Servants filtering through the guardsmen were creeping towards their Masters, their steps slowing, faltering as they drew closer to them. Falling at last to the wet road upon their knees so gingerly it seemed they feared to bruise its stone. Cowering at their Masters’ feet, they received instructions. Some produced blades with which they made cuts beneath their eyes so that down their cheeks began to trickle blood tears. Their Masters allowed their cloaks and outer robes to be removed. The servants bore these to where their Masters pointed and the servants began wrapping the dead children in these borrowed shrouds. Watching this, Osidian and the Lesser Chosen Lords had fallen silent. Only when the servants were carrying the shrouded children back to the palanquins did the Great turn towards Osidian and, slowly, they advanced on him. As they drew nearer, the Lesser Chosen Lords, bowing their heads, moved aside and the Great came on like ships under sail. Among the palanquins, Carnelian could see the dead children in their silk cocoons being stowed away.
When the Great were close enough for Carnelian to see the glimmer of their eyes behind the perfect gold faces of their masks, they came to a halt, and for a moment they regarded Osidian with serene malice before one, then all, bowed before him.
‘Great Lords,’ Osidian said, his voice lacking its customary power, ‘those of your Houses that served under my brother are most likely also perished. Even now the commanders from the Lesser Chosen seek their bodily remains.’ Osidian made an unnecessary gesture indicating the battlefield behind him. ‘When they bring them here, we shall all return to Osrakum.’
Carnelian’s attention was pulled in the direction of the palanquins by a commotion there among the guardsmen. As he watched, a fanblade rose, then fell. All the way along their line, weapons were being used. Carnelian became aware of things rolling, of dark stains swelling, joining into streams that swirled into the rain-puddles, reddening them. He grew cold with anger. The slaves who had carried the dead to the palanquins were being slaughtered. One knelt, then his head, severed, rolled; his trunk, collapsing, sprayed blood upon the feet and legs of the guardsmen round him. The slaves had looked upon the faces of the children of the Great. Though their crime merited only blinding, their Masters were not feeling merciful.
Carnelian gazed upon the Great, who seemed impassive even though their people were butchering each other. This was how they had chosen to show their grief. Further, he realized, this was how they had chosen to display their displeasure to Osidian even as they paid him homage.
‘My Apotheosis shall be held in seven days’ time,’ Osidian said.
As the Great again bowed to him, Carnelian felt in his marrow that it was Osidian who was the true author of this theatre. Had he displayed the dead children deliberately so as to give the Great an easy opportunity to vent their grief upon their slaves, in the hope of turning their rage away from him?
Carnelian pulled his cowl down further over his face as one of the Great approached him.
‘You are Suth Carnelian returned?’ the Master said.
Carnelian raised his hand in a gesture of affirmation.
‘I am Opalid, of your House.’
Carnelian remembered meeting this Lord a few times. He recalled also that he was the son of Spinel, who had recently usurped Sardian’s place in House Suth. Opalid’s serene, forbidding face of gold turned to the dead children. ‘My own son lies there.’
The gold mask then surveyed the battlefield. ‘I wait for them to bring me my father’s corpse.’ The golden lips and dark eye slits swung back towards Carnelian. ‘The same price have I paid as the others of the Great, but yet, unlike them, I am not to have the compensation of rising to the ruling of my House.’
His bitter tone stung Carnelian, who wished to find words to deflect the man’s grief, to tell him he did not wish to assume the power Opalid felt was his due, to confess the possibility that he would soon die in Osrakum, but he was trapped in a maze of guilt, anger and confusion. ‘I am sorry you are in pain, Opalid.’
The Master seemed to pull back. ‘Spare me your pity, my Lord. You are like your father. Do you think your blood justifies your absence any more than it did his? Your lineage is either in exile or else you seek to rule from a sickbed. For a generation you have permitted the power of our House to wane in the councils of the Great.’
