He soon lost count of the chambers. They were moving between the benches of another when he almost ran into Osidian who had come to a sudden halt. Carnelian followed the direction of his gaze and saw a Sapient with his pleated waxy noseless face, the black almonds of his eyes alive with malice. He came round the bench towards them. When he was between two benches, he stretched the four fingers of each hand out to either side. The fingertips settled on the benches like feathers falling from the air. The hands tensioned like exquisite traps. The Sapient stood motionless, a spider waiting.
From the corner of his eye, Carnelian caught a tiny white movement. He turned his head slowly, keeping an eye on the Sapient. Osidian, his eyes round, signed with his free hand, Not a blink. His fingers feel everything.
The Sapient’s hands jumped up from the benches. Carnelian focused fully on the creature as he came treading towards them, his long white feet sucking to the floor like mouths, his fingers swimming, sensing currents in the air.
Carnelian looked desperately for an escape. The coldness of the floor was making his feet ache but he dared not move. Sweat was trickling down the gutter of his spine. Some was oozing down his nose. He feared that it might collect in a drop and fall, betraying them. He drew his shoulders back, his head further still, drawing away from the four-fingered hands. The Sapient stopped between two new benches. Again, he deployed his hands then froze. Carnelian looked from the cages of fingers to the black insect eyes. He could smell the Sapient’s musty odour.
The hands lifted and Carnelian turned his head away. He suppressed a shudder, anticipating the touch of those moist fingers. He might have fled, save that just then the Sapient turned and swiftly returned to where he had been. Carnelian watched him reach down to a bench’s bronze ring and pull at the tail of beadcord hanging from it. The beads slipped through his fingers. Then both his hands rose to lift the topmost reel off the spindle above. This was swiftly transferred to the empty spindle beside it. The hands returned to pluck up the second reel. Cradling this in his arms, the Sapient slid through a door and disappeared.
Carnelian gulped in a breath, another. He found that Osidian was grinning at him. Crookedly, Carnelian grinned back.
Do you want to go on? signed Osidian.
Carnelian’s nod was rewarded with a look of approval.
They encountered more Sapients. Mostly they were folded into the niches on spinning-wheel chairs, caressing words from beadcord. Sometimes Osidian would lift the lantern high and pull its hem of light up the dark, brocaded robe to find the leather of a Sapient’s face and put a fierce glint in the jet eyes. Each time Carnelian recoiled, distrusting the blindness, certain that the Sapient must feel the light tickling over his flesh. But the Sapient would continue reading undisturbed, looking as if he were busy spinning jewelled thread.
They came at last into a chamber in which their light flashed among tall screens that seemed hung with coloured water. Osidian entered boldly. Carnelian was reluctant to follow but did not want to appear afraid. He looked back. The way they had come was utterly black. He shuddered, imagining returning blind through the darkness infested with the Wise.
He caught up with Osidian whose hand was playing through the jewelled shrouds.
He must have heard Carnelian for he turned. Hold this, he signed and pushed the lantern onto Carnelian, then continued reading.
Carnelian saw the screens were like huge folding books whose pages were like harps strung with beadcord. As he watched Osidian’s fingers stroking across the strings, Carnelian almost expected to hear music. Osidian shook his head and padded away. Carnelian followed him, holding the light of the lantern over them as if he were carrying a parasol. He tapped Osidian on the shoulder.
What is this place? he signed, having to resort to difficult one-handed signs.
The Master Index, signed Osidian.
Carnelian followed him deeper into the bead partition maze of indices. Sometimes through one crystalled wall Carnelian would see a Sapient moving past or racing his hands over the surface of an index.
Suddenly, Osidian shot him a grin and made a triumph gesture. After he had read down a beadcord he signed, Come, I know where to go now.
Carnelian touched the cord he thought Osidian had been reading. There were words, numbers, but he could make no sense of them.
He was glad to leave the Chamber of the Master Index, following Osidian back into the smaller rooms of the library proper. They had to creep through a fearful region filled with the Wise. Gradually the chambers became free of them and Carnelian relaxed enough to risk more solid footfalls. Exhaustion sapped him as he released the tension in his muscles.
