The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘An outrage?’ suggested Jaspar.

  Aurum stepped in front of the kneeling Masters. In his stained cloak he seemed a pillar of mud being worshipped by bronze lobsters.

  ‘The injury is forgotten, Lord Legate. We desire to take counsel with you that we might leave as swiftly as we have come.’

  ‘You are kind to condescend, Great Lord, but still—’

  ‘Believe me, there is no ill feeling. Desist this speech that we might repair to the privacy of your halls.’ Aurum swept round and billowed up the stairway like a cloud of smoke.

  Halfway up the stairs to the window that lit the cave of his hall, the Legate turned off onto a platform. Carnelian stopped where he was and looked back down the avalanche of steps. The door they had entered through was remote. All around him giants in the walls pushed out through veiling rock. Their vague faces frowned into the airy spaces above his head. He was beneath their notice. What was more oppressive still was that they were but the front rank of a crowd that faded up in tiers to a ceiling dripping with stalactites.

  Carnelian had to squint to look up the steps to where his father and the other Masters were still climbing towards the window. Against that slab of burning sky they were drawn as quivering charcoal strokes. Bronze urns taller than men squatted up the edges of the stairway. Platforms recessed here and there into the steps. The Legate stood on the nearest one of these. Smaller creatures perched around him were taking his helm apart one gleaming piece at a time. Carnelian watched as each was laid carefully on its stand. When the Legate’s head was naked save for his mask, he dismissed his servants. Watching them fan out across the steps as they went down, Carnelian saw a figure coming slowly up through them. Though it wore a mask, it did not have the appearance of a Master. The mask’s silver snared a curve of light so that it seemed to be smiling.

  A swelling of attar of lilies warned Carnelian that the Legate was there beside him.

  ‘Great One, shall we join the others?’

  Carnelian stared at the Legate’s tiny head. He wondered if this was a condition peculiar to the Lesser Chosen until he realized it was an illusion caused by the contrast with the massive armour. He remembered to jerk a nod and side by side they began to climb, ahead of the silver mask.

  The window widened till Carnelian could not see its edges and felt that he was climbing into the heavens. He stumbled when his foot tried to find a final step. Shapes crowding the platform moved and Carnelian assumed from their size that they were the other Masters. He moved to one side of them and turning his back on the window, hoping to lose his near-blindness.

  He watched the Legate move aside to reveal the creature standing behind him on the last step. He had forgotten about it. Its mask was reflecting a fragment of the ochre sky. It made the prostration and when it rose Carnelian saw that it had unmasked to reveal a yellow marumaga face, spotted and striped all over with the dots and bars of numbers. The man’s eyes were like glass. He lifted a hand with fingers splayed. Four fingers, the centre one removed so that the hand naturally formed the sign of the horns.

  ‘Seraphim,’ he said.

  There was a swish of cloth. The Masters around him were making the sign. Self-consciously, Carnelian followed them.

  The Legate came to stand beside the throne that piled up from the centre of the platform. ‘Great Ones, I had begun to fear your blood mingled with the winter sea.’

  ‘Burning blood is not so easily quenched,’ Vennel said severely.

  The Legate made a sign of apology. ‘I meant no offence, Great One.’

  Vennel’s mask turned away.

  The Legate watched it, his hand flattening. He looked round at the other Lords. ‘There are more of the Great Ones than there were.’

  Carnelian saw his father move forward. ‘I am Suth, returning to the Three Lands.’

  The Legate made an uncertain bow. ‘They have yearned for your return, Great Lord.’

  ‘Before we conclave, Lord Legate, I should tell you that it became necessary to destroy some of the crew of your baran.’

  The Legate shrugged.

  ‘The captain too was slain.’

  Carnelian looked at his father, thinking that he had made an error. Then he recalled the captain’s looks of horror and that the man had seen his naked face, and his hands glued together as if they were still covered with blood.

  The Legate lifted his hand, So be it. ‘Captains are more difficult to replace . . . the training, you see, Great Lord? But perhaps the Great Ones might allow me to turn to more important matters. I have here an epistle come from Osrakum that has been in my hand for nigh on twenty days.’

