At last the Righthand raised his eyes to Carnelian’s mask. ‘Master, it is now possible to disembark.’
Carnelian gave a nod and both of his officers bent to their voice forks and issued commands into them. He felt more than heard the crew moving about the tower, but he remained in his chair, feeling it was his right to quit the tower last. He heard a creaking sound to port that he guessed was the brassman being lowered. As it came fully down he felt its pull upon the tower. Then there was a jerking vibration as men moved along it. This went on for some time, then, heads bowed, his officers rose from their positions and retreated towards the ladder. Carnelian waited to hear them descend before he himself rose. He climbed down through the empty trumpet deck, glad of the respite its closed ports gave him from the sun. Reaching the lower deck he was forced to stoop. Through the portal he could see the brassman stretched out into space, hanging from its chains. As Carnelian walked out onto it his mask protected him from the glare. The distance to the ground was alarming. Ahead was another dragon tower, half in shadow. He glanced further round and saw he was on the edge of an expanse walled by the ring of dragons. Within this milled the Marula on their aquar and the pack huimur with their frames.
He used the rope ladder that fell from the brassman’s hands to climb down to the ground. His officers and crew were kneeling all around him. Hunched sartlar were jogging towards him in pairs. Between each sagged a pole from which hung a leather box that spilled water with every bounce. He gazed back down the line of these water carriers to the black hole in the earth from which they were emerging burdened. The odour of render released into the air was managing to pierce the nosepads of his mask. At that moment the dragons began a moaning as if they were mourning the dying of the day. Their haunches and the pillared halls beneath their bellies already wallowed in night. Their horns against the purpling sky were crescent moons. Only their towers still held the guttering embers of the sun. He watched as the last gleam of day faded into indigo.
Within one of the pavilions erected for the Masters, Carnelian sat opposite Osidian on the thick mattresses that made a floor. A brazier was pumping myrrh smoke. Though overpowering, it allowed them to be free of their masks. He glanced at its hated shell, face down on a pad of silk. Through the haze he could see the stains Osidian had sweated into his bandages. He too had had his leathers removed. He fingered the mattress, which was thick enough to lift them the prescribed distance from the polluting earth.
Osidian was eating voraciously from the ceramic boxes filled with delicate wafers of hri, saffroned meats, dried fruit like dull, wrinkled jewels. Carnelian nibbled at a wafer; the whiff of render had turned his stomach.
Osidian looked up. ‘Tomorrow we must carry out some manoeuvres.’
‘I thought we had to make for Makar without delay.’
Osidian nodded. ‘But I must get a feeling for coordinating our line.’
Carnelian bit into an apricot as Osidian began sculpting tactical dispositions in the air. ‘You will take the left, I the right.’
Osidian woke Carnelian. Once their Hands had eased them back into their leathers, they emerged from their pavilion. Within the laager, preparations were already being made to leave. Carnelian followed Osidian past Marula saddling their aquar to where the Lesser Chosen commanders were gathered. After Osidian had explained to them what he intended to do he sent them to their towers. As he turned to Carnelian his mask caught some of the pink dawn. ‘Let us see what power there is in these beasts.’
Carnelian could not help feeling a thrill of excitement as he approached Earth-is-Strong. The rising sun was sheathing her rump in copper. Her head and the hills of her shoulders were carved from shadow, but her tower seemed aflame. Men crawled up in the rigging like flies. He felt a momentary unsteadiness as she shifted. He saw a man sitting astride one of her horns ready to release the tether. He mounted the ladder. The brassman was grimacing as Carnelian came up onto it. Entering the tower he was struck by the already familiar mix of naphtha, sweat and leather. Climbing to the upper deck he slipped into his command chair. His Hands came to kneel beside him. He listened out for the commands they were murmuring into their voice forks. He felt the juddering as the rest of the crew scrambled up into the tower. At last his Lefthand raised his eyes. ‘Everyone’s aboard, Master. Everything’s stowed.’
‘Take her into the west,’ Carnelian said. ‘Order the rest of the cohort to follow.’
