by Glenda Larke
He used part of one of the tokens to buy hot food served on a yam leaf, and he squatted right there in front of the stall to eat. The woman selling the food was a motherly soul and, on finding out during a lull in her trade that Shale was new to Scarcleft, indeed to the Scarpen, she took it upon herself to give him advice on where to live and how to take care of himself. Her name, she said, was Illara. She suffered from what they called desert peel back in Wash Drybone Settle. She had no eyelashes and no eyebrows, and her skin flaked. Rendered pede fat was needed to cure that, but he doubted she had the money to buy any.
“Don’t you trust nobody,” she said. “Nobody. Not me, neither. In this place, a man or a woman or a child will sell his granny for water, and don’t you never forget it.”
From her, he found out that for just three tinnies a night, you could rent a place to sleep on a rooftop, along with a palliasse stuffed with bab husks, and have your safety guaranteed by the owner’s bodyguards. He found out there were labouring jobs to be had in the bab groves or at the city’s pede stables; or at the pede market, shovelling manure; or at the metal smelters or the knackery—all of which were situated just outside the city gates. He learned where to buy the cheapest food, where to leave his bag (for a price) so that it would be safe until he came to collect it, where to sell stolen goods. She warned him which people never to deal with, which employers never to work for, and which places and street women to avoid. She told him how to identify authorities: the reeves, and—worse, or so she said—the enforcers in blue with the sand swirls on their chests.
“You break a law here on Level Thirty-six, no one cares, unless it concerns city water. You can steal or cheat or kill, and no one will come after you. But if you break a law on another level, or if you steal the water that belongs to the city or the groves or an upleveller—then you had better find a good place to hide because sooner or later someone will come after you. And there’s never no mercy for outlanders.” She looked at him critically. “That’s a bit of a disadvantage to start with.”
“What is?” he asked.
“You look like a Gibberman. Lately the reeves have been throwing waterless Gibber folk out of the city gates and not letting ’em back in again, ’specially the ones that look real poor or dirty or diseased.” She rubbed at the flaking skin on her face. “They’re dying out there. The Highlord of Scarcleft wants to save water for those Scarpermen entitled to water allotments. Us waterless count for even less than usual now that water is short. And Gibber waterless are as hated as ’Baster waterless. So you’d better watch yourself. You go outside to work, you make sure the employer gives you an employment chit. That will entitle you to sleep in the city for a night. You got a job, they need you. They don’t need you, you’re dead. Get it?”
Shale nodded, wondering if life was playing a joke on him. Was his imprisonment going to be the high point of comfort in what promised to be a short existence? Had he been sandcrazy to run away? Taquar would never have hurt him, after all, just used him.
And then he thought of Mica.
And Citrine.
His heart hardened. I don’t know what to do, he thought, but I do know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to work for the Highlord of Scarcleft. Ever.
He left the city that morning and found work shovelling sand out of a dry slot in the palm groves. Hard, aching work under a hot sun. Payment for the whole day’s labour was half a token plus a day’s water ration, drawn from the employer’s cistern. At the end of the day, he was sore all over from the unaccustomed labour. And he had seen for himself what happened to Scarcleft water thieves.
Zigger-wielding officials on their way into the desert had led a couple past, their arms ending at the wrist, the fresh cuts dipped into heated resin to stop the bleeding. They stumbled by, moaning, tied by a length of hemp to the pedes the officials rode. Shale doubted they would be alive even at sunset, let alone find a way to survive till they reached another city. This wasn’t punishment; it was brutal execution.
He rested awhile under the palm trees once he was paid—eyed suspiciously by the palm-grove guards before he started to walk back towards the city through the grove. He had lingered deliberately because he wanted to be on his own. He’d heard about an irrigation slot that would be flooded at sunset, and he wanted to steal enough water to refill his water skin. Being waterless all his life had left him without guilt when it came to stealing a drink. Still, it was hard not to think of the fate of the two thieves.
