He looked down at Kor. ‘Now go and rest.’
‘Rest is forbidden us,’ the woman said.
‘But I’ve nothing more for you to do.’
‘The other Master commanded us to quarry salt.’
‘Hush,’ Carnelian said and looked round to see if any of the Plainsmen had heard her and was relieved when he saw them returning to the knoll.
He looked back at Kor. ‘Then you must obey his commands.’
‘And what shall we eat, Master?’
Carnelian grimaced. There was no spare djada. ‘Eat what there is in the tree.’
‘As the Master commands,’ said the woman and limped off to join her fellow creatures, who were making their slow, melancholy way back to their caves.
When Carnelian returned to the knoll, the fires were already lit. Their crackle and the mutter of Plainsman voices were comforting. Fern made a space for him at his side. Carnelian sat down and took the djada offered.
‘The men would like you to know that most of the water caches in the trees have been drained,’ Fern said, in a voice all were meant to hear.
‘Then we’ll have to fetch water from the river.’
This was greeted with a murmur of discontent.
‘We wish to return to our peoples in the mountains,’ said Ravan.
‘You know perfectly well the Master told us to wait here for him,’ said Krow, his eyes flaming.
‘And what if he doesn’t return in time?’
‘He will.’
Ravan stood up and looked around him. Loudly, he announced:
‘Let’s cut the Ladder and, in the morning, we’ll leave this accursed place.’
Silence fell across the knoll, disturbed only by a few mutters of agreement. When Krow made to confront Ravan, Carnelian held up a hand to stay him. ‘Let him speak.’
Ravan looked at Carnelian, surprised, then lifted his gaze over the camp.
‘The Ochre who have lived with them will tell you the Standing Dead are nothing more than men. Yes, they have power, but it is not divine. We four tribes have now fought together. Why don’t we go on? Which other tribe could stand against our joined might? Imagine what could flow from this alliance: the salt that would free us from service in the legions; the captured children we could send to the Mountain in place of our own. All this we could do once freed from the Master.’
As voices broke out supporting Ravan, Carnelian saw how much the youth had become Osidian’s pupil. He saw also what the consequence of such upheaval would be. The Wise would not tolerate such a challenge to their systems. But how could he explain to the Plainsmen the complex realities that lay behind the face the Commonwealth presented to its subjects? Still, this had to be stopped before it went too far. He rose.
‘Ravan is right, you could cut the Ladder and return to your peoples, but consider this: the Marula came up before and massacred two tribes; the next time they come up do you want them led by the Master?’
Ravan saw Carnelian’s words had spread dread. ‘What of it? Did the Darkcloud not defeat them?’
Several answered him.
‘Prepared, we could do so again.’ His eyes became possessed by firelight. ‘Perhaps we might even become strong enough to defy the Gatherers.’
Fern leapt to his feet and began making appeals to those who had seen the dragons of the legions. ‘Do you really believe we could defeat those?’
Ravan thrust his head towards his brother. ‘The Master believes so. He told me that is his plan.’
Carnelian was shocked Osidian had confided so much in the youth. ‘Then he has deceived you, as he has deceived himself. The methods he has used to overturn your lives are the same the Standing Dead use to rule the world. A legion is altogether another matter. The dragons cannot be defeated by riders however numerous. As for defeating the Marula, up until now, when they have come up on to the Earthsky, they have wandered blind in a land they did not know. Even so, they destroyed two tribes. As for the Darkcloud’s victory, I led the attack. We only won because we surprised them.’ He located the Darkcloud around their fires. ‘How many would have fallen in a pitched battle?’
Some of them shook their heads, but none spoke up.
‘If the Master led the Marula, they would move with more certainty than even you in your own land. If you doubt this, ask Ravan and any of the rest of us whom he guided through the swamp and across the Earthsky when no Plainsman knew the way.’
Krow and Fern were nodding, as were many around other fires. Carnelian fixed Ravan with a glare.