The man gave a nod and began issuing instructions into his voice fork. The cabin lurched as Earth-is-Strong’s head came free. The capstan brought her head under control. The tower tilted right then left as she began to move forward. Soon it levelled as Earth-is-Strong found her pace. Through the bone screen Carnelian could see other dragons following as he had commanded. He gave his Lefthand further instructions and, as these were relayed down below, they began veering south-west. When messages arrived that convinced him he had reached the leftmost position in Osidian’s line he had his dragon turn due west.
Sartlar scurried among the hri-spikes like ants fleeing a flood. In his command chair Carnelian was elated by the rushing speed, by the majesty of the dragon line half-masked by dust. The sartlar in flight had, at first, evoked dark memories of the time he and Osidian had been slaves among them. Remembering Kor he had felt pity, but the subtle way in which he and Osidian, though so far apart, could manage to control the horizon-spanning line of dragons was intoxicating.
Something flickering in the corner of his eye made Carnelian turn to see a flashing from the furthest end of the line. His Lefthand frowned, hearing the signal decoded in the earpiece in his helmet.
‘Sickle,’ he said and looked up for confirmation from Carnelian.
At his nod, the legionary grunted a command into his voice fork. The swaying motion of the tower smoothed further as they picked up even more speed. Earth-is-Strong began to outdistance the other dragons in their cohort. Glancing round, Carnelian saw those in the centre had slowed, hanging back so that the whole line was becoming a crescent with its horns thrust forward. He craned to peer ahead into the murk that hid his dragon’s lumbering gait. Down on the plain the sartlar were tiring; the dragons in the horns of the crescent were overtaking them.
Another flash came down the line from Osidian. An order to close the trap. At Carnelian’s command Earth-is-Strong began veering to starboard, pulling the left half of the line round with her. For a while he watched his dragons curving in towards the sartlar. Then he saw another tide of dust coming straight towards them. Heart-of-Thunder emerged from it, horns spread like wings, tower gleaming, leading the other arm of their envelopment to close with his. The sartlar slowed to a stumble, began milling, as the encirclement grew ever tighter. More flashing that his Lefthand received through his helmet. The legionary turned to Carnelian. ‘Light the furnaces.’
Carnelian regarded the man, a look of horror hidden behind his mask. Osidian was intending to unleash fire upon the sartlar.
‘Master?’
Carnelian shook his head. Heart-of-Thunder and Earth-is-Strong had swung round to move in parallel as they closed upon the sartlar. He lunged forward to grab his Lefthand’s shoulder. ‘Send a signal along the line in both directions: desist!’
The man looked at him, his face stiffening with panic.
‘Send it,’ Carnelian roared.
The man’s mouth approached his voice fork, muttered the commands. Carnelian peered out of the port screen, straining to make out Osidian’s tower in the eddying dust-clouds. He waited for some response. Then he noticed smoke beginning to wisp from Osidian’s chimneys. To starboard, more was hazing up from every tower within eyeshot. The ring of dragons tightened, training the spikes of its flame-pipes on the sartlar mass, which was darkening as they huddled closer. Without taking his eyes off them, Carnelian leaned to his Lefthand. ‘No signal?’
‘None, Master,’ the man replied, his voice breaking.
Black smoke was pumping up all around the ring. Carnelian felt numb. Alr
eady it was too late. Nauseated, he gazed down upon the cowering, waiting sartlar. A command flickered round the ring. A sound like coughing issued from Heart-of-Thunder’s flame-pipes. Then a whining that rose to a screaming. The sunlight made the fire arcs invisible until they hit the sartlar. Smoke erupted in their midst. Fire was there, incandescent in the darkness overwhelming them. More pipes were screaming. The blackness oozed out, feathering skywards. At its heart, man-shaped flames cavorted as they burned.
Leaden with horror, choking on a rage he did not want to vent on those around him, Carnelian sat frozen as they moved away from the pyre. All the rest of that day he remained thus, speaking only to give his Lefthand the minimum instructions to keep their place in the line as Osidian took them ever further westwards. A voice spoke within him that he could not shut out. It accused him of once again having become Osidian’s fool. That it was only sartlar who had been destroyed did not make him feel better. The only thin comfort came from his father’s voice, speaking quietly within him, telling him he must play the long game.
