Blood of the Chosen
O fiery river
You will never run into the sea.
Leaving Sthax and the other warriors to guard the ammonites Carnelian followed Morunasa down the ladders through the watch-tower. He was struggling to overcome shock. He was also angry with himself. He had known they were coming to Qunoth to take its dragons. Clearly, he had never really believed they would do it. He remembered the dragons advancing on the Koppie amidst their firestorm. The power of a legion was his and Osidian’s to wield. He watched his pale hands gripping rungs and was filled with foreboding. He was deluding himself. They might have taken this power together, but it would be wielded by Osidian alone.
Walls on either side were pierced with doors to which ridged aquar ramps climbed. Rising before them, above the roofs, was a curving rampart whose upper rim was catching the sun. Deeply recessed into this was a gate banded with green bronze. From his survey aloft, Carnelian knew this must give access to the dragon cothon. A narrow blade of light running down the middle of the gate showed it was open. When he reached the gap he peered through, but inside it was too bright to see anything. The air was sharp with the tang of naphtha. Underlying this was a duller odour that he could not identify.
Hearing Morunasa coming up behind him, Carnelian slipped through. Four stone piers formed an avenue leading to open space ablaze with light. He gazed up at the piers. They carried beams and bore tall structures like upright fists, between the knuckles of which ran ropes. Some kind of framework was up there, machinery, tensioned ropes crisscrossing like rigging and an immense mast. As Morunasa strode past him, Carnelian turned. Vaults were cut deep into the cothon wall on either side of the gate. He walked back to investigate and saw more vaults piercing the wall all along its inner curve, as far round as he could see, like shiphouses around a harbour.
‘Master?’
Carnelian looked round, saw Morunasa waiting and went to join him. Squinting against the glare, they passed the second set of piers. A cobbled expanse opened before them, at its hub what appeared to be a spiked tower of bronze. The open space was ringed about by some three dozen of the stone piers as regular as the spokes of a wheel. Between each pair stretched beams upon which sat an ivory pyramid from which there rose a mast. The last time he had seen such structures they had been on the backs of dragons.
‘The Master,’ said Morunasa, pointing.
Tiny figures stood beneath one of these dragon towers. As he and Morunasa crossed the cothon floor, Carnelian felt they were a sort of insect crawling across the face of some infernal mechanism that, should it grind into motion, would smear them over the cobbles.
Nearing the figures he grew increasingly alarmed at how precariously the pyramid hung above them. The sagging beams did not look strong enough to hold it, nor the cradle of ropes. The figures were now coming to meet him. Osidian was not among them and they were not Marula. These men were honey-skinned and encased in ribbed cuirasses of black leather. Their skin, and the glint of brass at their throats, showed them to be marumaga legionaries. Instinct made Carnelian shroud his face. When still at some distance they fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the cobbles. ‘Master.’
Carnelian hesitated. No one had made obeisance to him for years. It felt wrong, unnatural. Yet a second impression warred with the first. He became aware of how tall he was, how powerfully he stood upon the earth. Their abasement elevated him. Though he stank from the passage of the sewer, though he was clothed in rags, their posture seemed to demand from him elegant condescension, which found expression in his lifted hand: Rise.
They responded to the gesture as if the only life they possessed came from strings dangling from his fingers.
‘The other Master?’
Rising, they backed away, keeping their eyes averted. Making a barrier gesture, Carnelian stopped Morunasa from accompanying him and set off after the legionaries. As he passed under the dragon tower he glanced up. Tubes and sockets issuing from its murky base oozed a stench of naphtha. He could not imagine how this device could sit comfortably upon a dragon’s back. Emerging from its shadow, he saw his guides were moving under the second ring of piers, upon whose beams rested a squatter structure, like a table that was narrower at one end and had, at each corner, a stump foot. He realized this must be the base of the tower of which the pyramid was only the upper part.
As he passed under this second platform, a saurian musk began to overpower the naphtha reek. Wariness that he was approaching an earther, or even a heavener, made Carnelian slow. It was the hair rising on his neck that alerted him to this being a creature even more dangerous. Further, the air was tainted by something like the carrion stench that raveners gave off. He peered into the darkness that yawned before him. They were approaching one of the vaults cut into the cothon wall. Framed in its dark mouth was Osidian’s slender figure in his Leper shrouds, but Carnelian only had time to glance at him before he froze. Something vast lurked in the gloom. He began to make out a beak hanging high above Osidian’s head. From this, vast curves swept back to the swelling bows of a cranium that branched on either side into backward-curving sickle horns. There before him, vast as a baran, was a dragon.
‘He sleeps,’ murmured Osidian without turning.
Carnelian gaped at the monster. He could have believed it only a colossus carved from a cliff had it not been for the warm odour it was giving off.
‘Do you hear his heart?’
Struggling with dark memories Carnelian sought some reassurance in Osidian’s face, but could not see past his cowl. It was a tremor like distant thunder that made him gaze back at the monster. He waited. From deep in its flesh another tremor reverberated. It seemed less a heartbeat than how the pulse of sap might sound in a cedar. Deceptively peaceful that slow drumbeat, but he had seen what such a monster became when fully armed. Such stillness was the eerie calm before a storm.
Doubt gnawed at him. He leaned forward enough so that he could peer into Osidian’s cowl. How greedily his eyes were fixed upon the dragon. How bright they were. The same intensity no doubt as when he had overseen the murder of the Ochre. Carnelian pulled back, fighting panic. What had he done? How could he have helped put this terror in the hands of a murderer? He counted out the familiar arguments like beads. His breathing slowed as, grimly, he remembered what the Lepers had chosen to endure a second time so as to give him and Osidian a chance to take these dragons. Even now Poppy, Fern and Krow as well as Lily could be fighting Aurum for their lives. He had had a choice then, but now had none. He had to play the game to the end.
‘I am certain the tower had no chance to send a message into the Guarded Land,’ he said. ‘But there is another tower here beyond this cothon.’
Osidian nodded. ‘The tower of the Legate.’
‘I suspect it has a heliograph of its own.’
As Osidian turned to him, the power lust dulled in his eyes. ‘That we could keep the Wise blind to what we are doing was only ever a thin hope. Nevertheless, I still believe we have time enough.’
‘Time enough for what?’
‘To get these huimur ready,’ Osidian said, a gleam coming back into his eyes as he glanced up at the monster, ‘before Aurum arrives.’
Carnelian wondered at Osidian’s confidence. If an alarm had been sent from the Legate’s tower it would take at least a day to reach Osrakum. Much depended on the nature of that alarm. It was unlikely the Wise could be certain that it was indeed Osidian in Qunoth. Even if the Legate here had known that beyond doubt, which seemed improbable, why would the Wise believe him? By what miracle could Osidian have appeared in the Guarded Land without breaching the Ringwall?
‘Are you so certain the Wise will resort to sending Aurum?’
Osidian nodded. ‘Even if they dared dispatch one of the Lesser Chosen against me they would be reluctant to do so.’
‘Because they still hope to conceal all of this from Ykoriana?’
Osidian frowned and nodded again.