‘Do you really believe you could defeat the Master in battle? Would you have beaten the Bluedancing? You were there, Ravan, scared in the darkness with the rest of us before the Master came. Could you’ – he looked out over the camp – ‘or any of you have killed a ravener single-handed with a spear?’
His question echoed off the baobabs. Fern sat, then reached up and pulled his brother down. The youth scowled at the fire. Carnelian sank too and, ignoring Krow’s stare, resumed the chewing of his djada. He was relieved when he heard chatter resume around the hearths.
At a sign from Carnelian, Fern and he slipped away from the drowsy camp to sit on the slope of the knoll from which they could keep a watch on the sartlar ladder.
‘We got away with it this time,’ said Fern.
Carnelian nodded. ‘The next time might not be so easy.’ He had hated threatening them with Osidian. It made him feel as if he was collaborating with him. He turned to his friend.
‘Hasn’t this made you feel it might well be safer if we were to bring Ravan into our circle?’
Fern shook his head vigorously. ‘He’s too erratic; too emotional. Besides, do you really believe he would support us in bringing back the old ways?’
‘I suppose not. He will try this again.’
Fern hung his head, nodding. ‘The problem is that the men are idle. I can’t blame them for wanting to be back with their hearths.’
Light swelled in Carnelian’s mind as he saw the valley in the mountains. He crushed the vision and peered into the night. ‘And then there’s the danger from the sartlar.’
‘We could cut the ladder to their caves.’
Carnelian shook his head. ‘I won’t starve them.’
‘We could keep watch every night.’
‘We didn’t even manage to stay awake.’
They hung their heads. Something occurred to Carnelian. He looked up. ‘Perhaps we could knot our two problems into a solution. Let’s fortify the camp.’
Fern considered this. ‘What reason would we give them?’
‘They fear the Marula, don’t they?’
Fern nodded. ‘And we Plainsmen feel exposed without our ditches. It might work.’
Carnelian slapped Fern on the back. ‘We’ll make it work.’
Fern’s grin appeared in the starlight.
‘Now, let’s see if this time we can manage to stay awake.’
Grumbling, the Plainsmen set to fortifying their camp on the knoll. Carnelian joined them digging the dry earth in the cool of the morning. Fern and he had mapped where the ditch would run around the crown from baobab to baobab. They were using the trees as towers in the inner rampart. The impenetrable meshes of their roots forced them to sweep the ditch out in front of each monster.
For days they laboured, spending the hottest part of each in the shade. Weariness staunched the flow of complaints until they dried up altogether. The homely familiarity of the work made the men happier: the developing fortifications helped them feel secure. At night, exhausted, everyone slumped groaning around their fires and their talk was of their women, their little ones. Fern congratulated Carnelian on their stratagem with a smile.
‘We’ve drunk the tree caches dry,’ announced Fern.
Carnelian shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to make up a drag-cradle to take skins to the river.’
‘You know how terrified the men are of going anywhere near the impaled man.’
A fearful superstition ha
d grown up among the Plainsmen concerning the idol, the path it guarded and the island. Especially the island. Carnelian had seen how they refused even to look at it, as if whatever lived there might enter into a man through his eyes.
‘Well, you and I will have to go.’
Carnelian saw Fern’s fear. ‘You too? I’ll just have to go alone.’
Fern scowled. ‘I never said I wouldn’t go.’
They hitched a drag-cradle to the crossbeam of Carnelian’s aquar, then loaded it with waterskins. Carnelian could not help laughing at the pile. ‘Do we have to get all the water we’ll ever need in one go?’
When enough waterskins had been removed, Carnelian moved up to the aquar’s head and Fern moved round to the other side. Carnelian regarded the men. ‘Anyone else want to come with us?’
Krow stood forward. ‘I will.’
Carnelian nodded his approval and then the three of them led the aquar down the knoll towards the idol and the riverpath. When they reached level ground, Krow gazed up at the sky.
