The Third God (39 page)

As they moved into the fortress he was surprised. No stables or barracks for auxiliaries confronted him, but only squat buildings. To starboard the curving wall of a cothon. To port the ground fell into a ravine whose other side rose as a cliff. Steps and terraces scaled this to towers crenellating its edge. Bone-white that cliff, striated, rotten with age, perforated with windows. Alleys squeezed out through gaps from which staining spilled down into the ravine. It seemed a half-ruined anthill, but also an ancient city, gently sculpted, smiling, delicate. This was a living cousin to the dead ruins Carnelian had seen on his way to the election. A Quyan city, then. Southwards the low buildings of the fortress curved away, following the bend of the ravine. There at the very tip rose a tower. He squinted. It had the look of a watch-tower.

‘The gate, Master,’ said his Lefthand. The man was pointing to where there was an opening in the cothon wall.

‘It seems we are expected,’ Carnelian said, to cover the return of his anxiety that they were entering a trap. He was determined to face it head on. He gave the command and Earth-is-Strong approached the gateway. As they passed through it, he glanced at his Righthand to make sure the man was ready to relay a command to fire their pipes. They came into the immense circular space all hedged about with piers. Carnelian sent his Lefthand round the portholes to look for dragons.

‘Nothing but a few towers, Master. Spares, I think.’

Carnelian could see the tiny figures waiting for him in the open centre of the cothon. He leaned forward in his chair. They did not look threatening. He rose and peered through the bone screen. The cothon did indeed seem empty, innocuous. He returned to his chair to ponder, while Earth-is-Strong continued advancing on the welcoming committee, Marula pouring past on either side. At last he commanded his dragon to come to a halt. He glanced round one last time, then gave his Righthand the command to dowse the furnaces. He did not want any accidents.

Soon Carnelian was on the ground. Marula riders were swirling round to envelop the marumaga, who were wearing the cyphers of Aurum’s legion. Carnelian bade his officers accompany him and went to meet the legionaries. As he walked he surveyed the cothon. The piers were almost entirely empty. The flame-pipe racks held but two of the weapons. Once far enough away from Earth-is-Strong, he snuffled the air. It was hard to be certain through the nostril pads of his mask and so he asked his officers. They confirmed that the air seemed free of naphtha and the musk of dragons.

As he approached the legionaries they fell prostrate before him. He bade them rise even as he scrutinized their collars for their ranks. As he had hoped, one was the Quartermaster General. He began questioning him. Soon he had discovered that their Legate, the Master Aurum, had returned the previous day from the lands below, but he had passed through the city, marching north. He judged the man was hiding nothing from him. ‘And the quaestor of this city?’

‘He’s in the Legate’s tower, Master.’ The man half turned, his hand rising tentatively to point southwards.

Carnelian gazed in that direction, but could see nothing over the cothon wall. ‘The watch-tower at the edge of the city?’

‘Just so, Master,’ the man said, looking at the ground.

Carnelian was aware Morunasa had dismounted and was approaching. He focused on the Quartermaster. ‘My dragon is to be fed, as are these men, who are my auxiliaries.’ He indicated the Marula.

The legionary bent almost double. ‘As the Master commands.’

Carnelian was distracted by spotting Sthax among the Marula. Could he get close enough to talk to him? He was a little startled to find Morunasa nearly upon him. He refocused on the Quartermaster. ‘Also, you will gather render sufficient to feed a legion of dragons for three days and you will send this out of the city and north along the Great South Road.’

The man bent again. ‘If it please the Master, to whom shall we deliver it?’

Carnelian saw an opportunity in this. He waved the Quartermaster and the other legionaries away and, when he judged them beyond hearing distance, he turned to Morunasa. ‘I shall take twenty of your men. While you wait, form the rest in a cordon round my dragon. Let no one approach other than to feed and water her.’ He indicated the Quartermaster. ‘When that man has gathered the supplies, take enough of your people to control the entrance-gate watch-tower and to form a decent escort, then guide the supplies to the Master. Tell him the fortress has been abandoned. Tell him that Aurum—’

Morunasa was frowning. ‘The Master commanded me to remain with you.’

‘Well, I am commanding you to return to him.’ Carnelian examined Morunasa’s face, unsure he would obey him. ‘Tell the Master that Aurum returned yesterday from the Leper Valleys and that he’s not had the time to replenish his naphtha tanks. You understand?’

