The little man knitted his brows. ‘At this distance, Celestial, lucid communication might be difficult.’
Osidian gave a nod. ‘As I thought.’ He turned to Carnelian. ‘My Lord, I will ride to the next tower. Will you bring the army there?’
‘But it could be a trap.’
‘If so then we must scout as far forward into the enemy position as we can. It is critical that it is we who decide when and where we are to give battle.’
Osidian’s mask regarded Carnelian until, reluctantly, he agreed. He made a gesture of thanks and, then, taking the homunculus with him, left the platform. Carnelian lingered, brooding, until he saw, below, Osidian hurtling northwards along the leftway, a clot of Marula flying after him. Carnelian’s heart was heavy with foreboding. He glanced round at the black smudge of the approaching Rains, the ocean of sartlar, and then fixed his gaze upon the glowing Heaven Wall, wondering if this was the calm before the storm.
Rolling with Earth-is-Strong’s ponderous gait, Carnelian sat in his command chair, gazing at Osrakum. As the sun rose higher, it seemed to heat the Sacred Wall into a bar of white-hot gold that branded his vision so that he blinked its ghost whenever he turned away.
At some point the heliograph began to signal again, but this time its beat was complex. He watched the flickering, silent voice and knew Osidian must be holding a conversation, but with whom? The Wise? Molochite? Carnelian feared Osidian might make some mistake. There was even a part of him that feared he might be betraying them all.
‘We shall go no further today, but make a camp here.’
Upon the leftway, Osidian was half in the shadow of a monolith. Dragon towers formed a battlement running back along the road. Carnelian had come up to meet him the moment he had arrived. He had climbed up through the stable levels frowning. This was watch-tower sun-nine. There were only eight more between them and Osrakum.
‘What has happened?’
‘Under my promise of safe passage, the Wise are coming here to conclave with us.’
THE COMING OF THE WISE
Each of the Chosen can be considered as a two-pronged blood-fork lying in the flow of time. Upstream, the tines connect to the blood-taint nodes of the parents. The handle extends downstream the length of the lifespan and terminates at the death node. Of the other temporal nodes, the most significant are those of conception and birth. The node of conception locates the meeting of the prongs and handle. The birth node lies approximately nine months further downstream. These five nodes constitute the critical input into the astrological calculus.
Blots of shadow, their palanquins in the dusk. Along the leftway they came in a sombre procession. Preceded by a dense formation of guardsmen encased in articulated green bronze; one side of whose faces appeared the crystallization of the darkening east. Cruel billhooks and halberds in their hands. Cloaks merging so that they seemed borne forward on billows of tar smoke. The palanquins seemed to float upon the silver stream of their ammonites’ masks.
Carnelian had not seen Sinistral Ichorians since he had quit the Halls of Thunder in Osrakum. As they filed past he could smell the sweat that was causing the densely tattooed half of their bodies to gleam like polished leather. The lead palanquin swayed as it approached and he saw it was not black as he had imagined, but midnight purple. The front ranks of ammonites swinging censers wove thick garlands of myrrh into the air. Carnelian watched as the palanquin settled to the ground upon silver legs in the form of infants.
For two days he and Osidian had waited. They had decided Carnelian would greet their guests. A pair of ammonites now approached bearing a ladle in whose cup blue fire danced. Drawing the device back, they swung it forward to release its contents in a sheet. The fire spread its blue and violet flame across the stone, turning it black as it died. Through the myrrh smoke Carnelian saw a panel in the side of the palanquin sliding open just enough to allow a pale, gloved hand to put out two high ranga. The panel opened more and two childlike feet emerged seeking the shoes. A shape encrusted in purple brocade was soon standing there, its silver sleeping-child face allowing Carnelian to see a warped reflection of something else stirring within the palanquin. The homunculus reached in and fetched out two more ranga which were fully a third of its height. Once these were set up, the little man gave a nod. Two pairs of ammonites appeared, each bearing between them a staff that blossomed high above their heads into silver spirals like the croziers of some frozen fern. Two gloved hands emerged from the palanquin to take hold of these staves, then two long feet sheathed in ivory silk slipped into the high ranga. A vast rustling dark shape rose immense upon the ranga, its face the long, shield-like, single-eyed mask of one of the Wise. The ammonites knelt. The Sapient released his hold upon the croziers, extended a four-fingered hand to its homunculus and allowed himself to be guided forward like an aged grandfather by his grandson. As the Sapient loomed over him, Carnelian tried not to be awed. He saw the panels of beadwork that formed the slopes of the Sapient’s robe. He could smell the dusty pungency of ancient myrrh.
‘Are you a Grand Sapient?’
The homunculus removed its master’s gloves and raised one pale hand to its neck. The other hand rose on its own. Eight colourless fingers meshed around its throat. It murmured. The fingers flexed.
‘I am only a Second of Lands,’ the homunculus sang. ‘You are not the Lord Nephron.’
‘He awaits your masters upon the summit of this tower.’
‘Prepare it,’ intoned the homunculus.
Ammonites fluttered past like a flock of startled crows. Most disappeared behind the monolith into the tower. The Sapient began a stately progress in that direction and Carnelian made to follow. The Sapient halted and turned an eyeless profile. Carnelian felt the need to explain himself. ‘I am to attend the meeting.’
The Sapient’s blank face hung motionless for some moments, then with one hand he reached for the homunculus’ neck and his fingers made a burst of frenzy. ‘Then you will have to be cleansed, Seraph.’
Carnelian had a protest on his lips, but the Sapient was already slipping behind the monolith and so he followed him. The chamber within glowed violet as tiny flames scurried over every surface. Carnelian’s cloak was pulled off him. Reacting to this, he was suddenly enveloped by smoke. The chamber reeled. More Sapients appeared through the doorway, overseeing the pale chrysalises of capsules being carried in. Carnelian observed with what quick hands the ammonites hitched these up to hooks. Soon the capsules were rising into the watch-tower.
The sky had darkened enough to reveal a moon that was the merest rind of ice. The fire that had rained violet sparks down through the grating had left only its shadow soot. Three capsules rose like pillars of salt. Before each stood two Sapients, their homunculi in front of them. Carnelian glanced at Osidian, who alone had refused the cleansing. Censers in a ring around them all were growing a hedge of myrrh smoke. Silently the Sapients raised pale hands to the capsules, whose ivory made their skin seem whiter than the nearly eclipsed moon. The Sapients pulled the lids back and knelt before their masters within. Three Grand Sapients, masked, their arms crossed upon their chests, their homunculi, also masked, standing in place between their legs. One of each pair of Sapients rose to hold a staff up before his master. Carnelian started as the homunculi within the capsules took hold of these staves. Each held a finial of ruby fire before the chest of its Grand Sapient as if it were his heart freshly gouged out for display. The pale spiders of the Grand Sapients’ fingers began to writhe. Pale petals opening and closing. Gestures that were bringing life back into sleep-frozen limbs. Until, at last, they reached down to sensuously strangle the throats of their homunculi.