‘Most likely, Aurum is still in the Leper Valleys…’ Carnelian said, imagining again the valleys burning. A determination surged in him to save his loved ones and the Lepers from Aurum. He calmed himself. He could not afford to have his mind dulled by emotion. ‘Can we operate a legion without the Chosen commanders?’
One of Osidian’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why should we choose to do that?’
‘Surely they will not agree to fight for us?’
‘They are accustomed to obeying the House of the Masks.’
Carnelian bit back a comment that it was Osidian’s brother Molochite to whom the commanders owed allegiance, and realized he did so because he was reluctant to test Osidian’s confidence in case it should prove brittle. Things were already tenuous enough. ‘Is it not rather the Wise they obey?’
Osidian’s hand sketched a gesture of agreement. ‘The Domain of Legions to be precise, but we shall make sure to cut their link to each other.’
Carnelian looked for the Legate’s tower, but it was hidden by the cothon and its mechanisms. ‘You intend that we should storm the other tower?’
‘I do not think it will come to that.’ Osidian was smiling. ‘The Legate is the key that will open our way to that tower.’ Carnelian must have betrayed disbelief, for Osidian continued: ‘I shall summon him and he will attend me.’
Carnelian tried to see behind Osidian’s certainty. ‘What then?’
Osidian shrugged. ‘I have not lost my power to command.’
Again, Carnelian chose not to challenge Osidian’s apparent confidence. He eyed the legionaries standing in the shadow of a pier. ‘And the legionaries?’
Osidian flung a dismissive gesture. ‘They did not hesitate to open the cothon for me. Partly this was because they sensed I was unmasked, but even without their fear of my face they would have obeyed me. Generations of subservience have trained them to serve any and all of the Chosen. I doubt if even with express instructions from a Lord of higher rank they would dare raise a hand against one of the Chosen. Nevertheless, I have made sure to display enough hauteur that they can have no doubts I outrank the Lords they have been used to serve.’
Carnelian remained unconvinced, but time would tell. ‘What now?’
Osidian raised his arms to display his filthy shrouds. ‘Would my Lord not like to be cleaned?’
Carnelian agreed enthusiastically enough to that. Whatever might come to pass, there could be no advantage in confronting it smelling of the Midden.
Marumaga legionaries were closing the shutters of the windows that looked into the courtyard. Standing with Osidian in the shade Carnelian watched their jerky movements with uncomfortable fascination. Four others kneeling nearby, hunched as they buried their faces between their knees, displayed the terror all were feeling. With his fist Carnelian held his cowl closed against his mouth and nose. He was viscerally aware a glimpse of his face would be fatal to them.
The last shutters closed, all but the four men kneeling fled.
‘What are your ranks?’ Osidian asked, though he already knew the answer because he had summoned them.
Without looking up, one whose hair was grey leaned his head to expose his collar. He pulled his sliders round. Three broken rings. ‘Quartermaster General, Master.’
‘These others…?’
There was a clinking as the younger men exposed their necks to present their service rings for inspection.
‘… they are the Dragon Quartermaster, the Master of Beasts, the Master of Towers.’
Carnelian saw that each had two zero rings and a varying number of five-bar and single-stud rings.
‘You are responsible for mobilization?’
‘We are, Master,’ said the Quartermaster.
‘Since we have no slaves of our own you shall wash us.’
Carnelian watched the colour draining from their necks. Osidian made a barrier sign that forbade Carnelian from interfering, then he glanced over to where bowls of water were steaming beside a stack of carefully folded cloth. ‘Why do you hesitate?’
The Quartermaster lifted his head a little. ‘We have not the skill, Master.’
‘Nevertheless, you will do it.’
‘Your… your faces, Master.’
‘Your closed eyes will be mask enough for us.’
Osidian turned his back on them and raised his arms from his sides for them to disrobe him. Carnelian hesitated a moment, then did the same. It had occurred to him to suggest to Osidian that they could wash themselves, each other even, but he had seen this was foolishness. He was now as subject to the Law as those poor creatures. Besides, he understood that this exercise was intended to cow them, to make these legionary officers malleable to Osidian’s will.
The feeling of being undressed was to Carnelian at the same time strange and familiar. He could not help a sigh of relief as the shrouds slid off. A legionary crept round him, eyes wedged into the crook of his elbow, carefully removing Carnelian’s loincloth. He watched, breathless with fear that the man might stumble and lose his blindfold.
When he was naked Carnelian looked down with embarrassment at how filthy he was. He was shocked at how tainted his skin had become. He had grown so accustomed to its ruddiness he had thought it white, but in this place his body seemed suddenly that of a barbarian. He glanced over at Osidian. It had been a while since he had seen him naked. His body had changed. The boy had become fully a man. Carnelian liked the barbarian tone of Osidian’s skin though it was much disfigured by the weals where the maggots had exited.
It was as Carnelian realized he was staring that Osidian caught him and registered that he was being judged. He turned away, but not before Carnelian had seen the pain of humiliation in his face. Carnelian looked across the courtyard, overwhelmed by sadness, confused. Everything there was conspiring to take him back to the time before they had been cast out of Osrakum; to a time when they had been lovers, when Carnelian had wanted nothing more than to protect Osidian. To a time before Osidian had become a monster.
The touch of wet cloth on his skin brought him out of his reverie and he realized with first surprise then horror how easily he had forgotten the legionaries. He looked down at the one cleaning him. Over forty, he had the solid face of a man used to giving orders. His eyes were scrunched tightly closed. Carnelian could smell his fear, could feel the trembling of his hand as it rubbed away the grime.
When they had finished cleaning them the legionaries retreated. Carnelian and Osidian stood naked with their backs to them, drying in the hot air.
‘Summon ammonites of the highest ranking you can find. Have them bring parchment and ink,’ Osidian said.
‘Instantly, Master,’ said one of the legionaries and then he could be heard running off.
Carnelian did not dare turn to look at Osidian lest his face be seen. ‘It is a delight is it not, my Lord, to be clean?’
‘It is,’ said Osidian.
As they waited, Carnelian found the temptation to turn to see what was behind him almost overpowering. His skin had dried when he heard a scurry of footfalls approaching.
‘Avert your eyes,’ Osidian commanded when silence had fallen.
From the corner of his eye Carnelian saw him turn and followed his lead. All four legionaries were there. Arrayed beside them on the flagstones were the purple-shrouded forms of ammonites. All had their heads buried between their knees.
Osidian approached them and, crouching, he touched two of the yellow heads, causing each of their owners to give a violent start. ‘Give me your masks.’
The creatures mumbled in confusion. Osidian waited, frowning. ‘I will not ask again.’
The ammonites fumbled their masks loose and held them, shaking, up to Osidian, who took them, then rose and offered one to Carnelian. He accepted the hollow face and cradled it in his hand. Though it was not the gold of a Master’s mask it evoked strong memories of that other life where he had worn one every day. Slowly he leaned his face into it. Of course it was too small. With the eyeslits where he could see through them, the mask’s lower edge barely covered his mouth. Still, he reached behind his head to tie it on. It was a prison for his face. He turned to look at Osidian, a hand covering his chin. The small silver face superimposed upon Osidian’s gave him a sinister cast.
‘Rise and behold us,’ Osidian intoned.