He snapped his fingers in a gesture of contempt. ‘But why should that surprise me when this weakness saps even our coomb. If I had risen to rule, I would quickly beat the ancient discipline into our slaves; cease this disgusting consorting with them that makes us an object of ridicule among those of our peers who should fear us. How shall you rule, my Lord?’
The Master’s rant had freed Carnelian. ‘You seem to forget, my Lord, our Ruling Lord still lives.’
‘No doubt as the… the favourite of the new Gods you expect to bring great power to our House?’
‘Enough,’ snapped Carnelian. He sensed Opalid resisting an instinct to bow. ‘Is my father here?’
‘So that he might savour my grief?’
Carnelian grew weary of the confrontation. ‘You little know him if you imagine he would delight in your pain. Please, just tell me if you know if he is here.’
‘Not as far as I am aware, my Lord.’
‘Perhaps he was too weak to make the journey,’ Carnelian muttered, his heart growing heavy with concern.
‘Yes, my Lord, it shall not be long before you wear the Ruling Ring.’
Carnelian stared at the Master, amazed, wondering if it were possible that he really believed what he was implying. It seemed Opalid’s grief might be more for himself than for his fallen father, perhaps even than for his child. ‘I wish to be alone, my Lord.’
Opalid hesitated, then began a bow, terminated it abruptly and, off-balance, moved away. As he watched him, Carnelian froze. He was all that stood between Opalid and the ruling of House Suth. He could not bear the thought of his family at the mercy of such a man, but, as things were, Carnelian knew his chances of surviving long enough to thwart Opalid were slim.
Carnelian found Osidian with Morunasa and several syblings watching some dragons on the road approaching from the south. No doubt they were bringing the corpses of the Ruling Lords they had salvaged from the battlefield. He felt a pang of urgency. ‘I am going to return to Molochite’s camp, my Lord.’
Osidian’s mask turned to regard him.
‘To seek my father.’
‘Take Earth-is-Strong.’
‘What danger could the camp hold?’
‘None if you take the huimur.’
Carnelian realized there would be other advantages to complying. ‘Is she close by?’
‘Not very far. I kept her close to me during the battle.’ He indicated the gutted mass of the Iron House. ‘In the attack on that, her pipes were second only to mine.’
Carnelian wondered why Osidian had told him that. He disliked being reminded of the way the children had died. Was his real reason for seeking his father to escape the scene of so much death?
‘Take the Quenthas with you.’
Carnelian looked round and saw, with relief and joy, that among the syblings nearby were the sisters who had been his companions at court. Their heads came up, grief hardening their faces. There was shock in Right-Quentha’s eyes at seeing his naked face. He needed to know Osidian’s intentions. ‘What is it that you fear, Celestial?’
Osidian laughed in a way that to Carnelian sounded unnatural. ‘What have I to fear now? Take them. I give them to you. They themselves confessed to me how they disobeyed my brother.’
Carnelian had to defend them. ‘To save me.’
‘And for that I am grateful but, having once betrayed the trust of one God Emperor, how can I be certain they will not betray another?’
Carnelian glanced at the sisters and saw how pale Right-Quentha looked, how both sisters lowered their heads, inclining them towards each other.
‘If you do not take them, they shall have to be destroyed.’
Carnelian saw
that the sisters did not flinch at this threat. ‘I shall be glad to have them with me if that is their wish.’
Right-Quentha glanced up at him, in her sad eyes acceptance of their fate. He felt their shame and wished he could tell them that, in truth, he too was of the House of the Masks, so that there was no dishonour in serving him, but he could not speak and, as he walked away, the sisters followed him.
‘How was Grane blinded?’
His brothers, Poppy and Krow stared past him. Carnelian glanced round at the syblings. Right-Quentha was countering their stares with proud aloofness. Her sister’s tattooed face bore an uncertain frown. Carnelian turned back to his family. ‘These are the Quenthas, right and left. They saved my life’ – he glanced at Fern, who was nodding – ‘and, henceforth, are part of our household.’
He looked into every face to make certain everyone understood he wanted the sisters welcomed. All concurred. Only Fern’s gaze did not soften, disturbed beneath his troubled brow; he was concerned not at all with the syblings, but only with Carnelian. They needed to talk, but this was not the time.