‘The time is drawing near when we must return if we are to give the Tribe protection.’
Carnelian saw the sky was grey with heat. Turning he surveyed the escarpment, studded with baobabs all the way up towards the plain of the Earthsky. He turned back.
‘Have faith. The Master will not forget the need of the Tribe. He’ll return in time.’
Krow grimaced. ‘Though I believe it, there are an increasing number who don’t.’
Fern and Carnelian looked at each other, then thanked Krow for the warning.
The aquar shied away from the impaled man, but keeping a wary eye on the idol they managed to coax her on to the riverpath. Some distance along it, they found a track leading down to the river. Carnelian elected to fill the skins, passing them back to Fern, who passed them to Krow, who stowed them on the drag-cradle. As he worked, Carnelian was aware of the Isle of Flies brooding across the river. When he had filled the last skin, he stood for a moment gazing at the island, wondering if what had befallen the Oracles there was what gave it an aura of menace. Then he turned his back on it and climbed to join the others. He nestled the skin among the others and they returned to the knoll.
During one of their water-fetching expeditions, while filling a skin from the river, Carnelian was letting his eyes rove over the dark forbidding mass of the Isle of Flies.
‘You’re always looking at it,’ Fern complained.
‘Aren’t you curious about it at all?’
Fern shrugged and Carnelian saw his friend’s reluctance even to glimpse the black island.
‘Shall we go there and see for ourselves what horror it hides?’
Fern looked at him aghast.
Carnelian lifted the skin from the water and sealed it. ‘I don’t believe in Morunasa’s god. I think that banyan conceals a shrine, a wooden temple, but there’s only one way to find out. We need only go close enough to peer through its outer trunks.’
Fern’s pained expression irritated Carnelian.
‘I’ll go alone.’ He leaned the waterskin against a boulder and clambered along the shore looking for a crossing. He turned when he heard the scrabbling of Fern following him. They regarded each other.
Fern frowned. ‘I’m coming with you just to make sure you don’t feel tempted to go further in than the edge.’
Carnelian was glad of Fern’s company. Together they resumed the search for the route Morunasa and Osidian had taken across. Where the water swirled, the stream seemed spun from pure light; where it pooled, its mirrors cast the sun directly into their eyes.
When Carnelian was sure they had found the way, he glanced round. ‘I’m glad you’re coming with me, Fern.’
Squinting at the island a darkness of doubt descended, but before it could claim him, Carnelian clambered down the bank. He slipped into a slide that tore gritty dust into clouds. Half-choking, half-laughing, he managed to regain his balance only to be knocked forward as Fern careened into him. Carnelian spun, grabbed hold of him, and together they tumbled down the slope and crashed splashing into a pool.
Carnelian stood up, laughing as he pointed at Fern soaked, caked in dust. Fern scooped some water at him. Soon they were splashing around like boys, delighting in the cool flying diamond spray.
Dripping, they set off across the rocks. Through the dazzle, it took concentration. The footing became treacherous. Sometimes a route would end at a deep rush of water which they dared not ford for fear it should sweep them over the falls. They pushed on.
Closer, the banyan trunks rose scabrous black, taller than it had seemed possible from the other shore. Seeing its hall of columns, Carnelian recalled what Osidian had said.
‘Labyrinth,’ he said in Quya.
‘What?’ Fern demanded.
Carnelian turned and saw Fern’s barbarian look of incomprehension. His hands rose to mask his face from the dark eyes. Fern’s horror shocked Carnelian free of his mood.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
Fern shook his head.
‘What?’ Carnelian demanded, knowing he was in the wrong.
Fern grew angry. ‘You were looking at me the way the Master does.’
The Masterly pride that had woken in him would not allow him to apologize. ‘We can go back now, I’ve seen enough.’
Fern bared his teeth. ‘You were the one who wanted to see this accursed place and see it you will.’
He pushed past Carnelian who, cursing, followed him.
