The Standing Dead - Stone Dance of the Chameleon 02

by Ricardo Pinto

  Why not? the storm said. Wasn't it you who put him in the urn, who cheated him of his life, his destiny?

  The venom of what the sybling Hanuses had said to him infused into his heart. Their two faces swayed sneering down at him from their single head. He tried to squeeze the poison out by blaming the Dowager Empress, Ykoriana, whose creatures the syblings were; by blaming the Lord Jaspar who had conspired with her, but it did not appease the nagging of the storm. You persuaded Osidian against his judgement down into the wilds of the Yden far from all protection. Ykoriana's henchmen only had to follow you to capture him. You have betrayed not only your beloved, but your father and all your people. It was always thus. All whom you have loved, you have betrayed.

  As the storm tore the world apart, Carnelian could not wedge his head deeply enough between his knees to shut it out.

  A tremor of footfalls jerked Carnelian free of a gnawing half-slumber. Some rays of light, a cry of surprise, the wind of something rushing up. He caught a glimpse of the Ichorian's tattoo-shadowed face, then felt the judder of the man's fists clamping to the rim of the urn. As Carnelian was lifted upright, it seemed to him the plaster ceiling was falling.

  'You shouldn't have done that,' the Ichorian said.

  Carnelian was grateful for the human tones that stripped the storm of its voice.

  The Ichorian moved away, then Carnelian heard the grinding as a lid was slid off another urn.

  'M-Master...' the Ichorian's voice trembled. His face returned to hover above Carnelian. The man seemed shaken. His gaze fell on Carnelian.

  'I've arranged passage for us. It was hard, dangerous, but what's to come will be more dangerous still. I'm going to have to bind the lid closed.'

  He stood back.

  'Don't either of you even think of making a sound,' he said, shrilly. 'I've hired deaf mutes as porters. Be certain of this: if I hear even a sigh, I'll tip you both from the boat. You'll drop to the lake bottom and be drowned.'

  He grunted as he hoisted the lid and perched it on the lip of Carnelian's urn.

  'I'll be going with you all the way.'

  The lid forced Carnelian's head down. As the Ichorian secured the lid with ropes, he kept up a chatter, his voice muffled: 'I've nothing to lose now. I'm leaving everything behind, even my slave. That way, no one will think I'm going away, not if I leave everything behind. It's the best thing to do. It's the only thing to do.'

  A kick on the urn wall caused Carnelian's back to spasm.

  'I only need one of you to sell, so don't imagine that I won't drown the other if I have to.'

  Curled in the stinking dark, Carnelian felt the poles rasp by his head as they slid through the carrying handles. As he was swung into the air, the earthenware ground the raw meat of his back and feet. Bouncing on the flex of the carrying poles, he chewed his tongue until his mouth filled with the iron taste of blood.

  At last, the urn was put down. When the agony had abated, he became aware of the swaying of a boat. With a judder, they set off. He tried to ignore the itch, the aching, his skinned flesh squelching in his own filth. Cries skimmed over him like gulls. Sometimes there would be a clamorous buzzing and his mind's eye would be assaulted by a vision of people climbing steps from the water up into the tenements of the city. Hubbubs vibrated past. When the boat clunked into others there were singing curses, or threats; once, a greeting.

  Even through the earthenware, he began to feel the dawn. As they slipped in and out of shadow, the sun warmed and cooled the urn wall. Gradually, his world grew so hot that he began to hope he might die cooked in its oven. He was cheated even of that. With a rustling something covered the urn and the heat soon ebbed away.

  Carnelian's world shattered, tumbling him into dust. The air was screaming. Men were quarrelling. It took time for him to realize he was free. He sucked at the wind with a gasp that relaxed every joint in his body. His spine uncoiling sent a knife filleting all the way up his back. His eyes tore open. Even as he saw the roiling sky, he was dazzled blind.

  A voice shrieked: 'You didn't tell us what they were.'

  Caught between gulping at the air and the rub of grit into his raw back, Carnelian flopped onto his belly. After the urn wall, the ground was kind.

  'Masters! You've killed us all! They're Masters!'

  Carnelian lifted his head and it became a keel in the flowing air. The world was rolling blackness. Dust pelted him. A lightning flash fixed a scene of more than a dozen men standing round him and, against the sky's torment, a broken youth glowing white.