  ‘I had expected this,’ said Aurum.

  The Legate held out a long folded parchment bearing a square seal larger than his fist.

  Aurum began to move forward with his hand outstretched but Suth lifted his own hand on which something blinked red. Aurum nodded and retreated. Suth took the letter from the Legate’s hand. He angled it to examine the seal in the light, then snapped it open. He unfolded the first panel, read it, then moved on to the second. Carnelian could see there were many panels and he caught glimpses of the glyphs that were pressed like butterflies between the pages. He wearied of waiting. The other Masters were statues. The only movement came from the yellow man who had still not come fully up onto the platform. Carnelian peered at his costume. He realized that it was not black as he had thought, but a thick purple whirling brocade eyed here and there with bone buttons. There were spirals in the precious purple samite, the spirals of ammonite shells. From his belt hung several strings of many-coloured beads. Carnelian regarded the yellow man with renewed interest, wondering if this could be one of the Wise.

  ‘Quaestor?’

  ‘Seraph,’ answered the yellow man.

  Carnelian turned. His father was holding up his hand. A bloody eye wounded his palm: a ruby thrusting down from a ring he wore on his middle finger.

  ‘I who am He-who-goes-before make declaration that this is an epistle that concerns a proceeding of the Clave.’

  The quaestor’s eyes fixed bird-like on the ruby.

  ‘I invoke the Privilege of the Three Powers.’

  The quaestor frowned, but resumed his silver mask and, bowing almost to the floor, turned and disappeared down the stairway.

  The Masters began to unmask and Carnelian followed their example. He was surprised that the Legate’s face had the same luminous beauty as the other Masters. He could easily have passed for one of the Great.

  Suth held up the letter. ‘This contains matter pertinent to our mission, my Lords.’ He turned to the Legate. ‘Lord Legate, the Great require your assistance. The God Emperor lies dying, and—’

  Vennel gaped at Suth. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, my Lord?’

  Suth turned towards him and wrinkled his brow.

  ‘Have you forgotten, Lord Suth, that it is utterly forbidden by Law to speak of this to any outside Osrakum?’

  Suth looked almost amused for a moment. ‘It is you, my Lord, who forget. Am I not become He-who-goes-before? When I speak, the voice may be mine but my words are the Clave’s. Hear them now when I say that it would be foolish to underestimate the Legate. Did he not himself witness you coming down to the sea? What I have revealed, the Legate already knew.’

  Carnelian watched his father lock eyes with the Legate. His father waited for the startled man to give a slight nod before returning his gaze to Vennel.

  ‘Is it not more prudent, my Lord, that we should take him into our confidence than that we should make vain denial? My presence alone would serve to confirm his conjectures.’ Suth looked at the Legate, who now hid behind a hand shaping the sign for grief. ‘My Lord, you have the confidence of the Clave, and it shall owe you blood debt for your silence and for any aid that you might be called upon to give us. Rest assured that this in no way compromises your service to the House of the Masks.’

  ‘Even He-who-goes-before must obey the Law,’ said Vennel.

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nbsp; Suth did not turn. ‘Lord Vennel, the Law’s intention was to avoid disturbance in the Commonwealth.’

  ‘And to avoid the Legates being tempted to use their legions against the Three Powers.’

  Carnelian, who had always feared the look his father’s face now wore, watched it wither Vennel.

  ‘Does my Lord fear that my Lord Legate would sail his barans against Osrakum?’

  Vennel’s face deadened as he retired somewhere behind its icy surface. Carnelian fought his lips’ desire to smile.

  His father lifted the letter again. ‘The Wise have made the Clave send this to warn us that a rumour is abroad.’

  Aurum stepped forward. ‘A rumour?’

  ‘It has been noted that several Lords of the Great have gone down to the sea. It is said that they seek the return of the Ruling Lord of House Suth. Further, it is said that this Lord is being recalled to oversee the sacred election. The Wise command that we do all we can to avoid giving credence to this dangerous rumour.’

  Vennel gave a snort to which Carnelian could see only the Legate pay any attention.

