Talontale

2: Water

The sun burns the western slopes of the mountains as he turns his back on the lowlands, but on the eastern sides, blissful shade is already lengthening. There, the smell of scorched dust that clings to everything at this time of year will soon begin to fade, especially around the troughs where people fetch water or freshen up a little before their afternoon duties. The pool is higher up, close to the youth hall. He'll be sooner refreshed than the others, but they'll be more so once they get there.

On both sides of the road, the fields of millet, barley and beans are quiet, the crops ruffled only by a dry, gentle breeze. No peasant would willingly work the fields under the noon sun. It would be a waste of water anyway.

The road is all but deserted, too. He overtakes a couple of women leading a line of three loaded sanadels - desert-living relatives of the pangar - trudging stolidly on towards the city. A merchant and a guard, by the looks of them, not bothering to set up a noon camp so close to their goal. They glower at him from under their shading headcloths with the empty stares of people on the last lap of a taxing journey, busy just putting one foot in front of the other.

After that, all he meets is a single peasant hurrying home after some errand in the city. Not for the first nor last time, Arik finds himself wondering about the life of a peasant, so different from his own. Theirs is considered one of the lowest of the trades - only the people doing chores are lower, cleaners, diggers, porters and the like - while the martial arts that Arik pursues rank as the highest of all arts. Peasants are under obligation to provide for the city as much as for themselves. And yet in some ways, they have more freedom. For one thing, they make their families without having to battle death first.

When he begins to wonder about the lives of peasants, merchants and other tradespeople, he cannot help but wonder which life he would have chosen if he could have. And then, as always, he shrugs off those futile thoughts and bites down around the life he was given, to live - or die - as best he can.

Ealwin told him this morning that they would be doing imagery first today. With that in mind, Arik heads for the quarter where the imagers' workshops are centred. That's near the square on the mountain shoulder where people coming up from the lowlands go to showcase their goods. The best clay for tablets or pottery comes from the border between desert and mountains, where water meets silt. Many lowlanders also know how to find good minerals for dyeing, out there in the desert, fetching good prices with the imagers on the low market.

When the ground starts rising, there is an increase in greenery making the air more wholesome. The irrigation ditches are also closer and retain some moisture from the morning's watering. Breathing becomes easier, which is a blessing as the road steepens, beginning to wind across the slopes. Then the sparse clay huts give way to low houses, some of which are stone, and then the city proper begins with cobbles or stairs underfoot.

Thence it is but a short climb to the low market. But before that, he turns aside to a little hollow under a cliff, where there's a handy trough. It's not deserted - a handful of girls are there, taking their time about getting water and gossip alike. Not peasants, but from families of some trade or other. An elderly woman of the same kind is there, too. That doesn't keep Arik from stripping to his drawers to wash, to the delight of the girls and the dismay of the woman. Among the Leawar, skin is not considered shameful to show. Not so with the lowlanders, who only wash in private.

Under their eyes, he is still quick about it, dousing himself with the straw pail, careful so that the soiled water goes down the drain to the reservoir feeding the irrigation ditches. Then he treats his shirt and breeches in the same way. Pride swells in him as he thinks about the ingenious water system devised by the waterseers, allowing the city to flourish in this arid land. As he watches the rivulets swirling into the holes, he appreciates that even this lowly masonry is decorated with flowery patterns, courtesy of the craft of his people.

Well, his father's people, to be precise, only half his heritage. Even so, it lends him enough sense of dignity to smile amiably at the group as he dresses again, enjoying the coolness of wet linen against his body. It earns him a smattering of giggles and a scowl.

"Hot and dusty on the kingspit field today," he comments as an explanation. The old woman draws her breath and opens her mouth, probably for some remark about decency, but it is left unuttered as one of the girls beat her to it.

"So how many kings did you spit, working so hard?" she asks, cocking her head with an impish grin. His smile fades and he turns, reaching for a clay drinking mug to hide his blush.

"I saved our king several times," he replies after having his drink, setting down the mug and looking straight at her. He realises now that the girl is rather pretty and obviously knows it. Her colourful, green-gold dress highlights the tone of her skin, several shades deeper than that of the Leawar girls. None of them could carry those colours as well as the lowlanders do, but then they prefer more discreet garb. The only colours worn by Leawar, beyond practical gray and brown, white and black, are the patterns marking their occupation and status.

"So you spitted none, then," she concludes, cocking her head the other way and raising a delicate eyebrow. "Not one for glory, are you?"

He sighs and slings his jacket over his shoulder. "Not really, no," he admits as he passes them by, leaving without looking back, outwardly ignoring their renewed burst of giggles.

"Glory isn't everything anyway, you know," he hears the girl calling after him. Perhaps she means to tease him one last time, or perhaps she's sorry for him. Either way it does nothing to improve his mood as he resumes the ascent into the city.

Business is down on the low market during the hot hours, but outside the tavern, Arik spots two imager journeymen enjoying a cool draught in the shade. Their friendly banter with the tavern keeper might lead a stranger to believe that they are equals, but anyone from around knows that they throw their carefully weighed and measured witticisms at each other from opposite sides of a chasm. Arts and crafts are for clanners, trades and chores for the lower folk. They were the ones conquered when the clan people came into this land, in the foggy ages before the Pact was made between griph and clan. Unions between the two are unheard of. That doesn't mean it never happens, but if it does, it's thoroughly hushed down.

With outclanners, like Arik's mother, it's more complicated. They might be accepted into the Leawar clan, but never will they be other than an outclanner and their children will ever be half-blooded.

"Good rest to you, masters journeymen," he greets them. "Do you know Ealwin, the mairtan? Was he with you this morning?"

They fall silent and turn towards him, eyeing him curiously. The tavern keeper excuses himself and moves away into the house.

"You're Arem's scion, right?" says one of them, a sturdy young man - or igman, rather, though only recently so, young enough that no signs of the sacrifice shows yet. "Aren't you a swean?"

"I am," he confirms, unruffled by the fact that they know him while he cannot place their faces. Everyone knows the monkey, as the saying goes - or the half-blood, as in this case. He's used to it. "But I am also a good friend of Ealwin's. Was he with you?"

"He was," the other journeyman answers, a lean woman with unruly hair, somewhat older than her companion. "They headed towards the youth hall after their work was done, but I believe they said they would buy some fruit and have a rest first. They probably haven't gone far."

Arik thanks them and walks away. Heading for the nearest trough, he smiles as he remembers how eager his friend was this morning. They were going to colour the faces they carved last time and Ealwin has been talking the whole week about how he has some novel idea for shading, though he refused to tell what it was until he'd tried it. It will be interesting to learn what it was and how it worked out, and what will be his next passionate idea if it didn't.