The Last Stormlord (44 page)

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.

Shale looked at the two huge corpses. A myriapede and a packpede. Both all white. They had been bludgeoned, battered until their carapaces were cracked and broken. “They were attacked,” he said, dumbfounded. “I mean, it’s like they were…
murdered
.”

“Yeah, well, they were white, so who cares? You want the job or not?”

He nodded, stricken. “Who owned them?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Must have been a ’Baster, though. They are the only ones who use white animals. And there’s all that red embroidery on the carapace.”

And Feroze had not turned up at the gate.

Shale laid a hand on the shuttered eyes of one of the beasts, and the anger he’d felt towards the Alabaster melted into grief.

He spent what was left of the day at the knacker’s, toiling over the remains of the pedes. By sunset, most of the segments had been scraped clean. “Tomorrow there’ll be more work for you if you want it,” the knacker said as he paid him that evening. “Got to get the meat out of the feet and send it off to the fish growers. Day after that, you can help unpick all that blasted stitchery and lay out all the segment pieces for the ants to clean.”

“All right,” Shale said and felt like a traitor. They had to have been Feroze’s animals. As he slipped the token the knacker had just given him into his purse, a packpede flowed past. An enforcer directed the beast, and another rode the end segment. In between sat a line of roped men, shoulders hunched in hopeless defeat.

“Outlander waterless,” the knacker said, seeing Shale’s interest. “You want to make damned sure you get work every day, grubber, or you’ll end up like them, too. Thrown out onto the Sweepings half a night’s ride distant, without any water and forbidden to return. Not much chance any of ’em will make it through tomorrow.”

“That’s horrible,” he protested, looking at the men as they passed.

“Hmph! People are asking why Scarcleft babies should be killed instead of the outlanders. You and I know the answer to that one: Scarcleft babies don’t do the dirty work—but try telling that to someone whose wife’s told she’s got to scrape their babe out ’fore it’s born.”

Shale was about to turn away, sickened, when he saw that the first prisoner, the one riding behind the driver, had turned his head to stare at the remains of the pedes. His robe had been stripped from him and he wore only a loin cloth. Even in the diMming light of dusk, Shale recognised him. The face may have been battered and bloody, and the white skin of his body may have been covered with abrasions and purple bruises, but it was unmistakably Feroze.

The Alabaster turned his face away as the pede moved on, gathering speed.

The knacker turned to pay the next worker. Shale waited until neither of the men was looking his way, then picked up a flensing knife and slipped it inside his tunic before strolling away into the palm trees. Out of sight of the knackery, he raced after the pede. He had not the slightest idea what he was going to do. He just knes that this man had tried to help him, and he had to do
something
or Feroze was going to die.

Just befor` they reached the last of the bab palms, he became aware of the run of water starting down the irrigation slot. They were watering the grove, or part of it. With a half-formed thought of stopping the pede, he reached out and seized the water, lifted it from the channel and skeined it through the air above. There was a scream of anguish from several of the grove owners as they realised their allotment was being stolen.

“Thieves! Water thieves!” someone yelled.

Others began shouting, but no one knew what to do. The enforcer on the packpede drew rein. He looked back over his shoulder to see what was happening. A grove worker ran up to him waving his hands in distress. “Enforcer—some bastard’s stealing our allotment!”

The man swore and slid from the pede, shouting to his companion at the rear to join him. As he tied the reins to the nearest palm tree, Shale wheeled the water past the pede and then away through the trees. The two enforcers ran after it, shouting contradictory advice to each other. The pede stayed where it was, and so did the men on its back. There was little they could do, as each prisoner had his wrists tied tightly to the mounting ring bolted to each segment. One, however, immediately started to work at the knots with his teeth.

Shale might not have had a coherent plan to start with, but he could not have asked for a better chance. He climbed onto the back of the packpede and worked his way along, slashing the twine that tied each of the prisoners. “Run!” he told them. “Try to get back into the city!”

They were quick to obey. Around them there was no one to notice. Shale still controlled the water, twirling and flicking it through the grove at a distance, and the enforcers and the grove workers were keeping it in sight, trying to discover who was manipulating it. Fortunately, it didn’t occur to any of them that the culprit did not have to be in close proximity to the water.

Shale freed the last of the Gibbermen and reached Feroze. “You will have to take this beast and flee,” he said as he slashed the cords binding the man. He thrust his water skin into the saddlebag. “Take this,” he said, “it’s full. You may make it to Breccia, if you are lucky.”

“Come with me,” Feroze mumbled through his swollen mouth. “We’ll both go.”

Shale hesitated. The temptation was almost overwhelming. Then he shook his head. “Two of us would never make it. There’s only one water skin. I’m not sure whether I could steal water from a long distance away; I’ve never tried. Maybe you can tell the Cloudmaster about me, though.” He dug out his purse. “Take this as well. You might need tokens when you get there. There’s not much.” He shoved it into the saddlebag.

Feroze grabbed his arm as he was about to drop to the ground. “Thank ye,” he said simply. “I’ll not forget. In Alabaster, we say that a cloth given is returned embroidered. Remember that, and remember my name. Feroze Khorash.”

Shale nodded. “Good luck.” He slid down from the pede and ran back towards the knacker’s yard. He needed to return the flensing knife before it was missed, and then he wanted to manipulate the water further away through the grove, to give Feroze more time to escape.

He didn’t look back. The rest was up to the Alabaster now.

He returned to the city without trouble some time later, wryly reflecting that he was back where he had started. He had just given Feroze all his water tokens. He would have to sell another book to pay for food and lodging for the night and to buy a new water skin. Fortunately, he was now more experienced and he knew someone who would offer him a better price for a book.

Later that night, with tokens rattling in a second-hand purse, he made inquiries about how to get to Breccia and found out that it was going to cost forty tokens to join a passenger caravan of pedes. He could save a little every day because he stole his water, but forty tokens was impossibly remote.

The next day, after putting in a full day at the knacker’s, he investigated the possibility of working as a pedehand on one of the caravans leaving Scarcleft, only to find too many others had the same idea. Day by day, the city was becoming more and more dangerous for a waterless outlander, and they were all trying to leave. There was no place for Shale.