‘Grane’s eyes?’ he said to Keal.
His brother began a shrug. ‘While Father still ruled, Grane was his steward.’ His mouth tightened. ‘When they stole the power away from Father, the new master had Grane flogged, then blinded.’
Tain’s eyes flashed. ‘Spinel removed his mask in front of him!’
Carnelian caught his meaning. Spinel had done the same to Grane as had Jaspar to Tain on the road to Osrakum. Grane had been used to make clear to Sardian and the rest of the House exactly who was now master. Carnelian could see in his brothers’ faces something of what they had had to endure in the subsequent years of Spinel’s rule.
Tain’s smile startled Carnelian. ‘But everything will change, now you’re back, Carnie.’
Carnelian’s first reaction was anger. Almost he reprimanded him for his dangerous familiarity. But, realizing his anger was really fear, he let it go. He could not bear their hope, for it was sure to founder in bitter disappointment. Desperation rose at the thought they might spend the rest of their lives under Opalid’s tyranny.
A tremor in the ground steadied him. Another. Up on the road a dragon was approaching. With relief he recognized Earth-is-Strong and he threw himself into getting his family up into the safety of her tower.
Carnelian ran his hands down the smooth arms of the command chair. He found some reassurance in its familiar feel, in having his Left and Right in their places awaiting his commands. He glanced round and saw his family crammed against the cabin walls, safe for the moment. Poppy and Krow leaning together, his brothers staring blindly, Fern with his knees drawn up to his chest, head lolling. Carnelian’s gaze lingered on his lover, recalling the feel of that wiry head, tasting again the sweetness of their lovemaking. This was too soon soured by confusion, anger, fear. Why had he been so weak as to start a relationship that he knew was certain to end in loss?
Carnelian turned back to look through the screen out over the abandoned Twenty-Legion Camp. He remembered its roar and power, but now only rain knifed across its bleak, littered, empty spaces. Nothing of the host of beasts and men was left but their tracks in the churned-up mud.
He could not help still thinking of this man lying upon silk and leathers, like something assembled from bird bones, as his father. Carnelian saw him through tears. A commotion out in the camp made him turn away, worried about his people. He focused on what he was there for. In the light of the single lamp, it was clear how much Grane had changed, yet Carnelian could see the brother he remembered in the ruin that remained. Grane’s ravaged face seemed a warning of what could happen if Carnelian should be unable to become the Ruling Lord of their House.
‘He must be woken, Grane.’
His brother’s mouth twisted, lips thin like an old man’s. ‘We’ve been unable to wake him since he collapsed.’
Carnelian heard the tone of bitter accusation. Collapsed when, for a second time in his life, searchers had come back to him with news that they could not find his son. Carnelian corrected himself: adopted son. ‘I know that his care for me has so often brought disaster for others.’
‘You’re his son,’ Grane said with bleak finality.
Carnelian almost laughed at the irony. Should he tell his brother that they were not brothers at all? Tell him that, of the two of them, it was only in his veins that any of their father’s blood ran? Not a drop of it was pulsing in Carnelian’s. He said nothing. At that moment it could only deepen Grane’s pain at being deprived of a father’s love.
Carnelian looked at their father. Even if he were awake, could he help them? Carnelian realized it was up to him to find a way to save his people. His gaze followed the blue-veined bones of his father’s hand to the jewelled swelling on the smallest finger. The Ruling Ring of House Suth where it belonged. Once before when his father had been near death Carnelian had taken it from him. Then he had not known how to wield its power. His aunt had died.
‘I must take his ring, Grane.’
Grane frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I must control our coomb.’
Grane’s face softened to putty. His head wilted. ‘Can’t you wait, Master, until he’s dead?’
Instinctively, Carnelian reached out to this broken man, but his brother flinched at his touch. Carnelian considered confessing his fears, but they were his burden to carry. He must not risk fear spreading among his people. If even a rumour reached Opalid’s ear, the last chance to do something might well be lost. Instead he must play the Master. ‘From your own experience, Grane, you know what can happen when our House is not ruled well.’