  ‘It should come as no surprise,’ said Jaspar. ‘Even though we came here with no banners the faces of our slaves proclaimed who we were. Even the mind of a barbarian would surmise that three Lords of the Great would not come out of Osrakum and down to the sea on trivial errand. Many of the Lesser Chosen know that the Ruling Lord Suth had gone beyond the sea. Taken together, these would form a singular coincidence.’

  ‘Then we cannot return upon the leftway,’ said Aurum.

  Carnelian watched the Legate’s pale eyes linger on Jaspar before passing raven-sharp to his father’s face.

  Vennel looked incredulous. ‘Surely you do not suggest, my Lord, that we forgo the leftway to travel on the road?’

  Jaspar pretended to be intent on adjusting his blood-ring. ‘Without banners to open up a way through the road’s throng there certainly will be no making haste.’

  ‘Besides, how could we hope to hide ourselves?’ said Vennel.

  Aurum threw up his hands. ‘What else would you have us do, my Lords? Should we instead defy the Wise and imperil the Commonwealth?’

  Carnelian watched the Legate turn his ivory head to look out through the window. The ochre sky looked painted. The sun’s brass still crowned the towers of the town and ran a burning band round the edge of the further cliff.

  The Legate turned back. ‘Perhaps the Great Ones might allow me to lend them my banners.’

  ‘You presume too much, Legate,’ said Vennel. ‘You dare suggest that a Ruling Lord of the Great should so demean his blood as to use the banners of one of the Lesser Chosen?’

  Aurum fixed Vennel with a baleful eye. ‘This is no time for blood pride, my Lord. Have I to remind you once more of what is at stake? Pomp will be fatal to our mission: the lack of it, to our speed. If we take the leftway as ourselves all the world will soon know what transpires in Osrakum. Only under the banners of another might we hope to pass unnoticed.’

  ‘If the Great Ones might allow me to interject. . .?’ said the Legate, making vague gestures of apology.

  Suth asked for his words with his hand.

  ‘I intended to lend the Great Ones the banners of my state.’

  ‘And your cyphers?’ asked Suth.

  ‘Indeed, Great Lord, those would be essential. The Great Ones would be concealed if they were carried in palanquins. Then they could use the leftway. My duties oftentimes take me inland into the heart of the Naralan, as far as the city of Maga-Naralante, so such a party would excite little notice or question. Beyond Maga-Naralante’ – he lowered his head – ‘matters might be more difficult.’

  Suth nodded and looked at the other Masters. ‘I find this idea to have merit.’

  Vennel’s face was like freshly fallen snow. ‘Will My-Lord-who-goes-before accept the responsibility for such an action before the Wise?’

  ‘He will,’ said Suth.

  ‘Very well. I shall bow to your will expressed. Now I shall retire. My Lords.’ He gave a curt bow, slipped his mask elegantly over his face, then turned to go down the steps. Carnelian watched him sink into the platform’s edge like a ship into the horizon.

  The Legate moved quickly to the top of the stairs and called after Vennel, ‘Any slave you find beyond the door, Great One, will be able to guide you to your chambers.’

  ‘You should go too, Carnelian,’ said Suth, ‘to make sure the household is set in order for my coming.’

  Carnelian stood looking at him, resenting the dismissal, but he could think of no way to defy it.

  ‘As my Lord commands,’ he said and put on his mask.

  From the platform’s brink the steps looked perilously steep. He gazed out across the cavernous space. The lanterns on the floor were undulating bands of light over the walls. He could see the raised walkways that led to the door, and the audience pits on either side. He began descending.

  When he reached the foot of the stairway he looked back up but he could see nothing of the Masters, only the window’s glow. The murmur of their talk was like the rumble of a distant storm.

  Up ahead, Vennel was passing under one of the tower lanterns. Sections of its shaft moved round, turning its rays like spokes. Carnelian began to follow him along the walkway on the journey to the door.

  In token of his deafening, the slave’s ears had been shorn off. The Legate’s cypher, a sheaf of reeds, had been cut into the man’s face and traditional tattoo-blue had been used to fill the scar channels. He had been loitering with others beyond the door. Carnelian had to show him the chameleon glyphs on the lining of his sleeve to indicate where he wanted to go. The slave’s eyes flickered in the swathe of blue stain as they followed Carnelian’s hand-speech. He must have understood for he lit a lantern and, cringing, beckoned Carnelian to follow him into the darkness.