As they neared the shore of the island, they began to slip and fall because the banyan commanded their stares. Around its feet, what had appeared to be tangled driftwood was not that at all.
‘Bones …’ Fern said staring.
Yellowed white, immense spars snagged in a log jam that clung to the shore of the island. The black roots of the banyan snaked among them as if it were feeding on the dead. A vast carcass lay broken among the bones, grey-brown tatters of skin hanging on the skeleton. It seemed to Carnelian even more sinister than the slaughter of the heaveners. He peered upstream.
‘This river in flood must bring corpses.’
Looking back to the other shore, the aquar and its drag-cradle looked tiny beneath the black cliff of the Backbone. Carnelian longed to return. Fern was peering into the cavernous darkness imprisoned by the trunks. Carnelian’s eyes again became tangled in the banyan. Its breath was sweet decay.
‘What are you staring at?’ Fern demanded.
‘I have …’ He stopped, seeing Fern’s incomprehension. He realized he had been speaking in Quya again. ‘I’ve seen this place before.’
Fern looked incredulous. ‘How could you have?’
Carnelian was unwilling to explain. Could this be the model for the Labyrinth? They were too far from Osrakum. No Masters save he and Osidian could ever have been here.
Fern, terrified, was framed by the banyan rising like night behind him. Neither of them could bear to be there a moment longer. As fast as they could, they made their way back to the safety of the other shore, arriving bloody and bruised from many falls.
Neither spoke as they coaxed the aquar with its fully loaded drag-cradle towards the camp. Carnelian had fallen back to put the bulk of the creature between him and Fern. He was embarrassed. After having all but forced his friend to go to the island, it was he who had most wanted to flee and that after having behaved abominably. Now they were past the impaled man and among the baobabs, it seemed as if it had been someone else who had panicked.
A commotion was echoing from the crown of the knoll. Fern made the aquar stop. Carnelian continued walking and they looked at each other. Fern began running. Carnelian looked around, decided the aquar could look after herself and took off after him. He felt the creature’s footfalls through the earth and looking back saw she was loping after them, the drag-cradle rattling after her, shedding waterskins. They slid, and bounced and burst open, splashing water everywhere. Carnelian grimaced, but turned his back on the débâcle and raced on.
‘Kor?’ he said. ‘What are you doing to her?’ he bellowed, striding round the front row of men, shoving them aside. They drew back, awed by his rage. A growling made him turn. The animal sound was coming from the sartlar woman.
‘Kor …’ he said, gently, approaching her. The woman snarled at him and he pulled his hands up and stepped back to give her space.
‘Have they hurt you?’ he said, his voice slow, soothing.
Kor glared at him. Keeping a wary eye on her, he looked around. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Salt,’ one man cried, and many others took the word up in a chorus.
At first Carnelian did not understand, but then he noticed the snowy grains frosting the ground. Kor had more in her hands, more crumbled down her rags.
‘She came with a great slab of it,’ said Krow. ‘She wouldn’t give it to us, nor tell us where it came from.’
Avarice gleamed in every eye. Seeing Kor still looking hunted, Carnelian crouched beside her.
‘It’s all right now, little mother,’ he said.
He continued talking until Kor relaxed, straightening up as much as she could.
‘They tore it from me, Master,’ she said and indicated the salt-strewn earth with her gnarled fists.
‘It doesn’t matter, Kor.’
He was trying to get close enough to lead her off before she said anything else but she backed away from him.
‘I only came to ask the Master where he wants us to put the slabs we’ve cut.’
Carnelian groaned.
Ravan broke through into the circle. ‘There’s more …?’ he cried, staring at the sartlar.
‘Caves of it,’ said Fern. He stamped the ground. ‘Here beneath our feet.’
The Plainsmen erupted. Carnelian glared at Fern, who grimaced. ‘We have kept this from them too long.’
Carnelian gave a weary nod of acceptance.
The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 56