Carnelian watched how his assumption of authority put iron back in his brother’s bones. Grane gave a nod. ‘As you will, Master.’
He moved aside, allowing Carnelian to lift his father’s hand. It seemed as light as a child’s. He slipped the ring off as easily as if it had been strung on a cord. He turned it in the light, then put it on. ‘Prepare Father, we’re taking him home.’
Carnelian stood by his father’s palanquin, wearing the mask his father had sent him, one of his robes and a black military cloak he had found in his pavilion. He was all the time aware of the unfamiliar weight of the Ruling Ring upon his hand. He had had the bearers set the palanquin down by the northern gate of the Masters’ Camp. Grane stood beside its sombre bulk, his head hanging, rain running down his face, dewing like tears upon the polished surfaces of his stone eyes. House Suth tyadra formed a cordon separating them from the rest of the camp. Carnelian was watching the funeral procession of the Masters coming down the road. On either side their slaves lay prostrate in the mud, their backs sodden, in terror of their Masters returned grief-stricken and murderous.
Carnelian lingered long enough to make sure the Masters were giving commands to disassemble their pavilions for immediate departure to Osrakum. Then he raised his arm in a signal he had prearranged with his Lefthand. Earth-is-Strong lurched into life, her footfalls causing the nearby gates to shudder and rattle. He gestured a command and the palanquin rose into the air and, swaying gently, began following the dragon. Carnelian was only too happy to accompany it; he had no wish to witness any atrocities the Masters might visit upon their cowering slaves.
The watch-tower loomed up out of the rain-fogged air. It was the second tower they had seen since leaving the camp. Carnelian was no less sodden than his guardsmen. His robe and cloak clung to his back like flayed skin. As they drew closer he peered up, his mask keeping the rain from his eyes. Sun three. There were only two more watch-towers before the road terminated in the Wheel. Time was running out. What land he could see on either side was drear grey marshland. Osrakum filled the eastern horizon with its leaden rampart. The road curved away across a flinty mere towards an island, upon which, through the murk, he could just make out the huddle of the first tenements of the City at the Gates.
When he reached the monolith standing guard upon the road gate of the watch-tower,
Carnelian found Fern, Poppy and the others waiting for him, having just climbed down from Earth-is-Strong’s tower. He motioned them into cover and soon was following the palanquin into the shelter of the tower stables. He wanted to get them all as far away as he could from the road and the vengeful Masters.
Up on the leftway, he leaned upon the parapet. Below, all across the stopping place, slaves with tattooed faces were raising tents and pavilions under the gaze of their Masters, whose gold faces were watching them from their palanquins with icy malice. Dragons were churning through the mud outwards from the road in an arc to form a protective rampart. Only Heart-of-Thunder was heading for the watch-tower, behind a procession of palanquins: the Wise, amid the sombre purple of their ammonites and the greens and blacks of their Sinistral guards.
Night seemed to be seeping up from the Sacred Wall. On the leftway, Carnelian fixed his gaze on the monolith that stood before the watch-tower. He had pulled his guardsmen back from the tower so that they would not become involved with ammonites or Sinistrals. He had watched the Wise enter from the road below; had watched Osidian set Marula to guard the lower gate, after which he had entered escorted by syblings.
A bluish light began flickering on the inner face of the monolith. Ammonites were purifying the interior of the tower with fire. Carnelian waited. The reflected radiance died and no one appeared. He looked up the trunk of the tower to the branches that held up the heliograph platform. Clearly, the Wise were already up there and, it seemed, Osidian with them. Carnelian turned the Suth Ruling Ring upon his finger, reluctant to join him, but knowing he had no other option. He approached his father’s palanquin and saw Fern watching him, his brothers, the Quenthas.
‘I must climb to talk to the Master – to Osidian,’ he added for his brothers, for whom ‘the Master’ was their father.
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