by Glenda Larke
“I dunno. They wasn’t goin’ t’tell me what they’s doin’ here, was they? Just said it was a test, and there was nothin’ to be afraid of. They seemed all right.”
Shale sat down on the bedding and put his head down on his arms. “I’m frit, Mica. One of those men saw me. He’ll remember and know that I didn’t come for the testin’.”
“Then go. Go down there an’ tell ’em you don’t know what bowls have water in ’em.” He looked curiously at Shale. “After all, you wouldn’t know, would you?”
Shale was silent.
Mica clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, pedeshit. You would know.”
Shale nodded miserably. “Yeah. Don’t know how, but I’d know.”
Mica floundered, unable to give advice because neither of them had any way of guessing what the reaction of the strangers would be. “I—I’ve gotta go,” he said at last. “I’m supposed to be helpin’ to gather feed for their pedes. If I’m not there, Pa’ll be mad.”
“That fellow on the pede that I met—you don’t mess with the likes of him, not if you want t’keep a zigger out of your ear. Mica, I’m scared.”
Mica bit his lip, hesitating. “Then you’d better hide. Get off into the Gibber. Take my water skin, an’ y’own. Come back in a day or two when them lords have scarpered.” He dug into the pocket of his smock. “Here, I got some palm fruit. That’ll stop you gettin’ too hungry. And I’ll explain to Pa.”
“Yeah, I think that’s best.” He took the food and Mica’s water skin and went to fill it at the family jar Rishan the palmier had given them to replace the one they had lost in the flood. Now that he had made a decision, he was already feeling better.
“I’m off then,” Mica said awkwardly. “See you in a day or two.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mica.” He lifted a hand in farewell and Mica grinned and was gone.
Shale took a deep breath and looked around. He would need something warm for the nights, so he rolled up his sleeping sack and stuffed the full water skins into the middle of the bundle. He grabbed an empty sack; he might as well look for some more resin while he was out on the plains.
That night he lay awake for several turns of a sandglass, watching the stars. Even with the sleeping sack and the hollow he had made in some sandy soil, the cold of the sunless plains chilled him to the bone. His nose felt as cold as the dew riming on the plants around him. He listened to the sounds of the night: the soft scrabbling of scorpions and centipedes, the squeak of a pebblemouse, the far-off booming of a night-parrot. Nearby, an ant sipper trundled past, snuffling its long nose under the pebbles in search of food.
He drowsed, then slipped into a deeper sleep.
And woke when something sharp dug into his side, not once but several times.
He sat up in a hurry, shocked to realise someone was standing at his side, poking him with a foot.
“Going somewhere?”
Although the figure that addressed him was no more than a silhouette, he knew the shape of the water. He knew the voice. His mouth dried up and he couldn’t have answered even if he had tried. Highlord Taquar.
The man squatted down, dumping a large basket beside him. Behind, a pede settled down to wait, its antennae scenting the air. Ziggers hummed in their cage tied to one of the saddle handles.
“I’m curious about you, Shale,” the highlord said. “I’m wondering why you are so frightened of us. I am wondering if it is because you sense water, and you think that might make us angry.”
Shale stared at him, mesmerised. His heart was pounding in his chest hard enough to hurt. “How—how did you know I were here?” he asked. How could the man have found him in the dark in the middle of the Gibber?
“I can feel you. I can feel your water. Just as I felt you the evening we arrived, hunkered down among the rocks of the drywash. Just as I knew there was someone up there alone in those huts when everyone else came down to the tent to be tested. And I wondered why that would be. Especially when I never saw the resin-hunter Shale down there at our tent. So maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me why you didn’t come?”
Shale wished he could see the man’s face properly. Darkness obscured his features and blurred his outline, so it was hard to be sure if he was threatening or not.
Lies raced through his head: he’d been out resin collecting, he hadn’t known he was supposed to go to the tent—but every single untruth died on his lips. Something told him that not one of them would be believed. “I was frit,” he said at last.