Osidian stopped at a door. ‘This should be the place.’ He was fingering something to one side of the door. Carnelian played some light on it. Beadcord hung on the wall like a tapestry. Osidian muttered something and nodded. ‘The reels are here as the index said.’ The chamber seemed much the same as any other. ‘Put the lantern on a bench and help me look.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘I am not sure. The index did not give the names of the works, only that they were written Pre-Commonwealth.’
Carnelian moved to the nearest bench. His fingers found a bronze ring with its title beadcord. He began to feel his way down the beads. They were smooth and of no distinctive shape. He moved to the next cord. It was the same. And the next. As he held the first bead, he concentrated all his mind on his fingertips. He took the weight of the cord with his other hand so that he could lighten his touch on the bead. It was not smooth. There was the faintest ridge, but he could not hear what it said. It was like the most delicate whisper. He let the cord go. He looked up and saw Osidian’s shadow body away off across the chamber. He picked up the lantern and went to join him. Osidian had a beadcord title clenched in his fist.
‘What are you doing?’ Carnelian whispered.
‘Heating the beads.’
Carnelian blinked.
‘Sometimes, heating them makes them speak. Paagh.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not enough.’ Osidian reached up to the nearest reel. He found its end, rubbed a few beads between his fingers. He shook his head.
‘Perhaps time has worn them smooth,’ said Carnelian.
‘No.’ He took in the chamber with a sweep of his hand. ‘It is just that the Wise have made sure that the beadcord here shall only be read by their fingers.’
‘I see,’ said Carnelian, disappointed, looking at the reels.
Osidian grinned at him. ‘I know a thing or two. We shall return.’ He saw the question on Carnelian’s face. ‘You will find out what I am talking about, but only tomorrow.’
‘What is it?’ whispered Carnelian.
Earlier, when he had found Osidian waiting for him by the moon-eyed door, the boy had given him an enigmatic smile and then led him to the chamber they had been in the day before.
Carnelian looked at the phial Osidian was holding up. It was a helix of quartz with a hinged silver cap. Within its murky worm-like body he could see a yellow liquid.
Osidian smirked. ‘It is something the Wise drink. It has . . . let us say, some useful effects.’
Carnelian looked at Osidian’s green eyes. He did not like the idea of acquiring any habit from the Wise. He wondered at Osidian’s mood. Carnelian almost asked him to drink first, but he did not want Osidian to think that he thought it poison.
‘How much?’
‘A sip will do.’
Carnelian flipped open the cap and sniffed it cautiously. Its iodous smell nipped his nose. He looked at Osidian who gave him an encouraging nod.
‘Do you think I would try to poison you?’
Carnelian answered him by putting the phial to his lips and letting some of its liquid trickle onto his tongue. Its bitterness forced a grimace. He swallowed quickly, sucked his tongue, then licked his teeth to try to rid his mouth of the taste.
Osidian took the phial from his hand and drank. Carnelian was pleased to se
e his face scrunch up. ‘It really is foul,’ said Osidian, glaring at the phial.
‘And now?’ whispered Carnelian.
‘Now, we wait.’ Osidian shuttered the lantern. In the darkness, Carnelian felt the bench shudder as Osidian, sitting down, threw his back against it. Carnelian slid down beside him. He tried to make conversation, to ask what they were waiting for, but Osidian answered every question with an irritating, ‘Wait and see.’
The tingling grew as if coming from far away. Carnelian adjusted his position. Against his back the bench seemed to have become the trunk of some vast tree. His back ran up it for a great length. Carnelian found himself wondering if the yellow potion had made him grow like a giant. His legs had stretched so much they must have pushed his feet into the next chamber. He lifted his hand and it swung up like a crane. He fingered the air, half believing that he would find the ceiling of the chamber just above his head.
‘Do you feel it?’ asked Osidian’s breath. Carnelian could feel its wet heat catching in the folds of his ear. He turned his head and was momentarily disorientated by the thick currents of air that he ruddered into motion. His lungs seemed as large as the sky. He breathed in all the winds.