It was easier for him not to get caught, of course. All he had to do was walk along the irrigation slots with his container uncorked, then move water out of the flow, a few unnoticed drops at a time, until the skin bulged.
Taquar did at least teach me something useful, he thought as he ambled back in the twilight, filching water as he went.
When a mounted rider approached him from behind, he took extra care to hide what he was doing, apparently in vain, because as the pede drew level, a perplexed voice addressed him, “Well, young man, just what might ye be up to?”
He jumped and nearly dropped the skin. He turned to see a ’Baster mounted on a white myriapede, leading a packpede, also white, behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Scarpen Quarter
Scarcleft City
Level 36 and the bab groves
The ’Baster, obviously a trader, was alone. The white packpede was piled high with roped cargo, still dusty from desert travel. Although the goods were covered with woven matting, their shape suggested blocks of rock salt. Like all ’Basters, the man was pale, as pale as a mother’s milk, with eyes as light as star-shine. He wore white robes and a loose twist of white cloth encased his head; both were sewn with tiny mirrors that reflected the red light of the setting sun in sparkles as he rode. The red thread that held the mirrors in place could have been crazed runnels of blood on the white cloth.
The man smiled as he drew his hack up opposite Shale. “Let me offer ye a ride back into the city,” he said.
Shale, surprised, found himself stuttering.
“But perhaps ye had better cork your skin first.”
In a mixture of embarrassment and fear, Shale fumbled to close his water skin.
The ’Baster reached out a hand to pull him up onto the saddle behind and because he didn’t know how to refuse, Shale took it and climbed up.
“What’s your name?” the man asked. He spoke with the lilting accent of the White Quarter, chopping his vowels short and almost singing the words.
“Jasper, pedeman,” Shale said, changing his name yet again.
“And would Jasper like to be telling me why a water sensitive of considerable skill finds it necessary to be stealing water from a slot?”
“I—” But Shale’s inventiveness failed there, and he didn’t know what to say.
“I would have thought that the Scarpen Quarter, in need of all the water sensitives it could get, would pay them well enough that they didn’t have to steal.” The words might have carried an element of accusation, but the tone was mild, even friendly.
Shale, not trusting, stayed silent.
“Don’t worry, young Jasper,” the man said softly, “I’ll not tell the reeves. Are ye waterless?”
Shale nodded. “Who—who are you, pedeman?”
“Feroze Khorash, salt merchant of Alabaster.”
“Alabaster?”
“Yes, the place ye call the White Quarter. But we are a quarter of nothing. We are our own entirety.”
“Oh, you mean you’re a ’Baster.” He wasn’t sure he understood the rest.
“That is not a word we appreciate. We are Alabasters.”
“Forgive me, pedeman. Um, merch. I did not mean to be rude.” That was true. He’d no idea that inhabitants of the White Quarter regarded the term ’Baster as derogatory.
As they reached the city gates, Shale prepared to slip down from the mount, but Feroze stopped him with a hand on the knee. “I am going to Level Twenty-seven, where there is a salt t
rading house. I shall pay ye a token to be helping me unload the salt. Easier work than whatever it was ye were doing in the grove, I’ll wager ye.”
Shale weighed the idea carefully. He felt vulnerable leaving the lowest level for a higher one, but a token was a token. “All right,” he said.
They were stopped by the gate guards, as expected. Shale produced the employer’s chit from the grove owner while Feroze was asked to pay an import tax on the salt. “And you are only permitted to stay three nights in the city now, ’Baster,” one of the gatekeepers told the merchant. “New rule for all outlander traders. And you must leave by this gate.” Feroze made the required payment and they were waved on into the city.
It was obvious that Feroze had been to Scarcleft before. He guided the pedes straight up to the twenty-seventh level and then on to the salt merchant’s yard through a maze of streets and alleys. On several of the lower levels, men spat at the feet of the pede as they passed. On the thirtieth level, some boys pelted them with discarded bab husks and called them bastard ’Basters and dirty foreign water-wasters. Feroze ignored them all.
