by Glenda Larke
Russet had stepped out of his room. He stood there looking at her. In the dark, he was only recognisable by his silhouette, backlit by a candle burning in a wall holder. She called out to him, and he raised a frail, shaking hand in reply. He took a step towards her, a black shape stooped with age. Smoke swirled. He tried to bat it away, coughing. Then, without warning, the background to his silhouette became a brilliant wall of yellow flame, erupting through the floor somewhere behind him in a whoosh. Gone in a flash, it was replaced by showers of sparks, cascading, twinkling, dying in a crash of broken timber. Another roar of flames. Slowly, oh so slowly, he turned to look.
She screamed his name. And he vanished. Disappeared inside flames whipping up to the ceiling from the level below. There was no floor, no silhouette, no Russet. He had been obliterated, the hideous roar of flames and the shattering of the floor wiping him out as if she had dreamed her vision of him.
Where he’d been, the air burned.
Jet’s grasp on her wrist was the powerful hold of a warrior. He plunged down the stairs, jerking her off her feet so that she almost fell. A blast of flame and smoke burst along the upper passage. The roar of it followed them down the steps as if attached to their heels. She flung the plaid over her head. The ends smouldered.
Everyone was coughing, screaming, shouting, pushing. She tried to wrench herself free, but Jet’s hold never weakened, never wavered. As they passed the kitchens he dragged water from there and threw it up and over the stairs, drenching them and those behind them. And then they were outside, in the cobbled courtyard between the stables and the kitchens.
After the heat of the house, the cold of the night was biting; after the noise of the fire and the sounds of a house dying, the shouts and sounds of men seemed puny. She drew breath, sucking in clean air.
Russet is dead.
I can be killed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Khromatis
Marchford
Manor house of the Commander of the Southern Marches
Jet flung her into the arms of someone wearing a Khromatian uniform. “You,” he ordered, “keep her close. Your life if she gets away from you. Understand?”
The man nodded, quickly pushing her to arm’s length in embarrassment, although he kept a grip on her upper arm. He looked at Terelle blankly as Jet hurried away. “Who are you?” he asked in Khromatian. He was not a young man and she did not recall seeing him among the men who had ridden with Bice.
“Lord Terelle. What’s going on here?” she asked in the same language.
Her accent gave her away as much as the name. “Oh,” he said, and started speaking Quartern. “The house is on fire.”
“I know that,” she said, curbing her irritation as he guided her further from the house. “What happened?”
“How should I know?” He stared at her, still at a loss, still holding her arm as if he thought she’d run off if he let go, and yet there was fear in his eyes. “Ye’re the woman who says she’s the daughter of the Pinnacle’s heir, the heir who was lost?”
“Well, Sienna Verdigris was my mother,” she agreed cautiously.
He snorted as if he didn’t quite believe any of it, but she could still see the caution in his eyes and there was a tinge of embarrassment in his voice as he added, “Reckon I got to be tying ye up.”
She touched the bloodstone pendant hidden under her neckline, seeking reassurance that it was still there. Her connection to Shale. “I don’t want to run away.” Or did she? Russet was dead…
“Well, can’t say I’m going to be believing that, lass.” He pulled her into the last stall of the stables through the broken doors. There was a corpse on the floor, which he ignored.
When he released her arm, she knelt and touched the dead man’s face. Tromward, an Alabaster guard from Samphire. He loved to sing as he rode…
The Khromatian fumbled around in the dimness until he’d unhooked a bridle from the wall. “Step outside,” he said. “I can’t see what I’m doing in here.”
Outside again, the area was brightly lit by flames. Tiles on the roof had caught fire, which seemed odd to her. Whatever were they made of? Wood?
“Put your hands behind ye,” he ordered. “Sorry about this, but duty is duty.”
“That’s uncomfortable. Tie them in front.” She slid her pack to the ground, blessing her foresight in picking it up before leaving her room, and wrapped Russet’s plaid around her shoulders against the cold of the night air.
He assessed her quietly, then shrugged and did as she asked. “Now we’ll go and sit on the edge of the water trough over there in the yard and wait for the waterlords to be putting out the fire. Shouldn’t take long.”
The stone trough was empty; they must have already removed the water to use. Sunblast, she could have used a drink, a wash. Her throat felt raw. Her skin was dusky with soot, her clothing stank of smoke. From where she sat, she could see water sailing through the air from the direction of the river.
The image that kept returning to her, though, was her last view of Russet. Befuddled, old, not quite understanding, and then he had… vanished. The floor, she thought. The floor disappeared under his feet. A truss had burned through somewhere, and so part of the passage had collapsed into the fire. He’s dead. Just like that. All his greed-driven dreams gone in a moment. In the end he’d returned home to die, chasing what he could not have.
She felt no regret, no love, no satisfaction. He’d caused her so much grief, and it was far from ended. Perhaps the only emotion his death engendered was relief. And a worry. He’d told her the death of a waterpainter meant the death of his magic. If he’d told the truth, then she was free. She could go back to the Quartern without becoming ill. She’d no longer have to fight the desire to press on who knew where. But that would also mean she had no protection. His death placed her in jeopardy. If Jet wanted to murder her now, he could.