  'Osidian.' The word had hardly vibrated Carnelian's throat before the wind snatched it away. The dark fence of men recoiled as he rolled onto his knees. He sensed their cowering but it was Osidian who was the heart of his gaze. Carnelian rose, tottered unused to his legs, stumbled a few steps, then fell kneeling at Osidian's side. He reached up to touch an icy shoulder. More lightning showed him the wounds up his lover's back.

  'Osidian,' he moaned and reached out to lift him. 'Beloved.' He pulled at his shoulders but Osidian refused even to lift his head.

  'We must tie them up,' said a voice Carnelian knew to be the Ichorian's. He sensed the men circling and stood to face them. Their eyes caught the glare of lightning his skin cast over them as if from a mirror. As they shambled closer, he could smell their animal fear, could hear it in their voices as they incited each other on.

  One braver than the rest reached out to touch him. Carnelian struck the hand away. More came up and he spun round striking out. Their terror ignited into rage and they threw themselves upon him. As their nails dug into his wounds he bayed at the stormy sky and threw them off with such fury that they backed away.

  One produced a trembling flint knife. 'Let's butcher them.'

  His companion gave him a sidelong look. 'Are you sure they can be killed?'

  Th-they're Masters ' said another.

  'Angels.' The word taut with awe.

  The brave one showed his hand. 'I've got this angel's blood here beneath my nails. If they bleed, they'll die.'

  Erupting through them, the Ichorian slapped the man's hand down. There'll be no killing,' he bellowed. 'Where's the profit in that?'

  He turned his back on Carnelian and scanned their faces. 'You've seen them unmasked. Now you're all in this as deep as me. Do you really believe you can kill two Masters and get away with it? Spill their blood and it'll stain your hands so red the Masters will hunt you like lice.' He glanced back at Carnelian. 'Our only hope is to take them south and sell them there for enough bronze to make us all rich.'

  The slavers were wavering.

  'Bind them,' barked the Ichorian.

  As they moved to obey him, Carnelian backed away until his heels touched Osidian. He fought fiercely but the slavers' assaults wore him down until, at last, he was forced to the ground, powerless to stop them putting ropes around his neck.

  Carnelian's arms were lashed together from wrists to elbows. The ropes strangling him were each bound to an ankle to bend him like a bow. The Ichorian had made the slavers do this to disguise Carnelian's height. Bitumen had been painted on his skin to hide its whiteness.

  Sartlar crowding round Carnelian stank. Lightning revealed glimpses of their distorted shapes. Overcome with loathing and horror, Carnelian tried to back away, shamed at even being touched by the half-men slaves. Their inertness calmed him. He crouched, trying to get his fingers to the knots around his neck, but could not find an angle that would allow his joined arms to reach them. A knifing flash. For an instant, he saw the tarred wood of Osidian's wretched face. Carnelian became possessed by rage. He struggled frantically to unbend, to snap the ropes. Tightening, they tamed him, choking off his cries.

  He let his head drop, centred himself. When the world lit again, he found a space beside Osidian's body and, kneeling, rolled into it. Enduring the pain, he shuffled round onto his side and managed to get his hands to Osidian's face. He rubbed at the bitumen, trying to reveal the beautiful face beneath. It was futile. Osidia
n's skin was canvas. Even through the tar on lips and teeth Carnelian could taste the salt of his tears. He rolled Osidian's head into his lap and rocked him back and forth, mumbling one of his nurse Eben’s lullabies.

  All through that shuddering night, Carnelian cradled Osidian, while the bitumen pulled his skin so taut he believed it must tear. The coarse, twisted bodies of the sartlar shoved against them. Each time the sky roared, Carnelian felt their trembling. The silence in-between was hissing earache.

  As the lightning became intermittent, he began to feel the weight of the sky. Growling rumbled out from its black heart. A cooler wind was blowing. The waiting between thunderclaps left him raw. Osidian slept in his crooked embrace. Carnelian worked his mouth to ease the itching at the corners. The air was thickening, throbbing. Suddenly, with a final bellow, the sky opened. The air sighed relief. The earth spattered, pocked then pooled. The pools swelled to sheets foaming in all directions. Carnelian was blinded. Air had turned to water and he was drowning. Curled into each other, they were pebbles in a stream.