The sun was low when they spiralled the dragons into another laager. Carnelian descended from his tower feeling brittle but determined. As legionaries erected pavilions, he stood aloof, watching the dragons being fed. He noticed Osidian talking to Morunasa. His gold face remained serene as Morunasa’s folded into a frown. The Oracle glanced over to his fellows then, turning back, he gave a nod. Carnelian was curious, but had other priorities. Osidian was heading towards the pavilion that had been set up at the centre of the camp. Carnelian followed, told their Hands to remain outside, then entered.
A shape in the gloom greeted him. He was in no mood for pleasantries. Unmasking, he waited until Osidian did the same. ‘Why was it necessary, my Lord, to torch the sartlar?’
Osidian frowned. ‘I would have thought that obvious enough.’
‘The flame-pipes could have been tested as effectively on empty ground.’
Osidian’s frown deepened. ‘It was more the commanders’ willingness to obey me that I wished to test.’
Carnelian stared. ‘You really believe their willingness to cremate sartlar proves they would make war upon the forces of the Commonwealth?’
Osidian’s face hardened.
‘Was this test worth betraying our position to the Wise? At least one of their watch-towers must have seen the smoke.’
Carnelian was undaunted by Osidian’s glare.
‘Examine your heart, Osidian. Look there for your hidden purpose. Are you sure you were not merely seeking to burn yourself clean of the taint of slavery?’
Osidian’s eyes flashed. ‘How dare-’
‘Have you forgotten I shared it? No amount of killing will ever remove the humiliation. Your failure to deal with how you feel endangers the very goals you claim you seek.’
The contempt Carnelian felt for Osidian’s self-deception made it easy to withstand the wrath burning in his eyes. Still, when Osidian disengaged, Carnelian was left feeling sick to his stomach. The nausea warred with an unfamiliar triumph. As their Hands were called in and began undoing their suits, Carnelian wrestled with his emotions. Triumph was the one he distrusted: it was altogether too Masterly. Still, he must seek victory wherever it might be found.
‘I leave tomorrow,’ Osidian said, suddenly.
Carnelian looked up. ‘Leave?’
Osidian’s eyes were focused on some inner vision. ‘I need to know what our enemies are up to. I need to gaze upon Makar.’
Carnelian felt uneasy. ‘But you might be seen, perhaps captured.’
Osidian shook his head, slowly, still lost in his vision. ‘I shall travel with but one companion, humbly, upon the road.’
‘Morunasa?’
Osidian nodded. ‘With him at my side, my height will not mark me as more than just another Marula.’
Carnelian could see Osidian would not be dissuaded. ‘And the huimur?’
‘You will take them west until you come within sight of the towers of the Great South Road. There you will await my return.’
Carnelian considered the power Osidian was putting in his hands. How easy it would be to betray him. That thought was bittersweet, but he decided he must hold to his strategy: Osidian’s rebellion must be big enough that, in contrast, the part the Plainsmen and the Lepers had played in it would appear diminished. He raised his hand in assent.
When Carnelian woke, Osidian was gone. He rose and the legion came awake with him in the dawn. He could read the Lesser Chosen commanders’ uncertainty in the cast of their bodies, but chose to ignore it and banished them to their towers with a gesture. He sought out his officers and told them they would guide Earth-is-Strong as if he were sitting in her command chair. He assured them they would suffer no punishment for this infringement of legionary law, then he dismissed them, insisting that, throughout the day, they should stay within direct signal range of Heart-of-Thunder. Soon he was mounting the ladder up into Osidian’s tower. Once seated in Osidian’s chair, he sent commands flashing round the ring of dragons. Turning Heart-of-Thunder into his own shadow, Carnelian led them west.