Reluctantly, the legionaries and ammonites obeyed. Carnelian judged the legionaries the braver, for they were first to dare raise their eyes. The two unmasked ammonites were the last.
Osidian addressed them. ‘You have the parchment and ink?’
‘At your command, Seraph,’ one said and they showed him some creamy sheets folded into panels, an ink jar, some styluses.
‘You will write a letter for me.’
One of the unmasked men sank cross-legged while the other ammonites laid the parchment, ink and styluses on the stone before him. He inked a stylus and turned his tattooed face up expectantly. Osidian began to dictate a summons to the Legate. It was cordial enough though all the verbs were in the requisitive mode.
When the letter was finished the ammonite looked up. ‘How shall your letter be sealed, Seraph?’
Osidian held up his hand. ‘As you see, I seem to have mislaid my blood-ring. Perhaps you would be kind enough to seal it yourself.’
The ammonite looked uneasy. ‘What name shall I write, Seraph, what House?’
‘Osidian Nephron of the Masks.’
The heads of the ammonites jerked up.
‘Would you like to verify my taint scars?’
The ammonites waved their hands in frantic protest. ‘Not so, Seraph… Celestial… Your word is enough… of course.. .’
Osidian’s small silver face thrust forward. ‘But I insist.’ He pointed at the second unmasked ammonite and gestured for him to approach. Examination tattoos were lost in his wrinkling brow as the man shuffled up. Osidian turned his back for him. The man reached up to touch his flesh as if it were ice. He felt his way down the taint scars running on the right side of Osidian’s spine. It was obvious to everyone the left was smooth.
The ammonite’s legs seemed to lose their strength as he fell prostrate to crack his forehead on the cobbles. ‘Celestial,’ he murmured.
His fellows copied his abject abasement. Seeing this the legionaries joined them. Carnelian and Osidian were left like the only trees strong enough to have survived a storm.
Osidian commanded the ammonites to take the letter and deliver it to the Legate. They complied, fleeing as fast as decorum would allow. Then Osidian came to loom over the Quartermaster. ‘Rise.’
He had to say it again before the man obeyed. ‘How long would it take for a legion to reach here from Makar?’
‘Master?’
‘How long?’
The man narrowed his eyes, thinking. ‘Perhaps six days, Master.’
‘How quickly can the dragons here be fully armed?’
The man shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Ten days, Master, is the standard requirement.’
‘You will do it in five.’
The man blinked up at him as if he was convinced he had misheard.
‘Five. Go and wake them now.’ Turning his back on the legionary Osidian held his hand out in a gesture of dismissal.
Carnelian stepped into the barracks block Osidian had had the legionaries prepare for them. He removed the ammonite mask and rubbed at where it had impressed its rim into his face. He enjoyed the cool limestone, smooth beneath his feet. He ran his fingers along the hairline joints between the stones in the wall. He wondered at the perfect square angles of the chamber. The sleeping platforms were of finely jointed wood. Thick mattresses lay over them, each provided with a blanket of raven feathers. He plucked one up, brought it to his lips, breathed in its clean odour. A ewer was set into a niche, from which he poured a draught of clear water into a bowl. He drank and was surprised at the taste. So pure it seemed sweet. He regarded the chamber in wonder. He had forgotten that such order was possible.
Osidian was drawn back to the door by a man begging audience. He returned holding a letter. Carnelian watched him read it. Osidian passed the letter to him. Carnelian paused for a moment, startled by the beauty of the glyphs on the parchment. Then he turned them into sounds. When he was finished he looked up. ‘He is not coming.’
Osidian smiled. ‘Oh, he will.’
Carnelian woke on the floor of the chamber. He had started the night on the bed, but it had made his back ache. He became aware of Osidian gazing down at him.
‘Why are you on the floor, my Lord? We no longer have need to live like barbarians.’
Carnelian rose and wrapped himself in his raven-feather blanket. He indicated the mattress with his chin. ‘After so long sleeping on the earth that seems too soft. Did you manage to sleep comfortably on yours?’
Osidian frowned, but gave no answer. ‘Tonight we shall have no need of these primitive arrangements.’ He took in the chamber with an elegant gesture. ‘We shall resume our proper place among the Chosen.’ His frown deepened. ‘We must be ready.’
Breakfast was hri cakes and water. The delicate wafers crumbled as they bit into them. Carnelian was amazed at their flavour. In his memory they had been so bland. Now the hri seemed rich, with a nutty, lingering finish. The taste was, at the same time, familiar. Each mouthful brought back more memories of the life that had been his before exile. Disturbing images mixed with joyous ones. Osrakum still seemed a fairytale, but his father was becoming real again – and Ebeny and his brothers. Wounds of loss he had long ago thought cauterized were opening.
A Maruli coming into the chamber was a welcome distraction. In his hand the man had a folded parchment. Carnelian was struck by the man’s odour and wondered that he had not noticed it before. Osidian seemed uncomfortable as he accepted the letter. Carnelian looked from him to the Maruli and saw, with a jolt, how the man’s bloodshot eyes were gazing at Osidian’s face. The Maruli’s stare had already earned him a terrible death. When the man had left, Carnelian tried in vain to read Osidian’s impassive expression, and decided he must confront the issue openly. ‘We will have to do something about them.’
Osidian looked at him.
‘The Law will take them all from us.’
Osidian frowned.
‘Perhaps we should adopt them into our Houses.’
Still frowning, Osidian broke eye contact to concentrate on the letter. He unfolded it and read. The corners of his mouth rose perceptibly. ‘It seems our dear Legate is deigning, after all, to pay us a visit.’
Carnelian nodded. He had had time to think about it and was not surprised. One of the Lesser Chosen, even a Legate, would find it impossible to ignore a summons from a Lord of the House of the Masks. He was trying to imagine the meeting between Osidian and the Legate when he realized something. ‘What shall we wear?’
Osidian shrugged. Carnelian hunted around. The best he could find were some robes of coarse black cloth. He showed them to Osidian, who gave a grimace of distaste, but then flung out a gesture indicating he did not care. He smiled humourlessly. ‘A difference in rank inhabits the mind more completely than does the impression of proper state.’
Wearing the black robes and ammonite masks they returned to the cothon. Osidian had decided it was there he would receive the Legate. Carnelian was content with this, being curious to watch the dragons being woken.
It was the Master of Beasts who guided them to one of the vaults in the cothon wall. ‘The Legate’s own dragon, Master, and our strongest.’
A vast presence filled the vault. Horns gleamed faintly. Stripes of sun sculpted the contours of its head. Its reek oppressed Carnelian with memories of the Earthsky and corpses. In the depths of the vault, brass toppled in massive links. Instinctively Carnelian took a step back. ‘Is it already awake?’
‘Not fully so, Master,’ said the Master of Beasts. ‘Normally the waking takes many days as we wait for the drugs to wear off, but-’ He glanced at Osidian. ‘The command for haste means we’ve had to resort to administering waking drugs.’
Carnelian wondered if he was detecting a tone of reproach, but decided the man was only expressing genuine concern for his dragon.