At the salt yard gate, he pulled the bell and waited patiently until the summons was answered. The gatekeeper greeted him by name, the salt trader was sent for, and Feroze and Shale dismounted to lead the pedes into the yard. The trader arrived, profuse in his greetings as he offered the ritual drink of water to an arriving traveller. Then, when the formalities were over, a specimen block of salt was unloaded and examined, and the bargaining began. Shale stood to one side, holding the pede reins, listening and watching and taking the opportunity to study Feroze.
He was tall and thin, and to Shale’s eyes ugly. The pale skin was sickly; the bloodless lips unattractive and the faded eyes lifeless. In fact, his general lack of hue suggested coldness or an absence of passion, and reminded Shale of something dead. It was hard to guess his age, but he was no longer a young man.
“They say they have water in their veins,” a voice murmured in his ear. He turned to see one of the salt merchant’s lads standing behind him. “ ’Stead of blood, and that’s why they’re that funny colour. That right, you reckon?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and then added carefully, “I don’t think it matters much. He is a man, no matter the colour of his blood.” Inside, he wondered if it was true.
The youth looked at him scornfully. “Yeah, I s’pose you would say that. You’re a dirty desert-grubbin’ Gibberman, after all. You might think you’re as good as us, but you’re not. No Gibber sand-grubber nor ’Baster is as good as the lick of a tongue of a Scarperman!”
“No? Well, I can’t say I think much of either your manners or your brains,” Shale returned. “At least I know how to be polite, and I have enough brains to know it’s not sensible to insult the people your master does business with.”
The youth opened his mouth to retort, and Shale raised his eyebrows, which was enough to make the fellow think twice about saying anything more. He swaggered off.
The negotiations came to an end, the two men shook hands on the deal, and Feroze came back to Shale. “Time to be unloading,” he said. “I’ll see ye afterwards.”
He went off with the salt trader to be paid, and Shale turned back to the pede. To his surprise, the beast was now surrounded by the salt trader’s workers, who had the ropes untied and the big blocks of wrapped salt unloaded in just a few moments. It dawned on Shale that Feroze must have known that the salt trader’s men would unload the cargo; why, then, had he asked for help? He thought about that and began to feel uncomfortable. He wondered if it was wise to wait for his token, especially when he had done nothing yet to earn it.
He had just made up his mind to leave when Feroze emerged from the merchant’s office. He was smiling, but Shale wondered if there was not something grim about the expression. The good humour seemed forced.
The merchant was saying, “That’s what I’ve heard, merch. Beware. Scarcleft is no longer a place safe for you or your kind.” It was not a threat he uttered, but a warning, reinforced by his worried tone.
Feroze nodded and took the pede reins from Shale. “Let’s go, Jasper.”
“I have to get back to Level Thirty-six,” Shale said as they left the yard, still leading the pedes. “That’s where I live. And I was not needed to unload the salt—the trader’s men did that. All I did was coil and repack your rope.”
“Oh? Never mind, ye shall have your token anyway. I have taken your time needlessly. Would ye share my evening meal?” The look he gave Shale was kindly and his eyes were gentle, but Shale’s discomfort increased.
“I think I should go, merch. I have to find a bed for the night.” And then, abruptly aware of what he had just said, he flushed.
Feroze stared at him for a long moment, assessing. “Ah. Jasper,” he said at last, “I think you have mistaken my intentions. True, I like my pallet partners young and virile, much as you are. But I also like them to be hankering after a man such as myself, which I suspect ye do not. And so I am prepared to confine myself to an interest in your water abilities rather than your body, as attractive as it is.”
Shale’s flush deepened.
Feroze dug into his purse and extracted a token. “Here is the token I promised. And now I want ye to listen carefully to what I have to say.” He took Shale by the arm and pulled him to the side of the street, leaving the pedes to stand alone. “I saw what ye did at the slot because I am water sensitive, rather like one of your reeves. I know ye have great talent, and such talent is needed in the Quartern, gentle God knows. Ye must not squander it living a feral life on Level Thirty-six. Do ye hear me, Jasper?”