  Carnelian followed the small figure through a bewildering series of chambers whose frescoed walls gleamed faintly in the dark. After much walking they came to a hall into which fell shafts of red light regularly spaced off into the distance. Along the left-hand wall Carnelian could just see the archways staring blindly with their Lordly warding eyes. Within the nearest archway was a stone door, bronze-riveted, with niches empty on either side, presumably for guardsmen.

  Accompanied by echoes, they walked past several doors until they came to one where the crescents of Vennel’s banners told of his presence somewhere beyond. Some men came out from the niches with their sickles. The cypher gashed across their faces made them seem in awful mirth but their real mouths gave a different impression. Carnelian rushed by, even as they began prostrations, relieved to see his own House colours further down the hall.

  ‘Master,’ came a cry of relief from up ahead. Then figures came rushing at him, dappled red, their faces becoming familiar in the light of the slave’s lantern. His men surrounded him, bobbing, touching the hem of his cloak. They spoke all at once and grinned and frowned alternately.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Carnelian. ‘Come on, quieten down. Do you want to embarrass me?’

  The life went right out of them. They became so still, it alarmed him. The Legate’s slave was gaping slack-eyed. He dismissed him before turning to his men. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not angry.’ Their shoulders had a subservient hunching he did not like. ‘Let’s get indoors.’

  They led him off to an arch and wrestled its door open. Some light spilled through, and something of the familiar smell of home. More of his people shuffled out to welcome him. Carnelian spotted Crail there among them, squinting, searching for something. When their eyes met, the old man’s face scrunched up into a crooked frown. Carnelian dropped his mask into his hand and glared at him.

  ‘You were told to stay hidden. Out of harm’s way.’

  The man scowled at him. Carnelian laughed. He took the old man’s head between his hands and kissed it. There was a murmur of approval. The old man’s smell was so familiar he wanted to hug him. Instead, he pushed him gently away.
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  He noticed Keal standing there behind the others, trying to hide uncertainty, and gave him a smile. ‘Glad to see that you survived.’

  Keal rewarded him with a grin. ‘Many times I thought we’d sink.’

  There were mutters of assent.

  ‘In the future, let’s try and avoid the sea,’ Carnelian said.

  Many of them beamed and nodded.

  Keal pushed his way through. ‘The Master?’

  ‘He’ll be here soon and sent me ahead. Is everything ready?’

  Keal grinned again, pointed at the arch’s wards. ‘These are proper Masters’ rooms.’ He reached out to caress his hand up the jamb, and Carnelian saw where the veined marble had been clumsily painted with the chameleon glyph. ‘I did it myself.’

  ‘Neatly done,’ said Carnelian, wanting to be kind. He warmed when the other flushed.

  Keal indicated the banners, somewhat crumpled from the journey, their poles locked into bronze rings near the door. He reached out tentatively, took Carnelian’s arm and drew him through the arch.

  The faces inside looked at Carnelian as if he were a fire in winter. Braziers had been lit. The balms the Master preferred were spiralling perfumed smoke up into the vault. Chameleoned blue canopies had been hung up to muffle the echoes. Mosaics had been polished. From somewhere they had managed to get bunches of irises and had sunk their purples and blues in vases of gold.

  ‘It feels like home,’ said Carnelian loudly, meaning it, enjoying their smiles. He turned to Keal. ‘Where’s Tain?’

  ‘He’s coming up with the rest of the baggage.’

  Carnelian nodded. ‘Have I a room of my own?’

  ‘Certainly you have, Carnie. I’ll show you where it is.’

  Keal left him. Malachite patterned the walls with the green of ferns in a dark wood. Smooth doors whispered open with a cinnamon waft. There were several chambers. One had a window paned with alabaster that softly lit a sleeping platform draped with feather blankets. In another, water ran waist high in a channel from which various sinks could be filled. In that chamber the floor was incised with runnels.