Osidian walked over to one side of the vault. Seeking distraction from his unease Carnelian followed him. There a spar rose, barbed like a tree amputated of its branches. It was held between the prongs of stone forks that were set up the wall. Its trunk was smooth, its upper part sheathed in a green bark of copper. Glyphed oblong plaques were riveted all the way up to where this standard blossomed into a pair of grimacing faces.
‘He is ancient,’ whispered Osidian, pointing upwards.
Carnelian strained to read the plaques through the narrow slits of his ammonite mask.
‘He has held many positions in the line.’ There was passion in Osidian’s voice. ‘He is a lord of battles. Behold, he is called Heart-of-Thunder.’
As if responding to his name, the dragon avalanched towards them. Sun-stripes climbed the flare of bone behind his head. His beak sliced the air. A putrid stench exuded from his maw. His horns flashed. His eye was a blind, milky moon. The Master of Beasts was bellowing, but before they were overwhelmed, chains clattered taut to hold the monster back. The head swayed a moment there on cables of sinew, then it swung back into the gloom. Shock juddered Carnelian’s chest, a relic of the thunder of the monster’s feet.
The Master of Beasts barked instructions into the vault. Carnelian saw figures scrambling up the walls. He heard a metallic crunching as some windlass pulled the brass chains taut.
‘Was he in danger of coming free?’ Carnelian asked.
The Master of Beasts glanced at Carnelian in surprise. ‘Oh no, Master.’ His eyes strayed back to the tightening chains. ‘He still dreams. His chains were too loose. We let them out slowly to allow his muscles to regain strength enough to hold his head up on their own.’ He pointed into the gloom and Carnelian saw more chains fixed to the monster’s legs and abdomen.
‘Without those he’d collapse. The waking is a delicate business. If he were to break a leg he might not survive.’ That thought was enough to make the Master of Beasts pale. ‘Many would die with him.’
Carnelian imagined that a reference to his keepers. ‘How long before he can have a tower put upon his back?’
The Master of Beasts turned to him. ‘A tower complete, Master?’
Carnelian nodded.
The man shrugged. ‘We dare burden him only in accordance with his returning strength. Perhaps four days, Master.’
‘They recover more slowly than do the Wise,’ said Osidian in Quya.
Carnelian looked round. ‘The Wise take the same drugs?’
‘Something very like,’ Osidian said.
As a child Carnelian had been told stories of how the Wise often sank into a magic sleep so as to extend their lives. This was one of the many things he had dismissed as fantasy.
Osidian took his shoulder and led him away. ‘We must prepare to give audience to the Legate.’
‘Do the Wise live as long as the huimur?’ Carnelian asked.
Osidian made a gesture of uncertainty. ‘It is rumoured that some Grand Sapients have ruled their Domains for generations.’
Carnelian considered this. It made the Wise seem even more alien.
Osidian glanced back at the huimur. ‘Does his name not seem an omen to you?’
Carnelian grew wary. He had heard that tone before. ‘It had not occurred to me…’ He lied. He knew perfectly well that it was the heart of thunder that brought the Black God each year to Osrakum.
Standing in the long shadow of one of the cothon piers Carnelian watched the Masters approach, swinging censers. Amidst the smoke, each was a spire whose gleam was filtering through their escort of Marula. They detached from the escort and came shimmering across the cobbles. Carnelian gazed entranced. They were appallingly tall. Sun flashed from their horned helms, from their faces of gold. They seemed unearthly beings.
Carnelian stepped back into the deeper shadow cast by the dragon tower above him. As the Masters passed between the piers their jewels, their masks brought glimmers of the late afternoon light into the shadows. The clouds of incense they were weaving round them had for a moment the scent of cedar, but he quickly resolved it to be sweet myrrh. Removing his ammonite mask he stepped out to meet them. They overtopped him by a head. Glancing down, he saw they were wearing ranga. It made him aware his own feet were planted firmly on the ground in clear defiance of the Law. Myrrh was not only in the smoke rising from the censers they swung in pendular arcs, but emanated from the dense samite of their robes, from the carapaces of their iridescent armour. He looked at their hands which were spotted with symbols. These Masters were wearing the ritual protection the Wise claimed was proof against the plagues of the outer world. It made Carnelian realize he had forgotten how utterly exposed he and Osidian had been and for so long. He had lived among the Plainsmen, eaten their food, even kissed them. It would seem he was irremediably contaminated. He suppressed a smile. The masks of these Masters might be looking down on him with imperious contempt but, in his heart, he still felt cleaner than they.
‘I am Suth Carnelian.’
Though he knew the Law demanded they could not remain masked in the presence of a Lord of the Great it also declared that no Master should breathe unhallowed air. He was not sure which law took precedence, but thought it likely this was the reason they had taken the precaution of bringing incense. One by one they released their masks to reveal faces that seemed made of chalk. Startled, he remembered that the Chosen were compelled to paint their skin against the sun. Strange he had forgotten that when once it had seemed as natural to him as breathing. He began to feel unease at their predatory beauty.
‘We have come to speak with the Jade Lord,’ one said.
Carnelian saw around his neck a torc of jade and iron that bore four broken rings. ‘You are the Legate here?’
The man raised his hand in elegant affirmation.
Follow me, Carnelian gestured, which in its agreement and requisitive mode made it clear it was only the Legate he was inviting. Walking back through the piers he was pleased to hear the clack of only one set of ranga.
Beneath the arch of Heart-of-Thunder’s beak Osidian seemed a coalescing of the shadows. Carnelian stood aside to let the Legate approach. He watched with trepidation as the exquisitely armoured Master moved to loom over Osidian. Osidian seemed overmatched but, when he spoke, his voice was commanding. ‘Kneel.’
For a moment it seemed as if the Legate might defy him but, after settling his censer before him, shimmering darkly, the Lesser Chosen Lord subsided, spreading his gorgeous train upon the cobbles. Carnelian watched the Master’s grey eyes seeking to pierce the myrrh smoke to make out Osidian’s face in the gloom. ‘We heard, Celestial, you had disappeared.’
‘It seems I have reappeared.’
The Legate began to say something else, but Osidian raised a pale hand that closed his mouth. ‘Where are your auxiliaries, my Lord?’
The Legate raised hands encrusted in gems, fingers vaguely framing evasions. ‘When the Great Lord came he was impossible to resist.’
‘Did he have a mandate from the Wise?’
The Legate did not wholly manage to suppress a grimace. ‘His House is very high, Celestial.’
Osidian’s voice came forth from the abyss of darkness. ‘Is it to House Aurum you owe allegiance, my Lord? I thought you had sworn it to the House of the Masks. Was it not my father who appointed you, my brother who ratified that appointment?’ Then, more severely: ‘How do you imagine They will react to this betrayal of Their trust?’
Suddenly, brass began clattering behind Osidian. He did not flinch as chains collapsed link on link. Even when the prow of Heart-of-Thunder’s head shifted in the air above him Osidian remained motionless.
The Legate had bowed his horned military helm.
‘I will need fitting accommodation.’
‘You shall have my own chambers, Celestial. Though miserable, they are the best I have to offer.’
‘Very well, my Lord, we shall return with you to the sanctum.’
The horned helm rose. ‘Now, Celestial?’
‘Why not?’
As the Legate swept past Carnelian Osidian approached and raised his hand. ‘Come, my Lord.’
