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.