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."