‘My lungs are the turtle’s shell,’ he said.
Osidian’s chuckle was like a shunting of machinery. ‘You feel it all right.’
Carnelian felt the earthquake of Osidian rising.
‘Stand up,’ came Osidian’s words, tumbling down from above. Carnelian felt fingers fumble into his like an avalanche of pillars. They kept sliding round and through his until they locked closed. Even lying naked on a rock, Carnelian had never felt such a vast expanse of his skin touching the world. Their hands were a jumble of warm stones in whose crevices lay thrilling moisture.
Suddenly the whole meshed mass of fingers were flying skywards. Carnelian’s forearm followed, then his elbow, then his upper arm, all straightening like the links in some monumental chain. The whole mass of him unfolded up and up, faraway joints opening until he found himself standing.
‘We should release each other’s hand,’ rumbled Osidian.
Carnelian struggled. Their flesh seemed wedded together at the hands. When they managed to wrestle their fingers apart, Carnelian was left feeling as if part of him had been cut away. It was all he could do to not flail the night to recover it.
‘Take some beadcord in your hands.’
Carnelian had to wait for the loss to fade before he ran a finger along the wooden wall of the bench. It had been smooth before. Now it was pitted, gnarled, scored with ruts. His finger ran into something that at first he though must be a skull. He felt the heat radiating from Osidian’s fingers touching the other side of the curving ball of bone.
‘Can you read it now?’ asked Osidian.
Carnelian was startled when he realized he was only touching a bead. He allowed his fingers to explore its landscape. They found the ridges, the sensuous curves. Cool regions, warm strips his mind told him must be narrower than a hair. ‘I do not recognize it,’ he said.
‘Let me.’
Osidian’s fingers resumed contact. Carnelian felt as if his skin was drinking from Osidian’s. He let his hand climb down from one bead to another until it was a safe distance away.
‘Untouchables,’ said Osidian.
Carnelian could feel the vibration in the cord. Something was coming down it. His hand escaped further down, bead by bead.
‘Removing the Blood . . . no, the Liver,’ said Osidian.
A whole earthful of flesh brushed past Carnelian and set his entire skin quivering like a bell’s.
Osidian had moved to the next title cord. ‘Preserving the Viscera in Canopic Jars.’
Through the floor, Carnelian could feel the quake as Osidian moved further along the bench.
‘Hooking out the Cranial Organs.’
‘What?’ said Carnelian.
‘Peh!’ said Osidian. ‘These are nothing but manuals of embalming.’
‘Is it a secret art?’ asked Carnelian, with a sour taste in his mouth.
‘One of the most secret.’
‘Not something I desire to learn,’ said Carnelian, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
‘Nor I.’
Carnelian felt suddenly very angry. ‘Is that it then?’ he asked loudly. A fleshy door closed over his mouth.
‘Hush!’ whispered Osidian and took his hand away.
‘If these are the most secret books in the Library of the Wise,’ whispered Carnelian, ‘then, my Lord, I am grown weary of their tame marvels.’
A heavy silence fell. He listened for and found the breeze of Osidian’s breathing. ‘Does my Lord challenge me to find for him a diversion that is less tame?’ the darkness said through a smile.
‘Well, if—’
‘Tomorrow, come to the usual place but wear warm clothes and heavy outdoor paint. Tell your people not to expect your return for three days.’
The LADDER
I touched with eye
Right hand speaking
But all the while
The left
Was sowing the whirlwind
(from the poem ‘The Bird in the Cage’ by the Lady Akaya)
CARNELIAN LOOKED THROUGH THE ROBES FEY HAD SENT HIM. THEY were all flimsy, delicate silks, clothing suitable for wearing in his chambers, not for whatever expedition Osidian had in mind. And what was that? He was plagued with speculations. Outdoor paint? Where could Osidian be planning to go that required outdoor paint? For three days? It had to be some region of the Halls of Thunder exposed to the sun. That must be it. No need to worry that he was going against his father’s wishes. Still, he was nagged by the thought that it was wrong to go.
