-pedeman.”
The man gave a faint smile that scarified Shale with terror. “Babe?”
“Sh-sh-shale’s s-s-sister, pedeman. Citrine.”
The man turned to one of his followers. “Fanim?”
“
Veh, Pasirdam?
” Yes, Sandmaster? Shale understood enough Reduner to know that much.
The sandmaster jerked his head in Marisal’s direction. “We play game of chala.” He looked straight at Shale. “Davim hate liars.” He gathered in his reins and flicked his mount into wakefulness.
Shale tried to remember what chala was. A Reduner game. Chala spears. He had seen caravanners play it. They passed a ball from spear to spear. No, not a ball—they didn’t use a ball. An animal, that was it. They used an animal, alive to start with. A large horny lizard, perhaps, or a desert cat. Once it was dead, they continued to pass its carcass from one to the other. If you let the carcass fall, then you had to retire from the game. Until there was only one person left: the winner.
But he didn’t understand. Why play chala now?
The man called Fanim gave a broad grin. “
Veh, Pasirdam!
” With one swift movement he leaned forward, inserted the point of his spear into Citrine’s clothing and yanked her out of Marisal’s arms.
And Shale began to scream—not her name, but his own, over and over and over.
Scarpen Quarter
Scarcleft City
Level 32 and Level 10
“You can’t do this to me,” Vivie said flatly. “I won’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Don’t be stupid, of course I can. All I have to do is call for Garri.” She waved a hand in the direction of her door, as if the steward was waiting outside. “Or Madam Opal. Terelle, you are honour-bound to serve the snuggery. You
owe
Opal.”
“I didn’t
ask
to be here.”
“You’ve been glad enough to drink the water.”
“I wish I hadn’t told you now! I just didn’t want you worrying about me.”
“Waterless heavens! Terelle, are you out of your mind? You met a man down on the thirty-sixth—what were you doing down there anyway?—and on the strength of that one meeting, you want to live with him so he can teach you to
paint water
?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Have you any idea what Opal will say to me if you vanish? She will think I knew and didn’t tell her!” Even as she spoke, she paled. “What if she makes me pay off your debt as well as my own? Oh, mercy, of course that’s what she’ll do! Terelle, you
can’t
walk out!”
Terelle stayed stubbornly silent. Inside, her hopes leaked away. Why had she told Vivie this much? She should have just disappeared. Now she’d never be allowed out of the snuggery. They would watch her like chameleons hunting prey.
Use your head, Terelle. Get out of this.
“I never thought of that,” she said at last. “Of course, that’s exactly what Opal
would
do. Make you pay. Oh, Vivie, that would be awful.” She tried to look woebegone. Vivie was probably right, at that.
“You can’t do that to me,” Vivie reiterated.
And what about me?
Terelle asked silently, trying to push away the guilt. Aloud she said, eyes downcast, “I’m—I’m sorry. You’re right. That would be awful. I never thought of that.” She flushed, and hoped that Vivie wouldn’t realise it was because she was lying.
Vivie looked relieved. “You won’t go?”
Terelle slumped on the bed. “No. I guess not.”
“That’s all right, then. By all that’s holy, you had me worried, Terelle. I thought you’d taken leave of your senses! And over nothing, too. You’ll
like
working here once you start upstairs.”
Terelle looked at her curiously. “Do you, Vivie? Do you really
like
it?”
She shrugged. “Some of the men are nice. Some aren’t, but Opal never lets them hurt us. If Huckman gets your first-night, it may not be pleasant, but Opal will give you part of what she makes him pay. She’s very fair. Why do you let it bother you so, Terelle? If we were back in the Gibber, Father would have married us off by now, and we could both be stuck with men we hated for the rest of our lives! That would be far, far worse.”
“I’m sorry, Vivie. I guess I just didn’t think.”
Vivie smiled at her. “It’s not so bad, don’t worry. Here, look, I bought you a present in the bazaar.” Smiling, she handed over a small parcel wrapped in a melon leaf.
When Terelle unfolded the wrapping, she found a mirror with a carved pede-shell back. “It’s a ’Baster looking glass!” she said, astonished. They were much more expensive than the polished stone mirrors most people used. “It’s lovely,” she added, and meant it. “Thanks. I—I will treasure it.”
“Hey, it’s nothing. Run along now and help the servants with the preparations for tonight. I’ve got to dress. Hanri the trader said he was coming and I want him to choose me, so I’ve got to look especially nice.”
Terelle left, but she didn’t go downstairs. She went back to her own room, which she shared with several of the servants. As she expected, there was no one there. She took the waterpainting from under her bed, then gathered her spare set of working clothes and bundled them up with the painting and the mirror inside. She made sure that she had all her tokens safely in her coin pocket and took one last glance around the room. She had no regrets at leaving. The servants were all middle-aged; she had no close friends in the snuggery except for Vivie, and in the end they’d had nothing in common except a shared childhood, a vague sisterly affection and a father who had sold them.