The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

Vennel made an affirmative gesture shaded with anger.

  Carnelian felt his father’s hand moving in his own. It escaped to sign, Copy me.

  Carnelian watched his father search his robe’s hem. When he found a single embroidered glyph like a beetle he pinched it up. He was offered a jar by a slave. With his free hand he broke its seal, ran the robe glyph round inside, then began to carefully anoint one of the shoes upon his lap with the pungent wax.

  Carnelian found that his robe had the same glyph. He could not read it. Everything he had seen his father do he did as well. Several times he looked up to find the eyeslits of his father’s mask angled towards him. A nod came from it when Carnelian was finished.

  ‘The Chosen shall not breathe unhallowed air,’ the quaestor said.

  The Masters gave the response.

  Slaves with strange bright eyes came cradling bowls. They took tiny steps, afraid of spilling what they carried. As one came closer Carnelian saw fumes curling up from the bowl like smoke. He saw also the spiralled plaques that served the slave for eyes. Edge hooks gripped them into the man’s flesh.

  Carnelian’s father nudged him. He turned to see his father laying his mask face down along the hollow between his thighs. He reached out, took one of the linen pads draped over the bowl’s rim, dipped it into the vaporous liquid, and pressed it over the mask’s nostril holes. He swivelled little flanges to hold it in place.

  Carnelian began the procedure. As he leant forward the vapour from the bowl stung his eyes. He dipped a pad, squeezed it, poked it into his mask still smoking then secured it with the flanges.

  ‘It will protect you from the plague,’ his father’s voice rustled in his ear.

  Then the quaestor spoke one last time. ‘The Chosen shall not be touched by unhallowed light even unto the skin of the smallest finger.’ His hands dropped, the cord dangling in the left one.

  At that signal, Aurum rose up to all his imposing height holding his mask in one hand, his ranga shoes in the other. Walking off towards an archway, he disappeared through it.

  They waited. A blinded slave appeared in the archway. He looked small, fragile. Carnelian felt his father getting up. He watched his hand dart, As the youngest, you must follow last. Then he too crossed the chamber to the waiting arch.

  So it was that one by one the Masters were swallowed by the arch till Carnelian was left alone with the quaestor and his spiral eyes. He averted his face from the fumes rising from his mask and looked at the quaestor uneasily. The man was like something not alive.

  A muttering came from beyond the arch. Suddenly Carnelian saw the slave was there. He rose, walked to the arch and, after a moment’s hesitation, passed under it.

  Almost night. Vague sinuous movements like windows reflecting on dark water. Nudges guided Carnelian through the gloom. Fingers plucked at the hooks down his back. The robe brushed away leaving him naked. Shapes solidified into men: yellow men, with dark whiteless eyes. Carnelian swallowed past the dry lump in his throat knowing he was wholly in their hands.

  His fingers were prised open and his shoes and mask removed. He shuddered at the first cold touch on his arm. A melting snowflake. Then another and another, till he was the centre of a blizzard of menthol swabbing.

  Cool hands lifted one of his feet. He felt the wetness lick between his toes. Then it oozed along the sole. A palm cupped his heel and guided his foot down. Before it reached the floor it hit something solid. One of the ranga shoes. When the other foot was cleansed Carnelian climbed onto the second shoe.

  He noticed the depression in the brass wall. It was as if a stiff-limbed man had detached from the wall leaving behind his impression in the metal. The concave surfaces within this mould were as ridged and whorled as finger ends. As he watched, one of the black-eyed men reached into the shoulder of the mould and running his fingers delicately round the hollow came back and transferred its designs to Carnelian’s own shoulder. He squirmed at the tickle touch of the stylus. Others were reading the mould. Soon, ink was itching over every part of Carnelian’s skin until only his face was left blank.

  ‘That His servants might pass you by,’ one whispered.

  Then Carnelian was glazed with sickly myrrh.

  ‘That His breath might not corrupt your flesh.’

  Cloth bands darted through the air and spooled around his body.

  ‘That His servants might be confounded.’

  The bandages stuck to the glaze, weaving into a tightening cocoon.

