The petty meanness of his statement left her furious. Trouble was, it was true. She needed him, and because of that, he could do what he pleased. She fell asleep that night thinking that her future was still a place where freedom was an illusion. All she had done was exchange a decorative cage for another, plainer one.
Several hours later she woke, aware she was alone in the room. She raised herself on one elbow, not knowing what had awoken her. The door was open a crack and the sliver of light that squeezed through told her someone had lit an oil lamp in the communal hallway that ran past all the upstairs rooms. Broad and airy, it overlooked the road through a series of archways. Terelle and Russet prepared their paints there, Lilva the madam sat there when her daughter or her son brought home clients to their room, Cilla did her weaving, Rhea sewed the beadwork she sold uplevel.
Terelle peeped around the curtain to look at Russet’s sleeping pallet. It was empty. She padded to the door and put her eye to the crack. He was painting by the light of a lamp, totally absorbed in what he was doing. She stood, watching him, baffled. In the dim light, she could not make out the subject matter, and in the end she returned to her bedding knowing only that this must be a painting he wanted to keep secret.
When she finally went back to sleep, she had a nightmare in which Huckman and Russet were inextricably blended into a single menacing customer of Opal’s snuggery. He was demanding that Terelle be made to paint her own first-night in graphic detail. She was protesting, her terror absolute, her heart beating wildly—and then it was morning.
Scarpen Quarter
Warthago Range
Scarcleft mother cistern
Shale slept most of the day and woke in the late afternoon with the memory of turbulent dreams in which Mica was killed, over and over again. And then came his memory of the reality, worse because it was true.
Citrine.
He touched his chest, expecting to feel again the stickiness of her blood. And woke more fully when his hand encountered the unfamiliarity of his clothes.
The clothes felt odd. Soft and fine. And the bed was too soft; he was used to a gunny sack stuffed with dried grass on the earthen floor. He ran a hand over his shaved head. He wasn’t used to that, either.
When Taquar turned his head and saw Shale was awake, he said, “Well, get up, lad. The day’s almost over, but there are still things to be done.”
Shale obeyed wordlessly.
“Come, I want you to clean the pede.” He showed Shale where the brushes and cleaning picks were kept and Shale set to willingly. While working, it was easier not to think.
Taquar inspected the beast afterwards and nodded his approval. “Now let me see you cup blood for the ziggers.”
Still silent, Shale set about the task. The metal cup Taquar gave him had a grooved lip with a sharpened edge, and it was just a matter of forcing the edge into the skin between two of the segments of the pede and waiting for the cup to fill. The pede didn’t stir. The blood was such a deep red it appeared black; as it flowed out, the ziggers began to throw themselves against the bars of their cage. Shale grimaced.
“That’s enough,” Taquar said as the blood rose towards the brim. “Withdraw the lip… Good. The cut seals itself; that’s it. Use a different segment each time.” He indicated the cage of ziggers. “Never underestimate the danger of a zigger. If you release one, someone is going to die. Always. Make a mistake, and it could be you.”
Shale nodded. He knew that much already.
“As you can see, the cage is divided into two, and all the ziggers are in one side. You open it at the empty end, slide in the cup, close the door.” He waited until Shale had followed these instructions and then continued, “Now pull out the divider between the two sides of the cage.” Shale had done all this before, but he was still careful. The ziggers, frenzied, flew straight to the cup, inserted their sharp mouth tubes into the blood and began to drink. When they flew, their hind gauzy wings shimmered in rainbow colours like oil on water.
“Beautiful, but deadly,” Taquar murmured, echoing his thoughts. “At rest, or when a zigger tears its way into flesh, those delicate wings are sealed tight under the hard cover of the forewings. You can close the divider again now. There’s an empty cup in the vacant section—take it out and wash it, ready for the next meal. You must always keep one end empty. You must always check that the doors on both ends are securely latched before you touch the cage at all. Understand me?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Feed them twice a day.”
“Don’t like ziggers,” Shale said, the words spilling out without thought.