“Frightened? Of us?”
He nodded. In fact, he was beyond terror, just wanting it all to be over, whatever “it” might be. There could be nothing worse than the fear he already knew. “Pa said that you lords’d be angry if anyone meddles in water business. That you’d kill me.”
The highlord looked at him in disbelief. Then he shook his head in wonderment. A chuckle started in his throat and grew to a full-bodied laugh. Shale’s unease increased. What was so funny?
When he finally had control of himself once more, Taquar said, “Lad, lad, if only you knew. A water-sensitive youth of your age is worth more than all the precious stones in the Quartern. Even your piece of bloodstone jasper is nothing to us. Nothing. No one in this caravan would harm a hair of such a boy’s head. Kill you? You would be treated better than the Cloudmaster’s granddaughter.”
He was suddenly serious again. He put his hands on Shale’s shoulders, holding tight as he tried to flinch away. “Now, you listen to me. Someone who can sense water, who can tell when people are coming because he senses the water within them, that person is called a water sensitive. There are differing degrees of water sensitivity. Some people have a lot, like me. Some have none at all, like the others in this settle, including your idiot reeve, who should never carry that title at all. And some have even more than me, enough to be a stormlord. We are here to find new rainlords, and perhaps even a new stormlord. Do you understand so far?”
“I—I think so. But them other rainlords—they didn’t know I was hidin’ in the wash. They rode on by.”
Taquar gave a dismissive grunt of contempt. “They don’t listen to their senses. Not the way I do. They weren’t paying attention, so the feel of water from your settle overwhelmed that of one small lad in the drywash. What about you, Shale? I bet you do the same thing sometimes. Do you sometimes feel too much water—like in the settle? So you try not to feel any of it?”
Shale’s jaw dropped. That was it exactly. This man knew. Knew what it was like. “Uhuh,” he whispered.
“I thought so. I will not lie to you. There are people who might try to harm a water sensitive, for their own reasons. Who have done so in the past, in fact. But if you have such abilities, you have nothing whatever to be afraid of from me. You understand, Shale?”
He nodded, unable to let the tension slide out of his muscles. Was the man lying?
“Right. Now I am going to give you a small test. Just tell the truth. And remember, you have nothing to fear.”
“Yes, lord.”
The rainlord began to unpack his basket. It contained the bowls Mica had described, and Shale realised the lids were screwed on. Carefully Taquar laid them out in a row. “I want you to touch each one on the lid. I want you to tell me which contain water.”
Shale took a deep breath. The moment had come when he had to make a decision. What he said next could determine the course of his whole life. He glanced at the highlord. Was he telling the truth? Shale couldn’t be sure, but he thought he was. And he knew what his own life was like now. He knew the hunger, the beatings, the yearning for something better. Better for himself, for Mica, for Citrine. He touched his throat where his father’s fingers had left purple bruises that pained him still. He remembered that Taquar had returned his jasper to him. And the highlord understood what it was like to know water…
Taquar said softly, “I think you and I have a path to walk together, lad. Trust me and you will lead a life you could never dream of, not in your wildest fa
ntasies. Touch the bowls.”
“Don’t need to touch ’em.” He pointed to the three bowls at one end of the row. “Them don’t have water. The others do.”
For a long while, the highlord sat motionless. Then he asked, and his voice was steady and unemotional, “Can you tell me which one has the least water?”
Shale tapped one of the bowls. “This’un.” He tapped the one next to it. “And this’un has the most.”
“So,” Taquar murmured, “old Granthon was right. Who would have thought?” He gave an amused grunt. “Lad, it seems you and I will come to know each other well.” He reached over and cupped Shale’s face gently in one hand. “One day I believe you might just be a stormlord of the Quartern—and the irony is that right now you do not even know what that means. I want you to listen very, very carefully to what I have to say, Shale, because your life may depend on your obedience.”