‘I shall remain here.’ Carnelian realized the Legate was within hearing and added: ‘Celestial.’
Osidian hesitated. Watching his hand, Carnelian detected a firmness in it that suggested Osidian was about to issue a command. The hand softened. ‘My Lord Legate.’
The Legate turned. ‘Celestial?’
‘Go on ahead, we shall join you presently.’
The man bowed. ‘As you command.’
Carnelian watched the Legate move away, resigning himself to a confrontation with Osidian. He turned to him. ‘Someone needs to keep an eye on things here,’ he said in Vulgate.
‘Morunasa can do that.’
‘I don’t imagine the marumaga would be happy to obey a Maruli.’
‘They will do as they are told!’
Carnelian was shocked at Osidian’s vehemence. He could not understand why this should be so important to him. ‘Surely it is obvious that we must take all precautions? These huimur have been purchased at a heavy price.’
Osidian lowered his head as he crushed one hand with the other. ‘I really want you to come with me, Carnelian.’ His anger had gone. ‘Please.’
Carnelian gazed at Osidian in disbelief, then turned to look at Heart-of-Thunder lurking in his vault. ‘Very well.’
The Legate and his companions had journeyed to the cothon in palanquins. Osidian commandeered one for himself and another for Carnelian. Two of the Lesser Chosen commanders were going to have to walk. As Osidian replaced his bearers and Carnelian’s with Marula, Carnelian looked among them for Sthax, but could not see him there. He dismissed anxiety: there were more immediate things to worry about. As he watched the changeover Carnelian was surprised how much the bearers appeared disfigured by their Masters’ heraldic tattoos. He wondered that he had ever thought it natural that men should be thus marked to show to whom they belonged. Once it had even seemed elegant; now it appeared hardly different from the branding on a sartlar’s face.
When the palanquin was ready he folded himself into it reluctantly. In contrast with the samite brocades, the inlays of tortoiseshell and pearl, his rough-woven marumaga robe appeared to be little more than sackcloth. An Oracle slid closed the lacquered door and the Marula lifted the palanquin. Inside, Carnelian felt imprisoned. Each breath he took was cloyed with the perfume of lilies, the taint of myrrh. Finding a grille he slid it back to let in some air. Framed by its gold filigree, the machines and geometries of the cothon appeared more brutal. The southern gates of the cothon gulped open. He glimpsed gate chains, toothed wheels, then he was being carried through a garden. Trunks showed they were passing down an avenue of gigantic trees. Framed between them, verdant vistas. Shield leaves thrust up fiery flower-spikes. Paths wound among rocks, quaintly carved, banded and spiralled with cultivated lichens. Here and there he managed to snatch glimpses of the sky, but these only served to make the palanquin feel more like a prison. He was uneasy. Perhaps the feeling had been caused by Osidian’s uncharacteristic gentleness towards him back in the cothon. Carnelian hoped he would not regret having agreed to join him. Perhaps his anxiety was about returning to the world of the Masters. Perhaps he was afraid he might be changed back into what he had been.
The palanquin was set down amidst muttering. Carnelian covered his lower face with a fold of his robe before carefully sliding open the door. He cried in Vulgate: ‘Look away, we are unmasked.’
Climbing out he was confronted by a gate that glared at him with a single, tearful eye. Wrought in the bronze, it was surrounded by a silver frieze of ammonite shells. These wards proclaimed whatever lay beyond to be under the jurisdiction of the Wise. Unsanctioned entry was forbidden under penalty of the Law-that-must-be-obeyed.
The gate opened a little and, from behind it, a silver face emerged with solid spiral eyes. ‘Please enter this purgatory, Seraphim. The procedures of purification await you.’
As Carnelian and Osidian approached, more ammonites appeared, hunched as each gripped with both hands the handle of a ladle in which blue fire burned. At a command it was poured over the ground before them. Flames ran across the earth. Carnelian and Osidian were urged forward onto the now purified ground. Fingers fumbled at their feet, trying to free them of their polluted footwear. A hissing made Carnelian turn to see more arcs of blue flame being ladled over the ground on which he and Osidian had walked. The palanquins they had come in were already aflame. The Marula were backing away, eyes bulging.
‘Enough! I have no patience for this,’ boomed Osidian, chasing ammonites from his path. ‘Morunasa, come with me. Bring your people.’
The Oracle gathered up the Marula and they swarmed after him. Ammonites flung themselves in their way, screeching, forbidding entry, but the Marula beat them aside. Some of the ammonites lost their blinding-masks and fell, grovelling, on the still burning earth. Carnelian glanced at the Legate and his commanders, who were watching in stiff disbelief, then followed after the Marula, who were pouring through the gate Osidian had thrown open.
Drugged smoke unfurled like ferns in the gloomy halls beyond. Carnelian felt a languor settle about his shoulders. His face began to swell, his bones to liquefy. He recognized the feeling from his entry into Osrakum. The drug was meant to encourage their submission to intrusive cleansing. A deafening clatter brought his eyes back into focus. Swaying, the Marula were knocking smoking brass bowls from their tripods. Carnelian squinted against the undulating surface of a pool in which mouths and tongues of light were kissing, separating. Backing away into the shadows were metal faces distorting reflections of their whole drunken procession. He saw a rectangle of daylight opening far away and did what he could to herd the Marula towards it. At last he was stumbling out with them into eddying daylight.
He found himself with Morunasa and the Marula in a gully between limestone walls pierced with gates. The place was already in afternoon shadow. Only the crest of the eastern wall still caught the sun. Bronze hoops held poles whose banners were swimming in a breeze. Guardsman niches were empty. A gate opened a crack. For a moment he glimpsed an eye widening with horror. Then the gate slammed closed and a voice beyond it began keening an alarm. Bolts were shot home. Commotion spread beyond the walls and a scurrying, so that Carnelian felt he was invading a termite city. Faces peered down from the battlements above. Carnelian felt as shunned as a leper.
He located Osidian, a shadowy shape striding away along the gully towards where a tower rose, tier on sculptured tier. Morunasa asked for instructions, but Carnelian ignored him and set off after Osidian. The Marula opened a path through their midst to let him through. Carnelian was only vaguely aware of their faces. He was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. As the effect of the drug faded, each footfall felt more solid than the last. When he caught up with Osidian, he spoke: ‘Why… why break through?’
‘I had my reasons,’ Osidian growled.
Carnelian saw no point in pressing him further and fell in step with him. Behind them came scuffling Marula.
The gully terminated at a gate from which the two faces of the Commonwealth sneered down. Carnelian and Osidian threw their weight against the bronze and the gate opened, exhaling a waft of lilies. Penetrating the gloomy hall beyond, Carnelian noticed figures flitting away through openings all along its rim. Members of the Legate’s household, no doubt. He glanced round anxiously to make sure the Marula were keeping close; he did not want any massacres. Huddled hesitantly on the threshold, they came when he beckoned them.
They crossed the hall among the echoes of their creeping footfalls. Carnelian did not blame the Marula for their wariness. Even to him this place felt like a tomb. The pillars on either side seemed guardians. Figures writhing in the pavement beneath his feet might have been a view down into the Underworld.