“What you like is irrelevant, but they do have a purpose. It is dangerous for a man to ride the Quartern alone without them. I do not expect to have to use them; merely having them is enough to keep me safe. I can use water-powers instead, of course, but that can be tiring.”
“Why don’t ziggers attack their owners?”
“They never attack the man who feeds them. That’s why I want you to do this, so you’ll be safe. They are also trained not to attack men who wear the same perfume I do. That way I keep my guards safe—I give them the scent especially concocted by my perfumer for me. Most zigger owners do that. Once a zigger is released from a zigtube, it flies straight to feed on the nearest person who smells different.
“Now come and have your supper. I wish to talk to you.”
Supper was bread, bab fruit and nut cakes made from bab kernels. As Taquar cleared the table to lay out the food, he asked, “I presume you cannot read?”
Shale shook his head. “Nobody in Wash Drybone Settle knows ’bout reading. I know what it
is
, but,” he added with a hint of pride. “A ’Baster caravanner showed me a board-book once. I can figure and write m’figures too. Gravel taught us that. I’m real good at it. He reckoned we all ought t’do figuring, if we was goin’ buy and sell to the caravanners. Gravel’s the reeve.”
Was
the reeve. He’d died being dragged behind a pede.
“Good. That’s something.” Taquar poured himself some amber from a calabash and offered Shale water. He sat down and gestured to the chair opposite. “I want to tell you a story, Shale. To explain your place in the world.”
He broke the round of bread and gave Shale half. “The present Cloudmaster is a man called Granthon Almandine. He lives in Breccia, which is a city in the Scarpen Quarter. His house is as large as the whole of Wash Drybone Settle. His son, Nealrith Almandine, is the highlord. A highlord rules a city. I am a highlord because I rule Scarcleft. Granthon is the Cloudmaster and the most powerful ruler in the Quartern, but it is Nealrith who rules Breccia City. Are you following?”
Shale nodded.
Taquar continued, “Nealrith and I were friends when we were boys.” He took a deep breath, as if he didn’t want to go on, and then said, “Back then, it was Nealrith’s grandfather who was the Cloudmaster. I was just a lowleveller from a crumbling city in the west called Breakaway. My mother was from a Gibber family. Fortunately, when I was about five, I was identified as a water sensitive, and I went to Breccia to be trained.
“One day, when Nealrith and I were both about fifteen or so, I went into the desert on what was to be an eight-day training trip with two other rainlords of about my own age.
“We were all possible stormlords and were young enough to think ourselves invulnerable. We were not, of course. We had food for the pedes with us, but it was poisoned, or so I now believe. The animals died when we were miles from anywhere. We had to walk, carrying as much water as we could. The two other boys insisted on walking the wrong way. They followed the smell of the larger, more distant source of water, when they should have sought the closer, smaller one. I nearly died myself, and only survived because I went in the right direction.
“My water skills were better, you see, but I couldn’t convince the other two to come with me.” He took a deep draught of amber. “Nealrith publicly blamed me for what happened. I blamed myself; I didn’t need my closest friend to turn on me like that. I came to the conclusion that he was riven through with jealousy, but I still thought he had the best interest of the Quartern at heart. Until now.”
Shale shivered. There was something grimly intent about Taquar.
“At the time, though, I suspected several other young rainlords, including Laisa, now Nealrith’s wife, of being responsible for the poisoning of the pedes. I never, ever thought it was Nealrith. Later, there were several other deaths that were odd. One was particularly sad: a young girl called Lyneth, daughter of one of the rainlords who rode with us to Wash Drybone Settle. Perhaps you saw him. The man with the limp.” He paused a moment.
Shale hazarded a guess. “You think someone was tryin’ to snuff out rainlords?”
“Snuff out?” he asked, his contempt for the expression obvious. “Kill them, yes. At least, kill the ones who might one day be stormlords.”
“What—what’s the difference ’tween a rainlord and a stormlord?”