She thought of returning to Breccia and felt nothing. Perhaps the compulsion had already faded. How ironical is that, she thought. I wanted to be free, and now that I am, I’m in the worst danger I’ve been for years.
Pushing all thought of Russet away, she turned her attention to her immediate predicament. I can’t waste a moment. I have to find out as much as I can about this place. About these people. That’s what’s important now.
“What’s your name?” she asked. “You speak very good Quartern, by the way.”
The fire was dying, but pitch torches in holders still burned on the outer wall of the stable. By their light, he looked at her with a puzzled expression. She was the granddaughter of a Pinnacle, but he’d been told to treat her as a prisoner. For all he knew, she was a waterlord with the power to take his water, so he was cautious. After a moment’s reflection, he shrugged. “Eden Croft,” he said. “M’family’s always had Alabasters working for them. My da’s a farmer.”
“But you joined the armsmen? You don’t wear a sword.”
“I’m an army groomsman.”
“Tell me about my cousins. Jet, for example. Is he married?”
He stirred uneasily. “None of my business,” he said at last.
“Where do the Verdigris family live when they aren’t here?”
He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the mountains. “Long ways off.”
“In the Southern Marches?”
“Further. Another Pale.”
Well, that didn’t get her very far.
“Do you know where the Kermes’ Manor is?”
Silence.
Salted wells, this is like trying to squeeze water from a stone. “Is there some objection to me knowing all this? What’s the big secret?”
“We don’t gossip with Quartern folk.” He softened the words with his apologetic tone, still obviously confused about how to treat her.
“I’m not Quartern folk. My mother was Lord Bice’s cousin. And my father was an eel-catcher from around here somewhere. His name was Erith Grey.”
The man gaped. “Ye’re one of
the Greys?” he asked.
“So Lord Russet told me. That’s the old man—my great-grandfather.” She looked at the burning house and rubbed at an eye. Obligingly, it started to water, more because of the soot on her finger than any grief. “He—he died a few minutes ago, in the fire. I’m—I’m all by myself now.”
He looked horrified. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone had died.” When she silently brushed away a tear, he added, “The Greys are famous round these parts. My sister married into the family.”
“Really? Can you tell me anything about my father? I know nothing! I’d love to meet his family.”
He eyed her cautiously. “I didn’t know Erith. My sister might have done, but—well, her husband isn’t a waterlord or anything like that. He doesn’t see much of that side of his family.”
She stared at him. “Waterlords?” she asked, incredulous. “Erith was a waterlord?”
“I didn’t say that. He can’t have been, not with a name like Erith. But he was from that branch of the family. Ye’d have to ask m’wife.” He shrugged. “What do I know of lords? I’m a simple man who tends the alpiners. Listen, lady, I reckon ye’re in a heap of trouble here, specially if Lord Russet truly is dead. If ye have a chance, go back across the border.”
And I think I would if I could—but I’ve sent away the people who would have gladly helped me. At the very time it might just have been possible to leave. Sunblast it, the timing is ridiculous! Russet had thwarted her even by the hour of his dying. She closed her eyes briefly and felt herself sway as loneliness and fear engulfed her.
No. She mustn’t give way. She opened her eyes. “I came here to beg help on behalf of the Cloudmaster of the Quartern. We need waterlords to come to us, to bring water from the sea to our mother wells. Do you think any waterlords would want to aid us that way?”
“We Khromatians don’t mix with others,” he replied after pondering the question. “It’s a contamination.”
“You employ Alabasters.”
Uneasily, he nodded. “I was even raised by an Alabaster nurse. That’s how most of us learned to be speaking your tongue. But Alabasters are servants. We call them the Forbidden People. They are not even supposed to profane our language by using it, although they do. And none of our people are supposed to be crossing the Borderlands.”
“And yet one of your—our people went there once and taught the water sensitives of the Quartern how to stormshift.”
“Ah, ye mean Ash Gridelin. He’s much looked down upon here for deserting his people and his land. We don’t do such things. No, m’lord, ye’ll not find waterlords here who’ll go to your land.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “But then, who am I to be speaking for lords? They’re as far above me as the stars are above the mountains.”
After that he became taciturn again, although he did promise to ask his sister to find out what she could about Erith Grey. “But I’m not like to be seeing ye again, m’lord, to tell ye what she might find out.”
About the run of a sandglass later, when the fire was completely out, Bice came around the corner into the yard, his face grim and besmirched with ash and soot. Jet and Rubric were with him. Bice dismissed Eden Croft with a brusque wave of his hand and the man scurried away, his speed indicating that he knew better than to be in the commander’s vicinity when he was in a mood like this.
“I want to talk to ye,” Bice said to Terelle. “Now.” He spoke to her in Quartern, for which she was grateful, even though his accent was thick and hard to understand.
“Good,” she said, “I always wanted to talk to you. You’re the one who preferred to murder us rather than hear what we had to say. And don’t try to tell me differently. Jet made his intentions quite clear when he came to kill me.”