‘I must,’ he said. He knew no way to get a message to Osidian to tell him that he was not coming. How could he just not turn up? He smiled thinking about him. There was still the problem of the robe. He knuckled his forehead. At last, with a sigh, he went to pick up the only outdoor robe he had. He shook out its scarlet mourning brocade, laid it out, then went to the door to call a servant. When the man came he sent him off to fetch body paint.
‘Body paint, Master?’
‘Body paint.’
The man was soon back with a jar and pads. Carnelian put up with the timorous painting. Once the paint had dried, he put on the mourning robe and finally, his mask.
Outside his chamber, he told his guardsmen that he would be spending three days away from them. When they sneaked glances at each other, he gave them assurances that he would be all right. He had to ignore the pleas in their eyes. After all, he himself did not know where he was going. Their looks of fear made him swear a silent promise that, should it become necessary, he would put himself between them and the Master’s wrath. This did not stop him, as he walked away, feeling selfish and hazardous of their care.
Osidian was waiting for him. His eyes widened as Carnelian came closer. ‘Is that a mourning robe?’
‘It was the only one I had.’
‘It is hardly the best omen for our expedition.’
Carnelian did not like Osidian’s unfocused stare. ‘Where are we going, then?’
Osidian seemed to come awake. ‘Down to the Yden.’
Carnelian stared at him in disbelief. ‘The Yden? Down the Rainbow Stair?’
Osidian shook his head. ‘There is another, more ancient way.’
‘Another stair?’
Osidian’s lips formed an enigmatic smile. ‘More a ladder than a stair. The descent is harrowing. Do you feel you have the strength?’
The challenge fired Carnelian up. ‘If I do not, then at least I shall have the long pleasure of falling into the Yden like a star.’
Osidian’s brow darkened. ‘This is not a children’s game, Carnelian. You speak lightly of what you do not know.’
Carnelian was stung to anger but before he could say anything Osidian threw his hands up in appeasement. ‘Forgive my tone.’ He grinned. Carnelian could not help himself grinning back.
Osidian lowered his head and looked enquiringly at Carnelian.
Carnelian forced solemnity into his face. ‘I am certain I have the strength.’
‘Well then, let us make haste. When night falls it will not bode well for us should it find us on the Ladder. First we must put on our disguises.’
‘Disguises?’
‘It would be unwise’ – he smirked – ‘to go deep into the chambers of the Wise as ourselves.’
Osidian slipped out of the lantern light and returned carrying two packs. As he offered one, Carnelian remembered the Tower in the Sea and his father’s anger at him carrying burdens. He realized that Osidian was angry too.
‘Does my Lord consider it shameful to bear a pack when I did not consider it so to bring them both here?’
‘No, not at all.’ Carnelian grabbed one and swung it round onto his shoulder. He was adjusting its straps when Osidian threw him a bundle. Carnelian turned the thick purple silk in his hand. Osidian had already unrolled his and flung it over his back, concealing the pack under it. Carnelian followed his lead, but worried about the hump the pack made. He shrugged when he saw Osidian was unconcerned and pulled the cloak round him, securing its bony hooks. Smoothing it, he touched beadcord. He looked down and saw the panels. He closed his eyes and began to read with his fingers, out loud. ‘The Heart of Thunder is the locus of the rain-heavy sky. It translates along the ritual axis, from the sea. It can be—’
‘These cloaks are reserved for near-Sapient acolytes. They are a study aid,’ said Osidian. ‘Come.’
‘Our masks?’
Osidian shook his head. ‘We must be free of their encumbrance.’
He led them through the moon-eyed door into the library. He opened the lantern, blew it out then put it on the ground, out of the way against a wall.
‘Will we not need it further on?’ asked Carnelian. ‘No,’ replied Osidian. Carnelian reached out to take a grip of Osidian’s cloak. He felt his hand being disengaged.
‘It will be faster for you to follow your feet,’ said the darkness.
Carnelian felt Osidian’s cold foot nudging his across the floor to where it was embossed.
The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 48