Their route took them within sight of archways that opened into the gold of late afternoon. Carnelian longed to escape through them, but Osidian always turned away into the shadows. The cold grandeur seeped into Carnelian’s heart until he began to shiver. The polished floor seemed frozen meat whose veins had turned to stone. Columns might have been the corpses of trees. As he walked he became aware he was clutching his marumaga robe. Its coarse but honest weave brought him some little comfort.
They skirted one last court by means of a cloister. Walking close to its edge Carnelian was able to see they were nearing the tower whose tiers were borne upon the curved backs of humbled men. The cloister curved to deliver them to a stair that they began ascending. They passed chambers panelled with malachite and purple porphyry whose sterile beauty Osidian declared to be that of reception chambers. ‘It is the Legate’s private halls we seek.’
Higher they climbed until they came to a landing where they were challenged by guardsmen bearing the Legate’s cypher on their faces. Osidian stayed the Marula with a command then climbed the last few steps towards the guardsmen and their levelled spears. If his height had not been enough to alert them that he was a Master, his disregard for their weapons proved it. Their spear blades clattered to the floor as they knelt.
‘Clear this level. These chambers I claim for my own. Any creature left behind shall be slain.’
Carnelian had reached Osidian’s side and could now see the great door upon which the men had been standing guard. Abandoning their weapons they fled through it into the chambers beyond. He noticed that the stair continued climbing. ‘The roof,’ he said, remembering the heliograph he suspected to be up there. Osidian nodded and bade Morunasa approach him. He selected some of the Marula to stand guard upon the door. ‘Take these others,’ he said to the Oracle, ‘and bring me anyone you find up there.’
The Oracle was about to scale the steps when Osidian stayed him. ‘I want them alive.’
The Oracle darted a nod and soon he and most of the Marula had disappeared up the stairs. Carnelian waited with Osidian as the Legate’s household cowered past to scurry down the steps. The guardsmen were the last to leave.
‘Nothing living?’ Osidian asked them.
‘Nothing, Master.’
As they ducked past him and away down the stair after the others, Osidian indicated to the Marula the recesses flanking the door in which they were to stand guard. Then he and Carnelian passed into the chamber beyond.
They emerged into a suite of rooms more humanly proportioned, graced with gilded furniture, with hangings of featherwork, walls pierced by ivory doors. Wandering, they came into a chamber in which bronze lecterns shaped like hands cradled books. Osidian took one, opened its jewelled cover and read. He looked at Carnelian.
‘An inferior edition,’ he said, stroking the binding.
There were tears running down his face. This sadness, that was also joy, made Osidian look young again. As they explored further together Carnelian watched him sidelong. Osidian professed disdain for such provincial architecture, aloofness towards the minor treasures that were all about them, but when he turned his gaze from something his fingers would linger on it a while as if he feared that, should he lose touch of it, it might disappear. Indeed, the polished stone in which they moved as shadows, the hanging silks that floated on the breeze like smoke, the narrow views some windows gave down into the hazy infinities of the land below, all these things seemed unreal, so that it was as if they moved together through a dream.
At last they came to a chamber in which water ran in channels in the walls. Here Osidian let his marumaga robe crumple to the floor and soon was standing in an iris-scented waterfall. He beckoned for Carnelian to join him. The eyes looking at him had something of the boy in the Yden, but now they were set in a face that had been hardened by pain. The water was making Osidian’s maggot wounds redder than his mouth. The mark of the rope was livid round his neck. His once flawless limbs had been weathered by the margins of garments into different shades so that he seemed assembled from unmatched pieces of ivory. Pity became an ache in Carnelian’s chest. He felt anew the agony of loss for what Osidian had been and sadness for what he had become. Undressing, he joined him in the waterfall. They stood together, sheathed in its warm pulsating embrace. Osidian’s eyes seemed emeralds lost in the sea. ‘Forgive me.’
Carnelian’s heart responded to the appeal. There was still a part of him that yearned for the way it had been between them, but he could not so easily forget the dead. ‘Forgiveness is not in my gift,’ he said and endured the hurt that came into Osidian’s face.
‘At least, stay with me.’
Compassion and the dregs of their love fought within Carnelian with what his heart felt he owed the dead. At last he yielded nothing more than a nod though even that felt like a betrayal.
A clanging brought them back to the outer door. Putting his ammonite mask over his face, Carnelian opened the door. Morunasa was on the landing. He moved aside to indicate a huddle of ammonites ringed by Marula. There was another ammonite laid out on the floor. Carnelian approached the prone figure, crouched, then, using one hand to hold his own mask, with the other he released the ammonite’s. Beneath was a sallow face marred with examination tattoos. Carnelian leaned closer. ‘He’s dead.’
Osidian had followed him. ‘It is the quaestor of this city.’
Carnelian turned to look up at him. ‘How can you tell?’
Osidian interpreted for him some of the markings on the corpse’s face. Then he turned on Morunasa. ‘Did I not tell you to bring all of them to me alive?’
The Oracle presented a stiff face. ‘We found him like that on the roof.’
Carnelian leaned closer to the corpse. ‘Look at how his tongue is swollen.’
Osidian crouched to see for himself. ‘Poison.’
Carnelian was about to ask how Osidian knew that, but then remembered that he had grown up at court where such things were not uncommon.
Osidian rose and stood statue still. Carnelian sensed he was pondering something and chose not to disturb him. Instead he addressed Morunasa. ‘On the roof, you say?’
‘Beside one of those sun machines.’
That was suggestive. Carnelian turned his mask on the huddle of ammonites. They drew away from him as he approached. ‘Have any heliograph messages been sent or received from here today or yesterday?’
He saw himself reflected in the silver of their faces. He raised his hands and signed the command: Unmask. They did so, hesitantly, glancing round at the Marula, their sallow tattooed faces sweaty with fear.
‘Answer me.’
One braver than the rest shook his head. ‘We do not know, Seraph. We have been forbidden the roof.’
‘By the quaestor?’
The ammonite’s eyes flicked to the corpse and back again. ‘That is so, Seraph.’
Without a word, Osidian turned to the stairs and began climbing them. Carnelian assured Morunasa that neither he nor his men had done any wrong, then, telling him to wait, Carnelian followed Osidian.
When they reached the roof the dizzying view drove everything else from Carnelian’s mind. He approached the edge. Laid out at his feet was the Earthsky, turned to copper by the setting sun. Osidian was squinting into the west. Carnelian joined him. Against the liquid gold horizon the limestone margin of the Guarded Land, scored and gouged by gullies, seemed gnawed and incised bone. Away from its rim, the rock became stained with earth like a crust of dried blood. Further inland, his eyes found the knife slash of the Ringwall. He followed this until he came to a thorn. Another watch-tower. He glanced back at the heliograph and saw that it was to that tower it was aligned. He made the inevitable deduction. ‘The quaestor sent a message to Osrakum, then killed himself.’
Osidian shook his head. ‘It seems more likely that he received a command to kill himself.’
‘From the Wise?’
Osidian turned to him. ‘Who else?’
‘But surely there wasn’t enough time for the signal to get here-’
Osidian turned back to gaze at the watch-tower. ‘No, there wasn’t.’
