In the neighbouring cell the three homunculi slept together. He had long ago put aside his fear that they might betray them. The duststorms made it impossible to use the heliograph or the flares. Besides, what could they tell the Wise that they did not already know?
Through the other wall Osidian and Jaspar shared a cell. A near-dead thing, Jaspar was carried up and down each watch-tower locked within a Sapient capsule that had belonged to one of Legions’ Seconds. Sometimes, through its ivory skin, Carnelian could hear mumbling. The same mumbling he could hear now, though he pressed his hands against his ears. Those mumblings that fed not only Osidian’s dreams, but his own. He pulled his hands free and tried to listen instead to the murmuring of the sartlar, or the squealing water-wheels with which they were drawing up water to quench their oceanic thirst. While at the same time he clung to the edge of his own black well into which he knew he must eventually fall.
Blearily, through his bone screen, Carnelian watched the tiny figure grow more distinct beneath the bulk of another midday tower. When that figure became two, he narrowed his eyes, thinking he was mistaken. Soon he saw it was not only Fern waiting for them, but, beside him, a smaller figure that seemed in comparison a child. It could only be Krow. What news had he brought from the next tower?
As Earth-is-Strong came to a halt behind Heart-of-Thunder, Carnelian could just make out Osidian’s voice emanating from his dragon tower as he questioned Krow, who was on the leftway looking up at him. Strain as he might, Carnelian could make out nothing of the youth’s answer. Osidian said something that caused Krow to bow and fall back. A while later, Heart-of-Thunder’s mirrorman began signalling with his arms. Carnelian watched his Lefthand reading the signals. At last he turned. ‘Master, you’re to assume command of the host.’
Carnelian began relaying a reply, but then he saw Heart-of-Thunder’s brassman falling and Osidian walking out upon it. Soon he had descended to the road. Frustrated, Carnelian waited. Osidian appeared from behind the monolith onto the leftway, a flood of Marula and aquar pouring out after him. Soon, riding away, they were fading into the haze.
Carnelian moved Earth-is-Strong past Heart-of-Thunder, then led their army along the road. All that long afternoon he kept his gaze fixed on the leftway, waiting for Osidian’s return or, at least, some messenger, but all in vain. So it was that, when he saw the world ahead darkening, for a moment he thought it was approaching dusk. Except that the west was still glowing orange. As they drew nearer, he saw the earth crusted with shanties and realized they had reached the outskirts of some vast and gloomy city. The sartlar slowed as they poured into ditches and along alleys like a wave infiltrating a pebble beach. Carnelian searched for signs of anything living, but the hovels seemed abandoned. Even though they were now leaving the sartlar behind, he did not slow Earth-is-Strong and led the army deeper into the city. A region solidified ahead from which rose several spires. He shuddered, having the impression they were approaching the eaves of some murky forest. It occurred to him that, perhaps, he should order the flame-pipes of the leading dragons lit, but the city seemed dead. The two nearest spires grew branches and slowly resolved into watch-towers, one on either side of the road and each rising from a dark rampart. He detected movement there, upon the leftway, beneath the rightmost tower. He breathed a sigh of relief, certain they must be his people. He gained confidence in that feeling with each lumbering step his dragon took. At last they came close enough to see a figure waving.
‘Krow,’ said Poppy, and so it was. Carnelian gazed at the dead city and made his decision. He ordered the army to a halt, then, leaving Poppy in the care of his Righthand and Earth-is-Strong in the care of his Left, he bade the homunculus follow him and together they climbed down to the road. Before them the two watch-towers faced each other, each rising from a forbidding rampart, each standing guard upon a massive gate. His heart misgave. These were surely legionary fortresses. He listened for the enemy, but the only sound was thunder fading back along the road as his dragons drew to a standstill. He set off to meet Osidian.
Osidian was there on the edge of the heliograph platform with Morunasa. As Carnelian approached them he became aware of the city stretching off in all directions.
Osidian acknowledged him. ‘Behold the city of Magayon.’
A charred, ruined labyrinth lay directly below, another on the other side of the road. At the heart of each the circles of cothon wells. Fortresses, then, torched by their legions before they left, no doubt to deny Osidian equipment and supplies. More watch-towers clustered where the road reached a junction with another running off into the west. Duststorms had already begun to bury Magayon. Carnelian recalled with melancholy the ruins he and his father had seen on their way to the election. He searched along the northern road for enemy legions or any other sign of life. The horizon there seemed to be sucking ink up from the land. ‘Burn-off?’ he said, wondering.
‘If so, Seraph,’ said the homunculus, in a low voice, ‘it would be unusually early. Generally the stubble is not burned until the Rains approach for fear the earth, unfettered, will turn to dust.’
Carnelian glanced down at the little man, wondering if he was being ironic, but his face was grave. Carnelian returned his gaze to the north. There was an obvious conclusion. ‘They intend to starve not only us, but our sartlar.’
Osidian came alive and half turned to him. ‘A sign of weakness.’
Carnelian gazed at the profile of his mask. ‘What do you mean?’
The mask turned to him. ‘If my brother has commanded the earth be burned before us, does it not suggest he fears us? You should be happy, Carnelian. It seems your sartlar strategy has disconcerted him.’
Carnelian could see no cause for happiness. ‘Whatever Molochite may be feeling, surely he has succeeded-?’
Osidian’s mask jutted towards him. ‘In what?’
Carnelian could hear in Osidian’s voice the madness rising. ‘How far are we from Osrakum, my Lord?’
Osidian’s hands tensed. ‘More than twenty days.’
‘How do you imagine we could cross a charred wasteland for more than twenty days with millions?’
Osidian became a motionless doll. ‘I’ve faith our Lord will provide,’ he said in Vulgate.
Morose beside them, frowning as he gazed blindly out over the abandoned city, Morunasa gave a slow nod.
Carnelian lolled in his command chair. He had slept even worse than usual. Haunted by the dead city, he had wandered lost in nightmare labyrinths. Waking, he had led the army through a gate, past the junction with the western road and north between the mudbrick tenements with their blind windows and the alleys between them choked with the red dust that made them seem to be running with blood. The screams of Osidian’s flame-pipes had echoed through Magayon. He had joined Poppy to watch the leftway wall crumble under the fiery onslaught. Like a collapsing seawall it had released a torrent of sartlar. They had watched them infest the city even as their flow caused the gap in the wall to widen.
Tenements gave way to hovels, then the whole termite architecture gave way to middens. Through the haze, the city boundary ditch was approaching. Beyond its neat edge the land ran charred and dismal as far as he could see.
It was Poppy who pointed out how the world seemed to have been turned upside down. Red sky above; black earth below. As the sartlar riptide crept across the land, their feet became blackened, then their legs right up to their bellies, so that they were transformed into creatures divided equally between the new earth and sky.