The boys guided him to a place encompassed by mirrors of gold. There they worked on him, their amethyst eyes turning black, pulling strigils from racks, wielding brushes and pads, glazing his skin with pigments, floating undergarments over him that might have been stitched together from the wings of dragonflies. He submitted to them and was several times fooled into thinking they could see him when their stone eyes caught a flake of light. He disliked how tall he looked among them when reflected in the mirrors, above which rose the quivering limbs of the machines.
Finally they masked him, then slipped away. Startled, Carnelian glanced round, but was too slow to see them disappear. He was alone, but for the other sinister versions of himself inhabiting all those other mirror worlds. He was wondering why it was Aurum had so much need to see himself, when there was a rapping at a distant door.
‘Enter,’ he said, echoes rippling some of the mirror worlds.
The door gasped open and guardsmen entered with the faces he remembered, round and yellow and bisected by Aurum’s tattoo. So familiar were they that, when a dark figure approached, he drew back, alarmed, certain it must be Aurum himself. Then he saw the figure was far too diminutive and, as its mask caught the light, its metal was too wintry to be gold. The guardsmen knelt to form an avenue flanked by their forked spears, down which the quaestor approached him. The man came close enough for Carnelian to smell the myrrh that wafted off his dark brocades as he knelt and bowed his head. ‘Seraph,’ he breathed, offering up a folded parchment.
Carnelian took the letter and turned its seal to the light. It was not bright enough for him to read the impressions in the purple wax. Besides, at that moment, he was anxious to find out what had happened to him. A sudden thought caused him to glance up at Aurum’s guardsmen. ‘Where are my Marula?’
The quaestor curled so tight the forehead of his mask clinked against the floor. ‘They were sent back to the cothon, Seraph. It is not permitted that they should enter here save through quarantine.’
Carnelian was trying to remember what he could about the moment he had entered the purgatory with them, but he could recall almost nothing. He sensed the quaestor’s unease. ‘Unmask.’
The man lifted his head from the floor, but not enough for the light to reveal his metal face. ‘Seraph?’
‘Remove your mask.’
Another clink as the man abased himself. He reached behind his head and fumbled his mask loose, then laid it upon the floor as if it were made of the thinnest glass.
‘Look at me, ammonite.’
The quaestor hesitated, but then his pale face came up all written over with numbers. His eyes were still cast down.
‘How did I end up here?’
The quaestor suppressed a shrug, licked his lips. ‘My Lord the Seraph reacted badly to one of the purifying drugs. We are mortified, but-’
‘I have been through many such purifications and never before have been affected thus…’
Numbers folded into the wrinkles of his grimace. ‘The creatures that entered the purgatory on the insistence of the Seraph panicked like animals. They overthrew censers. They spilled fluids. Because of this, prodigious quantities of the drugs were released…’ The quaestor cracked his forehead against the stone floor. ‘Your servants did what they could for the Seraph. Forgive them for what they could not do.’
Carnelian did not feel it likely he would get much more out of him. It could wait. Curiosity over the letter now took precedence in his mind. He felt the seal. The wax was smooth. At first he did not understand, but then it occurred to him. It must be from Osidian, who had no seal to use. He broke it open and saw with some excitement that the glyphs were indeed drawn in Osidian’s hand. He read it.
Expect visitors in the cothon. Equip them as best you can.
Carnelian turned the parchment, looking for more, but the rest of it was blank. Osidian had written nothing that could not be read by anyone. Carnelian read the letter again. Visitors? The quaestor, fidgeting, drew his eyes. Carnelian’s mask hid a bitter smile. It was fully possible the wax had been broken, the letter read, then resealed. What did it matter? Its import seemed innocuous enough. His mind turned again to what had happened when he had entered the purgatory. The quaestor’s explanation did not ring true. Carnelian regarded the letter. Visitors? What visitors? Obliqueness from Osidian was always a reason to worry. Carnelian tried to gather his thoughts. How could he think with all these people grovelling before him? His gaze fell on the face of one of the guardsmen. Aurum’s mark there on that round face filled him with disgust. He shaped a gesture of dismissal and turned his back on them. As he waited, listening to them creep away, he became aware that, at the far end of the chamber, there was the merest diamond-bright crack. The promise of clean daylight drew him and a lust for unperfumed air to breathe. To his delight, as he approached, a waft sliced fresh through the stale lily odour of the chamber. He had to squint against the glare leaking through the crack like first light on a horizon. Shadows appeared; their litheness suggested they were the amethyst-eyed boys.
‘I wish to gaze upon the day,’ he rumbled.
They released a blinding flood of light that brought back his headache. He paused until the spasm had subsided, then strode into the blaze. He turned his face up towards the sun, waiting until he could feel its heat seeping through the gold of his mask. The scene began emerging round him. More of Aurum’s guards kneeling. Stretching away behind them, a garden. Commanding the guardsmen to remain where they were, he wandered out along a path, delighting in the open space, in the dappled shade. Magnolia perfume soaking the air for a moment took him back to the Koppie. Disturbed, he pushed on. At last he reached a ragged wall, broken down here and there by dragon-blood trees. Moving into the shade of one he gripped its trunk. At his feet yawned a canyon. This could be nothing else than the same Pass they had tried to fight their way up, only to be repulsed by Aurum’s fire. He pondered this, feeling again the agony of separation from his friends. So much had happened since, it seemed an age ago. He peered down that chasm, his heart yearning to carry him on wings down to the green land below. In his melancholy, it was some time before he noticed the dust hazing up from the canyon. At first he thought it smoke until he saw its pallidness was mixed with rust. He had seen enough such clouds to know that only a saurian herd could lift so much, or dragons, or perhaps a great body of riders. He tensed. Osidian had told him to expect visitors. Visitors! His eyes tried to pierce the hazy canyon below. He fought down panic. He had suspected Osidian had some hidden reason to take Makar. Those he had believed safe were now returning into the very heart of danger. A seedling of joy grew up through the dread. He turned his back on the canyon and returned to the tower. He must go to the cothon to see what could be done to avoid what he now most feared.
The outer doors opened as he approached them, revealing a staircase descending into gloom and shadows. As he reached the top of the stair, a rushing sound rose up from the vast hall so that he imagined some waterfall had been released, perhaps to cool the air, but then the disturbance ceased as quickly as it had begun. When he searched the gloom on either side of the steps, he could just make out figures in serried ranks. What he had heard was their obeisance. Another figure was ascending the steps towards him. As it looked up at him its mask caught the light and he knew it must be the quaestor. He descended to meet him.
The quaestor knelt on the steps. ‘What is the Seraph’s desire?’