Morunasa glared at the ground. ‘Yes, Master.’

‘Then go.’

Carnelian had two of his twenty Marula give up their mounts. One aquar went to the local legionary he had chosen to act as guide. Then he approached the other empty saddle-chair. He removed his cloak and gave it to Sthax, who was holding the aquar’s reins. As Carnelian had hoped, the Maruli had managed to include himself in the twenty Morunasa had left behind. He thanked him, then clambered aboard.

After a Plainsman chair this one felt too loose. There was a problem with his feet. Instinctively, he had been trying to get them in contact with the aquar’s back, but the shape of the chair would not allow this. Besides, he could feel nothing through his ranga soles. He was growing increasingly irritated. He recalled that auxiliaries used stirrups and he managed to find them, then slip his leathered toes into them. It felt unnatural. As he tried to make the aquar rise all that happened was that his feet pushed ineffectually into the stirrups. Then he remembered the reins, which he found wrapped around the pommel of the saddle-chair. He unwound them, then pulled. Startled, the aquar threw back its head, flaring its eye-plumes. Cursing under his breath, Carnelian pulled more gently and the creature finally lifted him into the air. He checked to see Sthax was mounted, then he gave the command for the legionary guide to ride ahead.

As they left the cothon, Carnelian glanced back at Earth-is-Strong. He was reluctant to leave her, but had confidence in his Hands. On reaching the road their legionary guide turned right and Carnelian sped after him. His exhilaration at feeling the familiar rhythm of an aquar’s gait was diminished only by the difficulty of directing the creature with the reins. He worried that the bit in its mouth was hurting it. He disliked not having his feet on its pulsing warmth. He realized with surprise how much he had relied on this contact to sense how the creature was feeling.

Passing through a gateway they came upon the barracks and stables of auxiliaries. Everything looked in order, but empty. The men who had been lodged here he had left as carrion in the Earthsky.

Soon they were leaving the buildings behind. Loping along the edge of the ravine they came to where a branch of it was crossed by a bridge to a wall pierced by a single bronze door that was studded with silver ammonite shells. As he brought his aquar to a halt, he regarded the door, knowing it was the entry to a sanctum. It would probably be as empty as the rest of the fortress save, perhaps, for the households of Aurum and his commanders. Over the sanctum wall he could see, rising in the distance, the tower of the Legate of Makar and, thus, Aurum’s tower. No doubt it had a heliograph on its roof and he could not rid himself of the nagging worry that it was to this tower that the watch-towers on the road had sent a message. He dismounted and, reluctantly, crossed the bridge.

The bronze gate opened before he reached it and a figure appeared in its shadow. It performed a prostration as Carnelian approached. Its head, rising, revealed the silver mirror of an ammonite blinding mask with its solid spiral eyes.

‘Welcome, Seraph,’ the dead silver lips said in pure Quya.

‘On whose behalf do you welcome me, ammonite?’ Carnelian replied, in the same tongue.

The man made an expansive gesture cramped by uncertainty. ‘Makar, the fortress, Seraph . . . my Lord the Legate is not in residence.’

Carnelian had an intuition. ‘You are the quaestor here?’

‘Just so, Seraph.’

Carnelian wondered that the man had come himself, but then he considered that this quaestor might well suspect something of what had transpired to the north. Perhaps he had even observed it from the Legate’s tower. Carnelian gazed down at the quaestor. The man would have as many questions as he did. Carnelian corrected himself. Not curiosity, but necessity had brought the quaestor here. His duty was to be the eyes and ears for his masters, the Wise. He had much to gain from any information he could send to them; everything to lose if he failed them in any way. Carnelian felt a stab of sympathy for him. ‘How many Chosen lie within this sanctum?’

The blinding mask cocking to one side seemed a pantomime of surprise. ‘Why, none, Seraph. All left some time ago with my Lord Aurum. None have returned.’

‘What instructions did he leave you?’

‘None, Seraph, save that we should await his return.’

Carnelian considered his next question carefully. ‘And you have received none from your masters in Osrakum?’

The mask retreated a little as if Carnelian had threatened him. ‘As the Seraph must know, such information is vouched inviolable by the Protocol of the Three Powers.’

‘I was merely wondering why a watch-tower would seek to send an alert here before even considering sending one to Osrakum.’