Shale nodded.
“And do ye understand what I am saying?”
Shale nodded again, and he did understand. His inner voice told him, had been telling him ever since he had arrived in Scarcleft, exactly what Feroze meant: You are a stormlord. You could possibly help bring water to a whole land. You have no right to hide your talent out of fear.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. He felt momentarily helpless, a grain of sand caught up in the spindevil wind.
“And ye don’t trust me, either?”
Shale did not answer.
Feroze sighed. “That would be too much to expect, I suppose. Very well, listen to some advice first: do not go to Highlord Taquar. He is a harsh man. If ye want, I will take ye to Breccia. To the Cloudmaster himself, Granthon.”
Shale still did not answer, but hope flared—then wavered. Could this man help him? Or was it a trap? He vacillated, sick with raw anxiety, desperate for help yet unable to snatch at it. He had trusted once, and learned to regret it.
Feroze continued, “I shall stay in Scarcleft for the three nights allowed me. At dawn on the following day, I shall leave for Breccia City. If ye need my help to be leaving this place, meet me at the gateway we used today, with your belongings, just as the sun rises. I will take ye with me. No charge.”
Suspicion overwhelmed the hope. “Why would you do that?”
Feroze released his hold on Shale’s arm. “We need water, Jasper. We all need water. The Cloudmaster, Granthon, has recently stopped most storms to the Gibber and Alabaster, because he has not the strength needed. When cisterns run dry, there will be no more water for your people and mine. Anyone who can pull water out of a slot with his powers is needed by us all.”
“Are you—are you exactly what you say you are?” The question was naive. Silly, even. What kind of answer was he expecting to that? He felt foolish, childish.
“Am I a salt trader?” Feroze considered his answer carefully. “I do sell salt, but I am more than just a trader. I seek information. I am also an emissary for my people. I go from here to Breccia to be pleading our cause.”
They looked at each other, man and youth. Had the face that stared back at Shale been that of a Scarperman or a Gibberman, he might have trusted. But it wasn’t. It was the face of a man so white he would have blended in with the salt he had just sold. A
man whose eyes and skin and hair were so pale they could have foreshadowed death itself.
“I’ll think about it,” Shale mumbled and walked away. Part of him still felt shamed; the Alabaster had given him no cause to distrust him.
He did think about it.
The next day, he found more work in the groves; the day after that, he helped out in the pede knacker’s yard, outside the city walls. He hated the work; stripping pede carcasses reminded him too much of the day the unexpected rush had come down Wash Drybone. The day Citrine was born.
Still, he was earning tokens. He was free. He looked at the calluses he was developing on his hands and was proud of them.
At night he paid for a bed on the rooftop doss house that desert-peeled Illara had told him about; during the day, he paid for his belongings to be kept safe at a storage house. Because he stole his water—a few drops at a time from many different sources—he had enough money to eat well without selling any more of the books. And all the while, he listened and thought about what he should do.
By the end of the third day, he knew he had to leave Scarcleft. All the talk on the level indicated that soon there was not going to be a place for a waterless Gibberman anywhere. People were targeting outlanders as the source of their problems, and Shale was an outlander. When a further increase in the price of water was rumoured, there was no mistaking the resentful looks some people sent his way. The baseless hate in people’s eyes as they found someone to blame was intimidating.
And so, on the morning Feroze was due to depart, Shale waited at the gate for him.
He waited till mid-morning, but there was no sign of the Alabaster with the white pedes.
Angry, he left the gateway, and went to find work, knowing he had wasted half a day. As it was already too late to hope for anything in the groves, he returned to the knacker’s yard. He was welcomed; the knacker had just taken delivery of two dead pedes. The butcher had already taken the meat he wanted, but there was still flesh to be scraped out.