  RUNNING CRUCIFIED

  Characteristics required of a sartlar kraal are: Firstly, that it shall be located south-west of two intersecting field tracks.

  Secondly, that it shall be capable of stabling twice four hundred sartlar.

  Thirdly, that the enclosure shall be circular and circumvallated with a fence of hri wicker which shall be not less than an aquar in height

  and nine hand spans thick at the base; said fence to have but a single point of egress, this being at the north-east of the enclosure and under the tower which must be constructed for the overseers. This tower shall abut onto the outer face of the fence and be not less than two aquar in height. Fourthly, the enclosure with its tower shall in turn be circumvallated

  by a ditch which shall not be less than an aquar in depth and crossed by a single, removable bridge. This ditch shall serve not only to reinforce the incarceration of the sartlar but will also function as a fire-break in the event that the stubble-bum from the adjoining fields should become uncontrolled.

  (from an agricultural codicil compiled in beadcord by the Wise of the Domain of Lands)

  Bleating, the sartlar edged away. Thin light was seeping into the world. Carnelian had to bring his knees up to his chest to put enough slack in the ropes to allow him to lift his head and look around. Men were pushing through the sartlar towards him. Among them, only the Ichorian made no attempt to shelter from the rain. Water varnished his half-black skin. Carnelian bore the cutting of the ropes into his neck as he squinted up at the man's face. He could see the doubt in the man's eyes.

  'Please stand up,' the Ichorian said. Carnelian watched the half-black lips hesitate over but not say the word 'Master'.

  Leaning on his elbows, Carnelian managed to get his knees under him. He gathered his strength then jerked upright, but the tug of the ropes unbalanced him, making him fall back onto his knees.

  Feet splashed approaching him.

  'Stay back!' cried the Ichorian. 'Let him do it by himself.'

  Carnelian tried again, this time bringing first one foot then the other under him, then he straightened his knees as much as he could and dug his elbows into his thighs for support. Two slavers brushed past him, barking orders. He twisted his head round enough to see Osidian still lying on the ground with the slavers over him.

  'Get up,' one growled.

  Carnelian watched the man jab a foot into Osidian's belly then draw back when he lifted his head to glare at them through his bitumen mask. When the slavers goaded him with their feet, Osidian closed his eyes and refused to budge. When they began kicking him, the Ichorian stopped them with a bellow. He made them hoist the Master onto his feet.

  Osidian stood hunched, his head hanging. It agonized Carnelian. Then he became aware of the brooding mass framing Osidian, and his heart died. For he knew, within that mountain wall, the Wise and all the gathered Chosen were turning Molochite into the Gods while his brother, Osidian, whose place he had usurped, was trussed in the mud, an abject slave.

  * * *

  The slavers gagged the Masters and covered them with rags. The Ichorian ordered that the ropes securing their ankles to their throats should be loosened enough for them to walk. Each had a leash looped between the wrists which a slaver could use to pull them.

  Strain as he might, Carnelian could not break the ropes. His leash tugged and he had to trot after it or else fall over. He soon found he had to bend even lower so as to put enough slack in the ropes to allow his legs to move freely. Sartlar jostled him on either side, their thick heels kicking mud up into his face. He was forced to look down, to watch his bitumened feet slipping and squelching through the mud. The sucking churn of sartlar feet drowned out the hiss of the rain. Soon, Carnelian's breath was rasping past the gag wedged into the corners of his mouth like a bit.

  He lost his footing, plunged knees first into the ground, was kicked hard in the back, then crushed by a sartlar falling on top of him. The creature rolled to one side and Carnelian used his joined-up arms as a shield against the flailing spades of its feet. The leash jerked him up, forcing him to stumble back into a run. Sartlar closed around him.

  Concentrating on maintaining a steady, sure-footed rhythm, Carnelian feared for Osidian. He managed to turn enough to look at him. He was there, running mechanically, his head down so that Carnelian was unable to see anything of his face. Peering through the loping mass of sartlar, Carnelian glimpsed the surface of the lake, its glass scratched to granite by the rain. He let his head drop, rested, then lifted it again searching for the City at the Gates, hoping to discover where they were. Boats and figures crowding the shore were shrouded in tarpaulins. Strain forced Carnelian to sink his head.