It became hard to believe they were moving at all. Certainly, the grid of trackways gave an impression of forward movement but, every time they reached an intersection, with its identical overseer tower and the ring of the kraal behind it, it seemed they had merely returned to the same spot they had been in before. Dusty hri fields formed dun rectangles edged by the trackways. Sartlar laboured beneath the withering sun. Sometimes he would watch a gang of them jogging along the thread of a track. That would stir harsh memories of slavery and loss. He would turn away, letting the land blur, allowing the sway of the cabin to seduce him into thinking he was bobbing on a gentle swell. The sartlar became invisible to him, merging into the dull monotony of the land. Space lost its meaning. Time alone was perceptible. An eternity of it ruled by the tyrannous sun that made each overseer tower shrink and grow its arm of shadow.
In the evenings the meaningless vastness of the world contracted to the space within the laager. With darkness his world shrank to the smoky interior of his pavilion. Harried by doubt he would seek escape in sleep, but when this came at last he would be drawn down dark paths into the underworld of dream.
On the afternoon of the fourth day since Osidian had left with Morunasa, Carnelian was woken from a nodding half-slumber by his Lefthand. ‘I dared to think the Master would wish to be woken.’ The man glanced at the Righthand. ‘We risked bringing the dragon to a halt.’
‘Why?’
‘Master, our lookout claims to have glimpsed a watch-tower.’
‘Ahead of us?’
‘And to the south, Master.’
Carnelian gazed out through the bone screen. Gridded land stretched to the same hazy horizon he had been seeing for days.
He rose from his chair. ‘Signal the others to fall back.’
‘Master.’ The Lefthand punched the deck with his forehead even as he shuffled aside to allow Carnelian to pass round the back of his chair.
The Righthand scurried to attend him. ‘Master?’
‘I wish to see for myself.’
The legionary looked horrified. ‘Climb the mast?’
Carnelian chopped an affirmative. ‘Bring the lookout down.’
The man hesitated, squinting up at Carnelian as if he feared he might have misunderstood.
‘Go on,’ Carnelian said, softening his tone.
The legionary ducked a bow, then scampered to the staples set into the mast. Climbing them, he opened a hatch and slipped up onto the roof. Carnelian could hear his footfalls above his head. Heard him shouting something. At last, a face appeared in the hatch. ‘He’s down, Master.’
Carnelian left his cloak on his command chair, then climbed the staples. It was a squeeze to get through the hatch. The land spread vast and dusty beneath an immense, colourless sky. For a moment he was lost in all that airy space. Then he looked down; the ground was far away. The wedge of Heart-of-Thunder’s head seemed like a p
row. Carnelian focused on the men prostrate on the roof. The Righthand and two others. One was gripping a mechanism Carnelian recognized as a tiny version of a watch-tower heliograph. The other must be the lookout.
He gazed up the mast with its glyph plaques. It tapered upwards like a knotted rope hanging from the sky. Far above was the swelling of the standard. At that height the mast did not look strong enough to bear his weight. Nevertheless, he was determined to go up.
As he climbed the staples running up the back of the mast the breeze was causing it to shudder. Each plaque he passed was larger than a shield. Soon the men looked tiny on the roof below. He could see not only Heart-of-Thunder’s head, but his rump and tail. Glancing up, he saw the standard was hanging huge above him. Soon he had reached it and found there, just beneath the grimacing paired faces of the Commonwealth, something very like a deadman’s chair. He took a firm grip of its hoop with first one hand then the other. Then he swung himself astride the central drum. It threatened to rotate under him forcing a spasm as he thought he might fall. He righted himself, waited for his heart to calm, then gazed out over the land. Wind roaring in his right ear, he located what he sought. The prongs of a watch-tower due west. It had to be on the Great South Road. Two more watch-towers lay to the south, no doubt part of the Ringwall. Makar had to be nearby. Suddenly he felt utterly exposed. It seemed as if the Wise were gazing directly at him. He slid off the chair onto the first staple and began the descent.
The sun was low when a voice like a gull’s caused Carnelian to push past his Hands and hurry out of his pavilion. The cry coming again from the sky made him glance up. The lookout clinging to Heart-of-Thunder’s mast was pointing back the way they had come. It took Carnelian a while to notice anything in the long shadows the dragons were casting, but then he saw two riders approaching.
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