The light cast by the meagre stub of his sole remaining candle did not show him much. His water senses told him that there were a number of cisterns in the room and that water ran from one to another. A waterhall, he guessed. Those same senses told him that the room was empty of people. The grille had a door, but it was locked. He had come so far only to be stopped by more iron bars; he would have been better off trying to walk to Scarcleft in the desert heat above ground, stealing water from the maintenance shafts as he went.
And now what, anyway? This was Taquar's city, and the rainlord was here somewhere. If a strange youth was found in the tunnel, would Taquar be told?
His heart jerked, his breathing quickened. He would not allow himself to be taken again. He slid down to sit on the walkway right where he was, back hunched up against the curving wall. Surely there had to be someone in regular attendance in the waterhall. They couldn't just let water run like that all the time without checking on it, could they? They had to make sure cisterns didn't overflow, perhaps even divert the water into different tunnels from time to time. He had read enough to know a little about how water distribution worked in Scarpen cities. It was just a matter of waiting.
He ate some of his food, refilled his water skins, checked how much oil there was left in the lamp-not much-and watched while his last candle burned itself into oblivion and dropped him into suffocating darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Scarpen Quarter Scarcleft City It was several hours before someone opened the entrance to the waterhall and two liveried men entered with torches, which they set in wall brackets. They were followed by a man and a woman, who came in chatting to one another.
"… so I said to him he ought to report the family. That kind of behaviour borders on misuse of allotments," the woman said as she led the way, heading off to the left. Shale remained where he was, silent and still.
"Will he, do you think, Reeve Dennil?" the man asked.
"I don't know. He's fond of his sister and the fact that she may be a water-waster is not going to make any difference. So I reported her to the enforcers myself. Sandblast it, every single person in the city has to try to cut water consumption still further, or we starve. The farmers are complaining the bab fruit won't be plump next harvest. A tenth of the trees have already died. And it near broke my heart when Highlord Taquar ordered more pedes to be slaughtered. Sorquis, we need this spigot opened till sunset. But close two and seven first."
This last remark was addressed to one of the men carrying a torch. He nodded his acquiescence and bent to fiddle with something at the end of one of the cisterns. "Do you want it opened full turn, Reeve?"
Shale stood up, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. "Excuse me," he said loudly, "but could you let me out of here?"
All four people turned in his direction, spigots and conversation forgotten.
"Watergiver above! There's someone in the tunnel!" exclaimed a servant, seizing a torch from the wall and approaching the grille.
The reeve followed and peered at Shale by the light of the flames. "I'll get the key," she said finally.
"Shouldn't we call the highlord first?" the man asked, his voice hostile. "He can only be a water thief, surely."
"I think you had better let me out first," Shale said hurriedly, submerging his fear under a plaintive whine made all the more convincing by its truth. "I don't want to foul the water and I need to-you know…"
"He's only a lad. I'll be back in a moment," the reeve said.
The man stared at Shale. His expression danced in the flame light, but there was no mistaking the suspicion in his tone. "How did you get into the tunnel? Have you been stealing water? Did you break into one of the inspection shafts? Where did you come from? What's your name?"
Of all these questions, Shale decided to answer the last, and that with a lie. "My name's Chert," he said.
"Well, Chert, you little rat, you have a great deal of explaining to do. No one is allowed into any tunnel without a rainlord or a reeve at their side." Outrage seeped through the words. "How long have you been in there? You've been contaminating our water, haven't you?"
Shale hung his head. "I did my best not to," he mumbled. "I, um, used the walkway."
The man gave a grunt of disgust and continued to fire questions, which Shale did not answer.
It was several moments before the reeve returned with the key and opened the half-door in the grille. Shale had to stoop to walk through. As he straightened up, both the servants-at a sign from the reeve-went to grab his arms. Shale deliberately stumbled. At the same time he pushed at the water in the nearest cistern. A wave splashed over the edge onto the floor.
"What the-" The woman's face was a picture first of incomprehension and then horror at the wastage. "How the salted damn did that happen?"
Distracted, both servants turned away from Shale, and in that moment of inattention, he was up and running. He raced between the cisterns, heading for the closest exit. It led into another room, empty of people, with several doors, all closed. He wrenched at the handle of the nearest as the two servants pounded through the doorway behind him. Their hands brushed the back of his tunic sleeve as he plunged into the sunlight.
Blinded by the sudden brightness, he sped on. He squinted, eyes watering. A low parapet loomed in front of him. He sailed over it without hesitation. And fell, his heart lurching at the unexpected depth of the drop on the other side. His feet hit a flat surface hard, jarring his spine and driving his breath out. Fortunately, his followers thought better of making the jump, and when he was able to look up, it was to see them turning away from the parapet above to find another route down.
Gasping, he spared a moment to look around. He was on a flat area studded with fruit trees in pots. He dived into them, skidding between the plants as shouts of alarm rose on all sides. Glimpsing guards in uniform off to his left, he veered right. Then footsteps pounded behind. He dashed headlong through the greenery until his way was blocked by another parapet. He scrambled over this one, hung from fingers over another drop, then fell again. This time he landed on the bab webbing of an outdoor bed. Unable to keep his footing, he tumbled to his knees and bumped his chin on the bed frame. Swearing, he picked himself up and raced towards another low wall. This time the fall wasn't so soft. He plunged straight into a kumquat tree in a pot, shattering both plant and container. Pain shot up one of his legs. For a moment, he lay on the spilled earth and pot shards, staring up at the blueness of the sky, too stunned to move, his chin aching, pain in his calf stabbing at him. He rolled over to look. His trousers were torn and his leg was bleeding, pierced by part of a branch. He pulled out a long splinter of wood, then wasted a moment clutching his leg above the knee, rocking to and fro until the pain subsided.
Only when he stood and grabbed his bag once more did he realise there was a body of living water nearby. He whirled to see a girl staring at him. She had been using a flat paddle to bang at a rug hung over a railing and the dust still drifted in the air, a puff of brown in the blinding sunlight. He stared back, shocked, trying to make sense of everything.
In a rush of understanding, he realised what he had done. He had not exited the waterhall building through its main entrance. He had gone out onto a balcony and had jumped onto a roof the next level down. He was not in a street at all but on the stepped rooftops of Scarcleft.