Shale’s fear returned and he tried to twist his face away; the highlord’s hold tightened, firm but not cruel. “In the past, there were a number of lads like you, girls too, all water sensitives. Many died. We do not know why. The Cloudmaster himself, Granthon Almandine, sent me on this quest to make sure no more are harmed. If it becomes common knowledge that you passed this test, you could be the next. The best way for you to remain safe is for no one to know that you did indeed pass. No one. Not your father, nor your mother, nobody. Not even the other rainlords. Do you understand?”
Shale licked his dry lips. “Uhuh.”
“Don’t be frightened. As long as no one knows you are a water sensitive, you are as safe as a sand-leech in its hole. Safer. Tomorrow I will ride on with the others and you will go on with your life as if nothing happened. Sometime after the end of this star cycle I will be back to take you away from here for your training. Think on it, boy—no more thirst. Water will be yours whenever you want it, for the rest of your life. No more hunger; you can eat when you will. You will wear fine clothes, have whatever you wish for, whenever you wish.” His hand still cupped Shale’s face, forcing the boy to meet his eyes by the light of the stars.
Shale asked, “Ride a pede?”
“Ride one? Why, you will own one!”
“What—what about me brother and sister?”
“Would you like them to come, too?”
“Uhuh.”
“Then they shall—but only if you swear not to tell anyone about all this. Not even them.”
“Won’t, I promise.”
“Did they take the test?”
“Not me sister. She’s only a baby. Mica did.”
“Ah. And failed. Don’t tell Mica about all this. Not yet.”
Shale nodded.
Taquar released his face. “Then I think we understand one another.” He piled the bowls into the basket and stood up. “We will meet again, Shale. And I, too, will make a promise. I will guard you with my life. There is nothing I will not do to keep you safe. Nothing.”
He stood up and held out his hand. “Come, you can ride with me to the edge of the settle and walk back from there. I don’t want anyone to see us together.”
Shale hesitated, and then took the proffered clasp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Scarpen Quarter
Scarcleft City
Level 32, Level 10 and Level 36
On the day she turned fourteen, Terelle finally became a woman, at least by the standards that governed Opal’s snuggery. Her bleeding started.
All she felt at her change in status was fear; not sudden terror, but a nagging, sickening fear that slowly welled up out of the place in which it had lurked so long, waiting for this moment. She washed her undergarments to hide all signs of blood and sneaked some clean bleeding cloths out of the laundry to wear, but she knew that it was just a temporary reprieve. The sharp eyes of the snuggery women would not be deceived for long. For her, time had run out. She was face-to-face with the darkness of her future.
Madam Opal had, of course, been preparing for this moment. Terelle no longer collected the dirty dishes. She brought drinks to customers in the early evening and helped to serve the snuggery’s late suppers. Opal had her dressed in adult clothing: soft, clinging imported silks designed to show the growing curves of her breasts and thighs, decorous yet suggestive. Every night she felt the caressing gaze of the men who watched her; she smelled the subtle lusts that lingered in the air as she passed.
Every time Huckman was in Scarcleft, he spent his evenings in the snuggery. Forced to bring him refreshments, she could not avoid the way his hands would brush her body or the way he whispered crudities in her ear, promising pain and humiliation on her first-night.
When she cringed, he complained to Opal, and Opal berated her. “He’s a customer, Terelle, and he’s offering good money for your deflowering. Tantalize him, child. Blush. If he wants to pinch the fruit before plucking, squeal and let him—it will put the price up. I don’t expect to have him complain that you are rude!”
“He hurts the other girls when he buys their time,” she muttered, dreading.
“Nonsense! They love to exaggerate. Anyway, if you don’t want Huckman, encourage some of the other men who like their bedmates young and fresh, so that they will bid high for you.”
Terelle was desperate. The fact that the men vying for her had to wait apparently only added more spice to the auction. Some of the regulars were even betting on the date of her first-night and on who the lucky man would be. In the meantime, Opal brushed aside her protests as childish modesty, soon to be forgotten.
