Only then did he realise the picture was of himself. He stared at it, shocked, fascinated. That was him? That serious young man, with the calm expression that told no one anything?
Then the information sank in. Water allotment for life. How many waterless men or women would be able to resist that? He looked at Terelle, dismayed.
"I'll be desert-fried," she said, apparently impressed, "whatever did you do?"
"W-w-where did you get this?" Shale asked Russet.
"Pasted up on a wall. People say they are on every level." He considered Shale thoughtfully. "Imagine trouble to copy so many pictures of ye, boy. And the reward. Ye be valuable to highlord, yes?"
But Shale was speechless. He felt as if all the water inside him was being replaced by sand. Why had he ever thought he could escape Taquar? He should have foreseen this. He should have risked escaping with Feroze. What a dryhead he'd been.
"Better say who ye be," Russet said. He reached out and ran a dry hand down Shale's face. His fingers had the roughness of saltbush leaves. "Water-sense spills out of ye like water from storm cloud."
Shale shuddered and pulled away. "Are you going to claim your reward?" he asked bitterly.
Russet cackled. "I be having enough tokens for my needs." He leaned forward and his breath was stale against Shale's cheek. "But here be another truth: step out that door, ye soon be prisoner hauled uplevel, liking it or not. Be no choice except trust Russet. So, who be ye, eh?"
Shale slumped down on his stool, capitulating. "Shale Flint," he said at last. "From the Gibber Quarter. I'd better tell you the whole story, I suppose."
Russet and Terelle exchanged glances. "Let me sit down," Russet said gleefully. "Be lengthy tale coming, no?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Scarpen Quarter Scarcleft City Arta Amethyst's house, Level 10 Arta Amethyst always strolled around the rooftop at dusk. She loved the day at its close, when the slant of liquid sunlight, hugging the last of the day's warmth within itself, poured across the buildings. A time when shadows purpled and people gathered on rooftops to eat their evening meals before the business of the night began. If she looked across at the temple opposite, she could see the priests in the last of their daily rituals, pouring the final libation to the Sunlord, splashing the water carelessly onto the daub of the rooftop.
Fine for them, she thought. They've never been waterless. She leaned on the parapet and looked down into the street as the crowd diminished and the lull, the hiatus between day and night, began.
To her surprise, the last of the pedestrians stopped before her gate and pulled at the bell rope. Two people. She leaned over a little more and recognised Terelle's hair, so deeply rich brown it was close to black. It had been a while since the girl had come to see her, and she felt a rush of pleasure, quickly smothered. Not wise to expect too much of anyone.
Strange, though, that the girl-no, not girl; woman-had someone with her.
Amethyst watched as the gate was opened and the usual argument started between Jomat and Terelle. No matter how many times she instructed her steward to let Terelle in without question, he always tried to hinder her entry with his nastiness. Amethyst wondered whether she would ever have the courage to dismiss him. But how could she? What was the old saying? He who pays for the water determines the patterns on the dayjar. Something had told her long ago that she wasn't the only one paying for Jomat's water and she had never dared to protest. Cowardice, she thought. That has always been your problem, Amethyst. Terror of being waterless again.
Patiently she waited.
A few moments later, Jomat ushered Terelle and her companion to the rooftop. The steward was breathing with difficulty, his face blotched maroon on paste-white. The hair that drooped over his forehead dripped sweat; his skin oozed the stink of stale perspiration. Amethyst suppressed her distaste.
"The waterpainter is here to see you, madam. Again." The last word was soaked with vitriol. His puffy eyes turned from her to Terelle to the young man, his gaze devouring them all hungrily in his search for information he could use for his own ends.
It was difficult to be polite. "Thank you, Jomat."
He wasn't finished. "With another outlander waterwaster."
"That will be all," she said firmly and waved him away. He went with reluctance, wheezing all the while. No one spoke until he had lumbered down the stairs.
Terelle indicated the red-skinned youth with her. "Arta, I have brought someone to meet you."
He was dressed in loose red clothes and his red hair was braided with beads. He wore a scimitar at his side. Although she had never met a Reduner face-to-face, she assumed he must be one, until Terelle added, "His name is Shale. He's not really a Reduner. That's just a disguise. Russet painted his skin and we dyed a tunic and breeches for him, and his hair, too. I braided it."
Amethyst stared at him, frowning. "You did a good job. I would never have known. But why was it necessary?"
"Enforcers are searching for him, and this was the only way we could think of to hide him. I used Russet's pass to bring him uplevel, but no one even asked to see it. Russet says enforcers have been told to treat all Reduners with respect."
"And why are they searching for him?" Amethyst wasn't happy with what she was hearing, and she didn't bother to hide her unease.
"He has a story I-we-want you to hear. We need your advice."
Amethyst stared at the youth but could not come to any conclusions. He was as closed to her as a shuttered pede. His eyes were intelligent but lacked expression; he held his whole body as if he was quietly waiting for something to happen-but whether he was happy or sad, frightened or tense, she could not say.
"Take a seat," she said. She indicated the cushions on the mud-brick benches around the edges of the roof. "There is still mint infusion in the pot, I believe, and plenty of savouries left over from my dinner. Will you both not join me?" She walked to the top of the stairs and called down for more hot water. While waiting, she chatted with Terelle, probing as tactfully as she could to find out if she was happy and safe. She remained unconvinced by Terelle's cheerful but evasive answers.
Oh Sunlord, she thought, why did I ever become embroiled in the doings of this child? I see trouble round the corner for me in this.
Jomat brought the water, still wheezing, his mouth pinched in disapproval at the water-waste involved in serving a drink to visitors. His eyes roved over them with ill-concealed curiosity as he placed the pot on the bench next to his mistress. Shale was polite, and took the infusion and savouries Amethyst offered, but held himself in abeyance.
She waited until Jomat left before asking, "So what is this story?"
"Can I trust you?" he countered. The look he gave her was steady.
She treated the question seriously, aware that he expected nothing less. "Not entirely, perhaps. For a start, everybody has their price. Everybody, no matter how good their intentions are."
He nodded, as if in agreement, but did not ask for further guarantees. "I am here because I don't know where else to turn and I have to trust Terelle's judgement. I am fleeing a man who had my sister and parents killed and my brother enslaved. Taquar, Highlord of Scarcleft. I need to escape from him, from this city, and I need a place to go."
She was stilled, her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding. Taquar? Oh Watergiver save me, you have come to the wrong person!
"I had heard that the reeves were looking for a youth," she said cautiously. "It was the talk of the bazaars a few days ago. They put up posters. Was that you?" He's so self-contained, she thought. So young to be so in command of himself. Does he ever break, I wonder?