The quaestor retracted his hands into the sleeves of his robe as if he feared they were about to betray him. In reply all he managed was an uneven shrug. Carnelian saw in this behaviour confirmation of his suspicions. He peered over his head into the dark recesses beyond. There was a suggestion of lazy curlings in the air. He could smell the narcotic smoke. ‘I will enter.’

‘As the Seraph wishes,’ said the quaestor. He rose to his feet, stooping as he moved aside.

Carnelian beckoned the Marula, who held back, snatching furtive glances into the dark opening. Even Sthax seemed reluctant to obey him. Carnelian had to motion more insistently before he and the other Marula began to approach. He had taken one step towards the threshold of the sanctum when the quaestor’s hand jerked up to loosen his mask. One eye was revealed and a sliver of his sallow, tattooed face. He fixed the Marula with a glare that stopped them in mid stride. They regarded him as if he were a serpent who had sprung up in their path.

Slipping the mask back over his face, he turned to Carnelian. ‘These unclean animals cannot enter here.’

‘I intend that they should,’ said Carnelian.

The quaestor pointed vaguely to where Carnelian could see some steps cut up the sanctum wall. ‘They must first pass through the quarantine.’

‘Nevertheless, I am determined they will enter with me.’

The quaestor raised his hands as clutching claws. ‘This cannot be, Seraph, the Law forbids it!’

Carnelian sensed the man’s distress was genuine enough. ‘This place is destitute of Seraphim. I myself have no time to be cleansed and no wish to suffer the delay of subjecting myself to fresh ritual protection when I leave. I shall keep the one I wear. If by thus entering the sanctum it shall become polluted, then so be it.’

The quaestor was shaking his head erratically, his hands trembling as if he were having a fit. Carnelian reached out to calm him. At his touch the man jerked back, colliding with the jamb. He wrapped his arms around his chest. ‘At least, Seraph, I beg you, allow yourself . . . and these others . . .’ His hand trembled out, then quickly returned to grip his shoulder. ‘To be purified as best we can with smoke.’

Carnelian could see no harm in that. ‘Very well.’

As Carnelian edged into the gloom, Sthax and the other Marula followed. Smoke curled thick tendrils round them. The quaestor fussed, muttering instructions. Carnelian felt his face swelling into his mask as if it were the shell of a sprouting seed. Sweet myrrh crept into him with every breath, jellying his bones. When his legs faltered, hands appeared from the darkness to steady him. Censers, swinging, layered the air with thicker smoke that had a peculiar, stale odour he had not smelled before. Needles pierced his temples. He heard his voice far away cry out as he spun down into darkness.

His father in a chair, his back to him, while their hands down his spine find him wanting. He calls out, but his voice is the cry of a gull. Carnelian feels thunder coming. Through the window a cliff of water rolls black towards them. Seaweed smell, so like blood. Dripping red from his father’s fist as it opens offering twin pearls to a charnel mouth. Angling hand, they begin to roll. Carnelian screams: don’t let them go! It is his hand, he tries to close it, but the pearls melt into tears that dribble between his fingers. Watering a hole in the ground. Two pits side by side. His father gazes at him, eyeless
.

Carnelian came awake struggling against the undertow of his dreams. He saw a young boy with a face halved by a thread tattoo. On either side an amethyst almond for an eye, a blushing cheek. Split by the tattoo, the boy’s lips were moving. A grim tide was sucking Carnelian back into sleep. He heard the words ‘quaestor’ . . . ‘letter’. He tried to move to break his nightmare’s hold on him. The hollow stone of his head surged with pain. The spasm subsided enough for him to open his eyes. The boy was gone. Carnelian tried to make sense of where he was; to resolve the fractured symmetries of the chamber. Guttering flambeaux gave twisting life to peculiar machines of brass and ivory and glass. Floors and walls meeting at strange angles seemed covered with tapestries and carpets of crusted blood. The boy returned holding a vessel of white jade so thin it looked like ice. Within its milky membrane water swayed. Drinking it quenched the fire in Carnelian’s head and lungs. Straining to resolve the impossible symmetries of the chamber, he realized it was full of mirrors. Contorted surfaces of silver, of gold polished to the consistency of torrid air. Slopes of glass that gave reflections so perfect he could only discern them by their frames. There were far fewer machines than he had imagined. Frameworks of bone slid and turned in subtle, repetitive movement. Discs and pivots. Brass and copper twitching. Liquid silver pouring with a strange inner radiance. He could not understand what anything was.