Since the day she’d first met Amethyst the dancer, Terelle had searched for an arta or artisman who would take on an untried girl as an apprentice. She slipped out of the snuggery at every opportunity. She met several musicians from the musicians’ guild first, even though she had been doubtful that her talents lay in that direction. They had listened politely enough to her lute playing, then shown her the door. She tried the jewellery designers and makers next, followed by the stone polishers who collected and prepared gemstones for the jewellers. They all said they only employed family members. After that, she spoke to the fine metal workers, who made the settings. They laughed, saying it wasn’t a child’s job. She pestered every potter in the city. They had no need of outside talent, they told her. She went to the bab palm carvers. They shook their heads and said they only employed men. She begged the tile-bakers, the lacemakers, the weavers and the rug designers. Every single one turned her down and the reason was always basically the same: these trades were handed down within families. Who wanted to take on an outside apprentice who had no experience and no proven skill? Besides, it would mean having to pay off Opal’s snuggery.
And so her fourteenth birthday had dawned without any sign of a future outside the snuggery—and with every indication that the future within its walls was about to plunge into horror. In her despair, she sneaked out the gate once more that morning, and went to visit Amethyst.
For over a year now, she had been receiving five tokens every quarter in exchange for a newly created dance. She had saved the tokens, but it was the time she spent with Amethyst that she treasured. The dancer always gave her hope, hope that there was a way out. It was just a matter of finding it. After all, Amethyst herself had been born on the thirty-sixth level; in Scarcleft, that was the lowest. And now, even though she was no longer young, the rich of Scarcleft begged to see her dance. “It wasn’t easy,” the dancer admitted once. “In fact, there were times when I wondered where my next sip of water was coming from, when I had to do things I didn’t want to, just in order to survive.”
“You sold your body.”
Amethyst smiled slightly. “You are blunt, child. But yes, I sold myself. Oh, not as a street whore, or even in a snuggery. But there are other ways—more subtle, but just as destructive.” She looked away from Terelle, as if unwilling to meet the sharpness of her gaze. And Terelle was glad of it. She had glimpsed something in the dancer’s eyes that spoke of a deep self-loathing. “And it wasn’t just for
water, either. It was for the right to dance at all. It was as simple as that.”
She stopped and Terelle thought she wasn’t going to say any more, but then she added softly, “He was a young rainlord; and at that time it was within his power to give me a water allotment and allow me to perform uplevel—or not. He fancied me and made it clear that if I bedded him, my career and my water entitlement were assured. If I didn’t… well, he never said what he could or would do. But knowing what he was like, I was afraid to find out. And so I slept with him. I was his mistress for ten years, until he tired of me.”
She saddened. “One of many. He had a theory that he had a duty to have as many children as possible, in the hope that some of them would grow up to be rainlords. Not sure if he was successful, though, because we don’t see too many rainlords these days.
“Fortunately he didn’t require me to bear him a child. All I had to do was be his when he wanted it. And only his. For the water entitlement alone I might not have done it, but for the right to dance? Sometimes I think I would have sold my soul.” But the look she gave Terelle then was one of devastation. “Sometimes a price can be too high, Terelle. Remember that.”
Terelle did indeed remember as she climbed uplevel on the morning of her fourteenth birthday. How much, she wondered, was she willing to pay to be free of the snuggery?
As usual, Jomat the steward opened the door to her, but only with reluctance. He always resented her intrusion on Amethyst’s time, although he had never actually refused her entrance. Every time, he would open the door a crack first, and wait for her to ask for entry. Then he would lean forward to stare at her with his myopic eyes, running his gaze over her body. And always, always, he would smile pleasantly and then lay down his poison, disguised as casual conversation.
“Arta Amethyst is such a kind lady,” he might say as he pulled himself laboriously upstairs, wheezing as he went, with sweat beading along his forehead and running down his nose. “Always so generous to the girls who come for lessons or advice. Never turns anyone away, even when they are not worthy of her attention. She hasn’t the heart to be honest.”