Taquar shook his head in wonderment. “Holy Watergiver, I can hardly believe there exist places as backward as Wash Drybone! Don’t you know
anything
?” He evidently did not expect an answer, because he continued, “A reeve—at least in any place that counts—is someone who can sense water, its movement and shape, but not move it. A rainlord is a water sensitive who can both sense and move water. Not huge amounts, and not over very long distances. A stormlord goes one step further. He can move bodies of water longer distances than a mere rainlord. He recognises people by their water. Best of all, he can create storm clouds, move them, then break them open to release the rain they contain.”
“It’s true then? A
person
brings the water to us? Not a god?”
“A stormlord keeps us alive, Shale. He makes freshwater clouds from salt water and sends rain to places where it can make its way to our wells or waterholes. Usually there are many stormlords, and the task is not that difficult. At the moment we have only one: Cloudmaster Granthon. If he dies, everyone—or most of us—will die, from Wash Drybone to Breccia to the Red Quarter to the salt quarries of the Whiteout.”
“Then no one would ever wanna hurt such a person,” Shale said sensibly. “He’d be too important.”
“Want to.”
“What?”
Taquar frowned. “Speak properly. Want to, not wanna.”
Shale blinked. “I don’t speak proper?”
“You surely do not. Copy me in the future. Speak proper
ly
.”
Shale tensed. This was getting more and more difficult by the moment.
Taquar leaned forward, fixing Shale’s gaze with his own. “To continue: I think that there is a person, or people, who want there to be no stormlords. Possibly because rain will then be random, and if rain is random, the people who will be in most demand are those who can sense and find water. Someone who is not a stormlord, can never be a stormlord, but wants the power to rule the Quartern anyway. A rogue rainlord. At least, that’s one possibility.”
It sounded mad to Shale, but he nodded anyway and avoided Taquar’s gaze by helping himself to a kernel cake.
“All of which brings me to you, boy. And why you weren’t killed.”
Shale refused to cringe. He lowered the cake so that he could concentrate.
“Cloudmaster Granthon sent us to the Gibber Quarter searching for water sensitives. Against all expectations, we found many. Six of the older ones may possibly be good enough to be rainlords. I started to worry. What if they, too, died young? What if there was another rash of mysterious accidents? I did not know who to trust with my unease. They travelled with us—four boys and two girls—and we taught them as we journeyed. I protected them as best I could, but I worried.
“That was why, when I found you, I decided not to tell the other rainlords, except one. The one I most trusted. The one I thought would never be so indifferent to the wellbeing of the Quartern that he would want to prevent us obtaining a stormlord to follow his father.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know whether Nealrith betrayed us, Shale. Or whether he told his wife, Laisa, or one of his friends—Kaneth maybe—and they betrayed us. I
did
tell him not to tell anyone. Anyway, whether the guilt is wholly his or not, whether he is a murderous madman or just a credulous instrument in the hands of his wife or advisors—whatever happened, the result was tragic for you and your settle.”
Shale, meal now forgotten, sat rooted. Cold. “Don’t unnerstand,” he said at last. “What’s this to do with Reduners? It weren’t no rainlord who led those men to our settle! They was
Reduners
, and they was looking for me. They knew me name!”
“Yes. I believe our rogue rainlord has an ally among the dune tribes. I think he asked the sandmaster of that tribe—his name is Davim—to capture you and to hide your capture by killing the adults. What the sandmaster did with the young was up to him, and he chose to kill the babes and seize the older children as slaves or converts to their way of life.”
Shale was unable to speak. It was
true
. It was because of
him
. Citrine. Pa, Ma, Rishan—almost every adult he had ever known in his life—were
dead
. Mica and the other children taken. Because of him. He saw the picture in his head again, the image he wanted desperately never to see again: Citrine tossed into the air, too shocked to scream at first, turning, oh-so slowly. The sandmaster on his pede, manipulating the reins, whirling his steed. The beast rearing up, a magnificent beautiful animal, burnished red-on-black in the rays of the rising sun, great black shadow cast across the plains like a monster out of nightmares; Davim holding his seat, extending his spear in a fluid movement of grace, the ululation of triumph ripping from him, catching Citrine’s robe on his spear…