Carnelian felt suddenly exposed, as if at that very moment the Wise had lifted the roof off the world and were peering in at them. ‘How could they know we were coming?’
Osidian shook his head, a look of resignation on his face. ‘It is a fool who underestimates the Wise.’
Carnelian contemplated their situation. ‘But why would they want the quaestor dead?’
‘Perhaps they feared he would fall into my hands.’
Carnelian could not work it out. ‘What could he possibly reveal to us?’
Osidian shook his head again, dejection in his face and posture. ‘Their strategy, or some trap they have set for us.’
Carnelian realized how much he feared Osidian would fail. ‘What shall we do?’
Osidian gazed at him. ‘We proceed as before. What else can we do?’
Carnelian could think of nothing. As Osidian made his way back to the steps, Carnelian remained behind a while, gazing at the watch-tower, almost hoping to see it flash. If the Wise had them defeated he would rather find out there and then. Bleakly, he turned towards the steps.
Carnelian woke lying beside Osidian. Though he had agreed to sleep at his side he had not allowed anything more. Asleep, Osidian regained enough of his unsullied youth for Carnelian to see in him the boy he had loved. His heart ached as he gave in to the seduction of imagining they were still in Osrakum, still lovers. He stared at the ceiling, watching its gilded vault pulse with the pounding of his heart. That was a dream; the massacres were not.
He had to get away from him. He slipped from under the feather blankets. The floor seemed ice. The walls banded with dark stone oppressed him and made him shiver. He drew on his marumaga robe and went in search of light. The next chamber was lit by a faraway opening. Shafts of sunlight beckoned him onto a balcony. Blinded, he advanced into the morning not caring that the sun would taint his skin further. As he basked in its warmth, its wholesomeness, only slowly did his sight return and then he saw he was perched on the rim of the sky. Bleached green mottled with gold grew purple towards a far horizon. It seemed the whole Earthsky was there at his feet. He closed his eyes and breathed the scent that was on the wind. His heart jumped as the world he had known there came alive again. He was sure he could smell the musk of the fernland sweetened by magnolia. He felt in his heart how clean and simple his life had been there. He longed for the murmur of the mother trees. He ached for the touch of Akaisha’s warm hand, for the wise laughter in her eyes.
‘We must talk.’
Carnelian turned and saw Osidian the murderer. He watched him falter under his gaze and was glad of it. Osidian retreated into the shadows. Carnelian tried to return to his reverie, but Osidian had snuffed out the vision of the Earthsky. Only tragedy remained and a sickening regret. He leaned on the balustrade and looked down. Far below in the gorge the blue river frayed white as it tumbled over falls. He was sure he could hear a whisper of its roaring. He gazed downstream, where the gorge carved its curves west to the Leper Valleys. A yearning for Poppy and Fern flared in him, but he crushed it. Regret was an indulgence he could not afford. He straightened and returned to the cold grandeur of his new life.
It was Marula who brought them breakfast. Carnelian vaguely knew two of their faces but, again, there was no Sthax. Plates of white jade, bowls beaten from several colours of folded gold, all sat incongruously in their calloused hands. As they came nearer their stale sweat overpowered the perfume of the food. It was only when Osidian dismissed them that Carnelian found it possible to appreciate the saffron pungency of the porridge, the rosewater sweetness of the hri cakes.
Osidian frowned, gazing at the faraway doors closing behind the Marula. ‘They must be washed and those barbarian corselets disposed of. Their ebony necks would look handsome collared with gold; their limbs adorned with greens, with scarlets. At the very least they must be made to wear legionary cuirasses. If they are to join my household, they must look the part.’
Carnelian noticed that Osidian was studiously avoiding eye contact. He watched him begin to eat, then took a mouthful of the golden porridge. The flavour assaulted him. He ate more, greedily, but subsequent mouthfuls failed to match the first. Soon it seemed too rich. He thought of sharing what he was experiencing, but the distaste on Osidian’s face made him pause. Sensing he was being watched Osidian masked his previous expression. Whatever he was feeling he was clearly determined not to communicate it.
Nibbling one of the cakes, Carnelian looked around him. The magnificence left him homesick. That feeling centred him. He had been afraid the Masterly pleasures would seduce him. Having justifiable hope they would not made it easier to contemplate continuing to play the game. ‘What plans have you for the huimur, my Lord?’
Osidian looked at him coldly. Carnelian waited, then lost patience. ‘Though we may not be lovers we can still be allies.’
Osidian frowned. ‘Even granted the Wise may know we are here, I believe we still have time.’
‘Because you are convinced the Wise will dare use no one but Aurum against us?’
Osidian gave a nod. ‘If the Gods be with us, we shall be ready to deal with the Lord Aurum.’
There was something in his tone that made Carnelian realize Osidian still had hopes of bringing Aurum over to his side. This would be to renege on the promise he had made to the Lepers. Carnelian dismissed a build-up of outrage. Aurum’s defection was unlikely. He became aware Osidian was watching him. ‘And what then, my Lord? What do you envisage once we have defeated Aurum?’
Osidian scrutinized him a while before going on. ‘We shall turn the Powers against each other. My appearance will weaken my mother and my brother. The revelation of the role Aurum has played will weaken the Wise. Many of the Great will take my part. The Wise will be forced to negotiate with me.’
Carnelian almost asked him, To what end? But he knew that the lust in Osidian’s eyes could only be for the Masks. Carnelian focused on his own aims: the salvation of the Plainsmen, and of the Lepers too if that should prove possible. Even here at the periphery of the Commonwealth the Earthsky seemed already far away; the Plainsmen, inconsequential. There was hope in that, but it would be foolish to underestimate the appetite the Wise had for being thorough. Osidian’s attempt to reclaim the Masks must surely fail. Once the eddies of his rebellion had dissipated, the Wise would turn their minds to the Plainsmen and then there would be a reckoning. He frowned. It always came back to the Wise. He shook himself free of these musings. Though in playing any game of strategy it was important to look many moves ahead, it was also crucial that, in doing so, one did not fail to make sure one’s next move was sound. ‘Assure me we can count upon the commanders.’
‘Now that we have broken the link between them and the Wise what choice will they have but to obey me?’
Carnelian thought Osidian’s certainty sounded hollow. He shook his head. ‘This weapon we would wield does not yet feel firmly in our grasp. How might we be certain they would fight for us against Aurum?’
‘What does my Lord suggest?’ Osidian said, irritably.
Carnelian grasped at what he knew of the Masters. ‘Can we not bribe them?’
‘Iron? Access to impregnating women from my House?’
‘That is a payment your brother could more convincingly offer than we in our present circumstances.’
‘What then?’ snapped Osidian.
Carnelian pondered. Something occurred to him. ‘Why would they covet iron or access to the women of the House of the Masks?’
Osidian frowned to show that he was uninterested in playing this game.
‘Is it not because they wish to rise to being of the Great?’
Osidian sneered. ‘Shall I transfuse my blood into theirs to awake in them divine fire?’
Carnelian smiled. ‘Offer to enfranchise them.’
‘What?’
‘Tell them that, once you have regained what is rightfully yours, you will give their Houses the right to vote in elections; to participate in the division of the flesh tithe.’