“Your damned Alabaster set fire to my house!”
“Feroze? What were you trying to do to him at the time? You can’t tell me he would do anything like that deliberately unless it was to save his own life, and ours.”
He smiled, a grim smile that bordered on a sneer.
Her heart turned over in dread. “He’s—oh, hells. He really is dead, isn’t he? He is—was—a gentle man, and his death is on your conscience. What is the matter with you? We came in peace, to ask your help.”
“Ye came to be usurping my father’s place.”
“Twaddle! I’ve never had any intention of staying here. I wanted to see the Pinnacle and bring the request from the Cloudmaster. Our land is in trouble. Once before one of your people saved us. We were hoping that some of your waterlords could find the compassion to do the same again.”
Even as she spoke, she was trying not to blush, remembering just how Ash Gridelin had set about giving help.
“That’s a likely story,” he said, his tone thick with contempt and disbelief. She knew he wasn’t speaking of Ash Gridelin. “Anyway, we don’t give a spit for your problems. Ye’re no concern of ours.” He drew his sword and placed the point at the base of her throat.
Terror burgeoned inside, overwhelming thought. I’ve no protection…
“Do we have to go through this ridiculous charade all over again?” she asked, surprised to hear how steady her voice was. “I have had my future painted. Are you prepared to have the magic twist back to hit you because you try to kill me? Ask Jet what happened. He tried to murder me and the house caught fire.”
“You can’t kill her, Pa,” Jet said in his own tongue. “I tried. So did my overman. It was impossible. She’s telling the truth—someone must have painted her future. And mother has said often enough that waterpainting magic has a way of biting you in the nose if ye try to circumvent it.”
She was about to nod, and changed her mind. Moving your head up and down isn’t a good idea when you have a sword poking you in the throat, you daft woman. Then she realised what he’d said. For some reason it wasn’t obvious to Jet that it must have been Russet who painted her. Why not? They think that the Quartern has waterpainters?
“Yes,” she said. Her mind raced, then everything slotted into place, explaining so much, even Russet’s arrogance. They were so self-contained that outsiders were irrelevant to them. The Alabasters they tolerated because they needed them and Alabasters had once been Khromatians. Beyond the White Quarter, they had no interest in anything. They knew the Quartern had stormlords, but they’d never bothered to find out enough to discover that waterpainting was unknown there. Doubtless they thought Ash Gridelin had passed on both talents to his descendants.
“Yes, someone did paint my future,” she said, taking care with her choice of words. “To make sure I would return safe to the Quartern.”
“Where did he paint ye? What were ye doing? Where’s the painting?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Where do you think it is? I left it with the Cloudmaster.”
The point of his sword dropped away from her throat. Bice turned to Jet, reverting to his own language again. “You said she did a waterpainting?”
He pulled the painting she’d done of Feroze, Dibble and Elmar out of his pocket and smoothed it out.
Bice glared at her and tapped the painting. “Where is this place?”
“Those are the gates to Samphire.”
Jet snorted. “She’s been clever in her choice of scene. She made it so there’s no point in going after them, Pa. With the magic on their side, chances are we couldn’t catch them, not when they’ve already had a good start, and we certainly couldn’t kill them.” He turned to Rubric. “And you’re off the hook, brother. Not your fault you made such a mess of killing those Alabasters. The magic wasn’t on your side.”
She was struggling to follow the conversation and couldn’t interpret the odd look on Rubric’s face, nor the quick perplexed glance he shot at his brother.
“Have you removed her paint-powders?” Bice asked him.
“If she or Russet had any more in their rooms, they burned up. We did take a lot out of their luggage earlier. I’ll give them to Mother; she’ll appreciate having them.”
“I wasn’t threatening you,” she protested. “I don’t care a grain of sand for being the Pinnacle. I am about to marry the Cloudmaster of the Quartern. All we ever wanted was the help of a few of your waterlords. Which is in your interest, if you think about it.”
He snorted and was about to cut her off, so she rushed to say all she needed. “You trade with us. You buy our salt and minerals. You use the labour of the Alabasters who are part of our land. Somehow, I think you’d find it hard if we didn’t exist. And that’s a very real possibility. We’ve only one stormlord at the moment. What happens when he dies? Even now he cannot bring enough water to the Quartern on his own.”
“Your waterpainters can bring you rain.”
Sunblast. It’s so hard to keep track of lies… “You must know that using waterpainting is not so simple! The consequences can be disastrous. The truth is the Quartern is dying of thirst and the Stormlord’ll cut water to the Alabasters first. What then for you? One day you’ll be the Pinnacle. How will you manage here in the Southern Marches without Alabaster labour? Without our minerals and salts and metals?”
There was a moment’s silence when she’d finished, so she knew she’d said something to give them pause. In the end, though, Bice just shrugged and turned to his sons, speaking in his own tongue. “Have some waterlords go after the Scarpermen as far as the Borderlands to be making sure they don’t double back. Then you, Jet, and Rubric depart tomorrow for Verdigris Manor. It’s time you both saw your mother anyway. Take this woman…” He paused, then asked in Quartern, “What’s your name again?”