  For a long while he thought of nothing but making his running smooth and sure. Then he found he was kicking through ridges wheels had left in the mud. Smoky charcoal cut through the dull odour of his bitumened skin, through the sartlar stench. Voices and the lowing of beasts carried through the storm. Glancing up, Carnelian saw carts and people dragging their way through the puddle-rutted quagmire of a stopping place. If he made a run for it surely he would be spotted, the alarm given and then he and Osidian would be freed. Feeling the ground hardening beneath his feet, he saw stone surfacing through the red earth. It was hard climbing the incline of a ramp. When the stone flattened out, they came to a halt. He propped his bound arms on one thigh and slowly released the tension in his back. He sensed something giant looming over him. Panting through his gag, he twisted his head round, screwing his eyes up against the rain. A watch-tower. The sight of it forking the clouds brought memories of those he had stayed in with his father on their journey to Osrakum. Hope flared as he scanned the tower heights, but no lookouts were spreadeagled in the hoops of its deadman's chairs.

  The slavers were barking commands. The sartlar began to grumble. Even as the leash attached to Carnelian's wrists was drawing taut, he decided he would take his chance. Bracing himself, he pulled hard. Snarling, the slaver lost hold. Carnelian fell into a sartlar, rocked back onto his feet, lowered his head and rammed his way out through the herd. Bursting free, he lifted his eyes to get his bearings. Dimly, through the rain, he saw the road all crusted with more sartlar. Their milling confused him and he hesitated. This hesitation gave the slavers time to surround him. As one pulled him up by the leash, another tugged on one of his leg ropes. He tumbled, falling so heavily on his shoulder that his head swam. Hands raised him to his feet. The leash pulled and, reeling, he stumbled after it.

  * * *

  The smooth road made it possible for Carnelian to trot along without fear of falling. He let his head hang bobbing and soothed his dizziness by keeping time with the slapping rhythm of sartlar feet. His shoulder ached. He brought his mind back into focus. He could feel the cold touch of the road and the jostle of the sartlar. His next attempt to escape would be successful, but first he must husband his strength. He dreamed of freedom, saw the rescuers, frowned at their sta
ring terror as he and Osidian were revealed. It was probable the Law would slay them for looking on the naked faces of Masters. Carnelian tried to convince himself the bitumen was its own mask and that, in seeking help from others, he would not bring down disaster on them.

  It was a change in the pace that brought him fully awake. Sartlar bodies were knocking erratically against his. As they slowed, he was forced into a shamble. The rain grew louder than their footfalls as it hammered on his aching back and shoulder. He remembered his plan. Before he could marshal his courage, the stone under his feet was sloping down another ramp. He cranked his head round and glimpsed another watch-tower and then he was sliding in mud again as his leash pulled him away from the road and into the vastness of the Guarded Land.

  Gulping breath, Carnelian collapsed to his knees and cooled his forehead in a puddle. Along his spine it felt as if he were coming apart like a clam. His thighs and calves were juddering. He anchored his fingers into the mud to convince himself he was not still running. It seemed he had been ploughing his feet through the Guarded Land's red earth for days.

  Lifting his face into the rain, he saw a high wicker wall encircling him, its circuit broken only where a slit gave into a passage that passed under a tower and through a wooden gate into the hri fields outside. The tower was just a skeleton of wood skinned here and there with more woven wicker. Some of the slavers were up there, the fire they had lit a curl of brightness against the black sky.

  Carnelian saw Osidian crouched alone at one end of the crescent the sartlar made as they sought shelter against the kraal wall. Groaning, Carnelian got to his feet and plodded towards him. It was not more than a dozen steps but his muscles were already stiffening. As he approached, the sartlar mass recoiled as if he were a leper. He found a space near Osidian, backed into it, knelt and, gingerly, leaned his back against the wicker wall as his buttocks squelched into the mud.

  Looking round, he saw Osidian had his head sunk into the crook of his elbows. His trussed forearms rose above him in unconscious mimicry of the kraal tower. Rain poured over his bitumened head. Carnelian thought of touching him but remembered they were gagged. He was reluctant to face Osidian's eyes without the defence of words.