Osidian looked aghast. ‘What you suggest threatens the Balance itself.’
Carnelian hardly heard him as the idea took flame within him. ‘Why stop with them? Why not enfranchise all the Lesser Chosen?’
Osidian stared at Carnelian as if he were mad. ‘So you would break the Balance altogether?’
‘What of it?’
Carnelian watched as Osidian’s eyes dulled. Was he considering the inconceivable?
‘At one stroke you would undermine any confidence the Wise have in the legions. It might sow havoc among them. It must surely weaken Aurum’s ability to resist you. Certainly it would give the commanders here a real reason to risk following you.’
He could feel Osidian’s resistance weakening. ‘This one act could bring the Masks within your grasp, without need of the Wise, or the Great. You would tear her most powerful weapon from your mother’s hand. You might even be able to wield all the power of the Chosen yourself.’
Osidian looked at him. ‘Except the Ichorian Legion.’
What of it? Carnelian signed. He made a gesture of encompassment. ‘In the last resort, you could lay siege to Osrakum herself.’
The moment he said that he realized he had gone too far. Osidian’s disbelief returned. Carnelian tried to retrieve the initiative. ‘It will not come to that, Osidian. The Wise will negotiate with you, but with their power diminished.’
Uncertainty returned to Osidian’s face. ‘Once broken the Balance might be impossible to rebuild.’
‘Why would you wish to resume the chains that have bound your House for millennia?’
Osidian spoke distractedly: ‘Not millennia. It has been only seven hundred years since my House lost the Civil War…’
Carnelian had only a vague awareness of this. It had happened so long ago.
Osidian began shaking his head. ‘Your scheme is flawed, Carnelian. The Lesser Chosen that are not beyond my reach within Osrakum are scattered among the cities of the Guarded Land.’
‘Surely you can get messages to them by heliograph or by sending couriers along the leftways?’
Osidian shook his head. ‘Even if I had a seal, the watch-towers would not relay a message from me unless it was vouched for by the Wise.’
Carnelian sank into disappointment. It had all seemed so easy. He had made the mistake of underestimating the systems of the Wise.
‘The Lesser Chosen know their place. They shall bow down to me,’ Osidian said, frowning. ‘You and I must return to all the traditional usages. We must resume the wearing of masks. The more we run our power along the usual channels the stronger the grip we will maintain upon their loyalty.’
He looked around him at the chamber, at its furnishings, and seemed saddened by what he saw. ‘There is nothing to be gained by remaining here.’ His gaze fell on Carnelian. ‘It would be best if we were to relocate to somewhere closer to the cothon; that has now become the heart of our venture.’ He looked away. ‘We must begin to adhere to the Laws of Purity.’
Carnelian felt as if he was being threatened with imprisonment. ‘Do you mean the full ritual protection?’
‘I do, my Lord.’
‘I have experienced it and it was extremely uncomfortable.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘But what is the point in it? For years we have been exposed to the outer world and we are still intact.’
Osidian scowled and touched the scar about his neck. ‘I do not think, my Lord, that we are wholly untouched by its filth and humiliations.’
Carnelian was in no mood to back down. ‘If you felt like this why then did you pollute the purity of this place?’
‘I desired to make the commanders share something of our degradation. There, does that please you, Carnelian?’
It was the pain in his eyes that made Carnelian falter. When he opened his mouth to say something more, Osidian chopped: Enough! ‘We are returned to the Commonwealth. Here none dare disobey her Laws.’
Twelve masks looked back at Carnelian and Osidian. They had been donated, at Osidian’s demand, by the Legate and his commanders. He picked one up and turned it into the light. His lips curled. ‘Surely this is the work of an apprentice maskmaker. Look how thick the bridge of the nose is, how crude the nostril flare. And as for the eyes.. .’ He shook his head and picked up another.
Carnelian’s fingers strayed to one that was reminding him of someone. He lifted it. It took him a while to see who it was. The mask had something about the mouth that made it resemble Fern’s. Carnelian was about to put it down, not wanting such a painful reminder; instead he placed it over his face. It seemed to fit well enough, though he knew that wearing it for any length of time would soon reveal where it did not perfectly fit his face. He turned to regard the ammonites kneeling, waiting with the strips of linen, the unguents and all the apparatus they had brought from the purgatory at Osidian’s command. The masks they wore had solid spirals for eyes. They had tried pleading excuses: that only the quaestor was qualified to administer the ritual protection; that the purity of everything in the sanctum had been contaminated when it had been breached by the black barbarians. Osidian had dismissed all their objections with contempt.
Carnelian approached the prostrate men. ‘Here, I have chosen.’ He offered the mask and one of the ammonites reached out blindly. He put the mask with Fern’s lips into the trembling hands.
When Osidian had selected a mask he commanded the ammonites to begin the procedure. Reluctantly, one of them rose to his feet, a length of beadcord in his hand. Reading it with his fingers he began to intone in Quya: ‘You who are Chosen shall now make ready to leave this place. You who are Chosen must take all precaution before leaving the sanctity of this place.’
As the blind spiral eyes regarded him Carnelian recalled the time so long ago when he had endured this ritual in the Tower in the Sea. ‘We are supposed to give a response.’
‘A response?’ Osidian said.
‘Something about the obeying of the Law.’
Osidian threw his hand up in irritation. ‘Ammonite, dispense with the catechism. Limit yourself to what is essential.’
‘Essential, Celestial?’
‘The practical elements,’ Osidian said, his voice rising dangerously.
As the ammonite fell to the ground the forehead of his mask struck a dull clang on the floor.
‘The ranga, Celestial, the filtered mask, the embalming.’
‘Well, get on with it.’
Carnelian glanced at Osidian, unsure why he was so angry. With surprise, he sensed Osidian was apprehensive. He had to admit he felt the same.
Under the direction of the ammonite, the others began the procedure. Ranga shoes were produced, raised upon a green, a black and a red support. Osidian refused to anoint them himself and so it was the ammonites who applied the unguent. They stripped them and cleansed them with chill menthol. Climbing onto the ranga, Carnelian bore the tickle of their styluses as they painted warding symbols and designs upon his skin. When they had wafted the ink dry they submerged its itch beneath a glaze of myrrh. The odour reminded him first of Aurum, then of his wounded father, then once again, unexpectedly, of the scent of the mother trees. That brought tears.
They began winding him in linen, the first layer sticking to the glaze. As more and more strips wound round him they tightened as they dried. The feeling of being trapped swelled in him almost to panic. He felt they were preparing him for his tomb. At last they brought the mask they had prepared. He regarded the hollow thing with horror. He shuddered as they fitted it to his face. His breathing hard and fast was restricted by the gold. It became a roaring in his ears as he forced the air in through the narrow mouth of the mask. The nostril pads smothered his nose. Ill-fitting, the mask squeezed out some liquid from the pads that dribbled down his lip into his mouth. Bitter, bitter taste and its numbing reek pushing cold needles up into the root of his nose to sting his eyes. Forced tears blinded him to what little he could see through the eyeslits.
‘We hide our faces from the world like lepers,’ Osidian was saying, but Carnelian barely registered the words as he struggled to choke back the horror that he was buried alive.