Osidian bowed again and then tenderly replaced the mask. He reached up and traced the sickle of its crescent horns. He closed the coffin and turned away.
Carnelian, moved, now yearned to save Osidian from his decision. ‘Delay going down until the morning.’
Osidian turned sad eyes on him, but did not speak.
‘Sleep on your decision. Perhaps, unforced, your dreams will gift you the tactics you desire.’
‘Will you stay with me, Carnelian?’
Carnelian’s heart was yielding to the entreaty in Osidian’s eyes, but his memory recalled another time like this: in the Upper Reach before Osidian had gone to the Isle of Flies. Mercilessly, Carnelian quenched his desire and his compassion. There were others who had more call on those than did Osidian the murderer. ‘Delay until morning for your own sake.’
As Carnelian saw Osidian’s eyes harden, so that they seemed to have only the life of emeralds, a resolve arose in him. Once Osidian returned, he would most likely be changed, as he had been the last time. Anything that could be done to bind the monster he would become must be done now. ‘It’s not only the Lepers that have their price, Osidian. I’ve reason to fear the obscene thing you are going to submit to. You will swear to me an oath upon your blood or else I’ll give Aurum up to the Lepers and disband them. Even, I might wake the Grand Sapient and give you to him. For there, perhaps, also lies a way in which I could achieve what I seek.’
‘And what oath is that?’ said Osidian.
Carnelian was taken aback by his sadness, by his mildness. Almost, he would have preferred wrath. ‘Upon your blood, swear that, should we take Osrakum, you shall make certain that neither you, nor any of your servants, nor the Commonwealth shall take any retribution upon the Plainsmen, the Lepers or any barbarian whatsoever, whether ally or enemy to us or to the Chosen.’
‘I swear,’ said Osidian.
‘Upon your blood.’
‘Upon my blood I swear it.’
Then Osidian left the cell and Carnelian followed, wishing he felt that he had actually gained anything. The oath had tamed none of his doubts. He expected Osidian to move to the ladder, but instead he disappeared into his cell. Carnelian watched the door close and stared at it for a moment, filled with painful memory and regrets. At last he turned to the door of his own cell in which, for company, he had only the homunculus and Poppy with her questions.
THE ICHORIAN
Deception is the art of war.
Tears well from Osidian’s eyes. Not tears, maggots. Carnelian feels their itch across the slab of limestone. A cliff verminous as cheese. Touching it, he finds it is warm flesh puckered with wounds. Mouths whispering, calling out for something. He tries to clap his hands over them to keep them quiet, but there are always more mouths in his flesh than he has hands to silence them. Thunder behind him under a forbidding sky. Turning, he sees the tide rippling in. He tries to flee to higher ground, but always, inexplicably, he runs back towards the waves. Spiral wormcasts everywhere in the sand. He can feel the tickle of their heads nuzzling up into holes rotten in the soles of his feet. He clasps a ladder, desperate to escape, but he cannot move his legs, now one with the earth. Unbearable itch as the maggots invade his flesh. They reach his knees. The itching rises in pitch until it becomes cutting blades so sharp they scream.
Carnelian jerked awake. The cessation of pain was so instant he was sure he must be a corpse. Was he blind in a capsule? He lifted his hands and they found his face. The wonder of touch. Listening to his breathing anchored him to the edge of the nightmare that gaped behind him, hungry to swallow him back in. His feet touched the cold floor. He shambled towards the wall. As he searched it with his fingers, it seemed vast enough to encompass a city. Finding a slit, he pushed his face into it, seeking, then drinking the night air. Drunk with it he pulled back. He could not let Osidian endure that obscenity again. Trying not to wake Poppy and the homunculus, he found his door and slipped out onto the landing. The moment he entered Osidian’s cell he knew it was empty. Nevertheless, he crossed the cell and ran his hands over the bed. Only the ghost of Osidian’s warmth was still there. Carnelian returned to the landing, then moved towards the ladder and peered down into the watch-tower core. Utter blackness. He could hear nothing. It was too late. In the bowels of the tower, Osidian had already sacrificed himself to his filthy god.
Carnelian returned to his chamber to await the dawn. The whole burden of their rebellion was now his alone to carry. The last time Osidian had lain infested with maggots listening to Morunasa’s god, Carnelian had not acted. When he had, it had already been too late. Horror of what had then happened tormented him. The accusing dead seemed to be standing all around him in the darkness. It was not enough to say to them that he had neither the strength nor the wisdom to work out what to do. Curled up, he rocked back and forth, fighting despair. The responsibility was his. He had in his hands the fate of those still left alive. He drew a little strength from that certainty. Slowly he assembled arguments; tried to work things out. The first light of dawn filtering into the cell brought with it some thin hope. He even managed to find a reassuring smile for Poppy and the homunculus as they woke.
In the watch-tower entry hall, Carnelian, Poppy and the homunculus peered down the ramp into the blackness of the stables. Carnelian knew he must go and talk to Lily and the Lepers, and he also wanted to get Poppy out of the tower, but he was afraid of what might lie below in that darkness; he had not forgotten the victims the Oracles had hung from the vast banyan of the Isle of Flies to be eaten alive by maggots.
Making sure Poppy was well wrapped up, he took her by the hand. Then, urging the homunculus to follow, Carnelian began descending the ramp. In his free hand he held a lantern. The edge of its light slid slowly down the ramp, a ridge at a time. With every step they took, the odour of dung and aquar grew stronger. When they reached the first level, he raised the lantern. The floor was strewn with chaff. Along the wall the stable doors were closed. Masked, cowled, gloved and cloaked, Carnelian could feel nothing directly, but he detected slight movements, as if the air was subtly tearing. He gave the lantern to the homunculus, then pulled his hand free from Poppy’s insistent grip and drew back his hood to free one ear. He flinched as something sliced the air near his cheek. Back and forth, slashes in the air. He tugged the cowl back over his mask. The air was thick with flies.
He gave his hand again to Poppy. The lantern light wavered. The homunculus was clearly in some distress. Down more ramps they went, Carnelian itching with disgust at the delicate hail of flies striking against his mask. The gold was too thin a membrane between him and such vermin.
At last they reached the lowest level, where he found, to his relief, that the portcullis giving onto the road was raised. Eagerly he strode out, past the monolith, into the bright morning, where he and the homunculus sucked at the clean air as best they could through their masks. Poppy glanced back, pale with fright.
As they emerged from the rampart of the Qunoth dragons, the Lepers rose like an ocean swell. Carnelian glanced back to the road, where the Marula camp huddled right up against the doorway into the stables. He was trying to rid himself of his unease at the way they had cowered when he had appeared among them.
He turned and saw the Lepers surging towards him. Poppy clenched his hand and the homunculus drew closer. The Lepers swarmed around them, murmuring, staring at them though keeping their distance. As he advanced a way opened up through their midst. Glancing from side to side, he could see he was surrounded and began to wonder if he had made a mistake in coming. There was nothing for it. To hesitate might be fatal.