  ‘That they might be lost in this labyrinth.’

  He grimaced as a bandage bound something hard and cold against his skin.

  ‘Charms to shield you from their malice.’

  So it went on. He was the axis of their strange dance. Round and round they went, their whispers in his ears, until he dizzied and almost swooned.

  When they stopped turning he fought the tightness round his chest and shoulder to raise his arms. His hands were there at the end of his cloth wrists. He let them fall and sighed with relief at the pressure release.

  A huge robe flapped over him.

  ‘That they might be blinded by the night.’

  Hands flitted over the robe till it was hugging him. They shut him in behind his mask. His nostrils burned, then his lungs. His eyes watered. He did not even try to move until the burning had abated. Then he tottered out of the brass chamber by a doorway that appeared as a fuzzy glowing rectangle.

  ‘Here you are permitted to remove your mask,’ his father said.

  Carnelian did so with some relief. His eyes still watered and he was sniffing.

  His father put a hand on his shoulder. Its whiteness was spotted with symbols. ‘The astringency will soon diminish, then you will bear it easily enough.’

  ‘And the tightness?’

  ‘The bandages will stretch.’

  Carnelian heard Aurum say something about an ‘imminent departure’.

  Carnelian grimaced through his tears. ‘The Three Lands at last.’

  His father smiled grimly. ‘The Three Lands.’

  ‘I must make sure our people are ready: Keal, the tyadra, the baggage. How much time is there, my Lord, before we all leave?’

  His father’s hand jabbed a sharp negation. ‘Surely you had understood that they are not to come with us?’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘They are an encumbrance we cannot risk. Their faces proclaim who we are.’

  Carnelian felt sick. ‘But I gave assurances.’

  His father’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which you should not have given.’

  Carnelian opened his mouth to say more.

  His father’s hand flew up, Enough! ‘Whatever it is that you have said it is my will to overrule. You may take Tain because he does not yet bear our mark. What little state you are allowed, he will keep.’

  ‘Will he be safe?’

  His father looked at him, confused. ‘What?’ His hand made a vague gesture. ‘As safe as you or I.’

  Jaspar came towards them, his ranga and bandaged legs lending him the gait of someone wading through water. He pursed his lips. ‘One fears this journey will be exceedingly tedious.’

  Vennel raised his voice behind them. All four Masters turned to listen to him. ‘I shall go to make sure my household have made the preparations I commanded.’

  ‘There is no time for that, my Lord,’ Aurum said quickly.

  Jaspar moved off towards them. ‘We must hold a conclave ere we leave this tower, Vennel.’

  Suth turned to join them, but Carnelian reached up to touch his arm. His father turned back. ‘What is it?’

  Carnelian could see the irritation in his face. ‘Might I be permitted enough time to return to the household to bid them all farewell?’

  His father frowned.

  ‘And to ensure all arrangements properly made?’ Carnelian added.

  The other Masters were now involved in some kind of argument.

  ‘If you must,’ his father snapped. ‘But do not dally. A guide will be there t
o bring our baggage to the gate. Let him lead you. I shall be going there immediately . . .’ He looked over to the others. ‘. . . with the other Lords.’

  Carnelian walked as quickly as his ranga shoes would allow. Each step clattered echoes round the hall. When he reached their door the banners of House Suth no longer flanked it. He was wondering if he had come to the wrong one when he heard muffled voices. He flung his weight against the door. It gave way slowly, heavily. As he squeezed through the opening he trod on something and bent to pick it up. It was an iris, crushed, its bruised purple skin dusted with its own pollen.

  Running up towards him, Tain stopped to look him up and down, no doubt startled by the strange clothes and the ranga shoes. ‘Thank the Gods you’ve come, Carnie.’

  He cast a quick, unhappy look around him. People were wrapping vases in the blue canopies. Someone cried, ‘The Master.’ People dropped to the ground. A cloth came loose and wriggled down to the floor. Among them a single figure was left standing. It was Keal, his look so intense that Carnelian almost dropped his gaze. He felt shamed.

  ‘You’re not going,’ he said in a thin voice. It was difficult to squeeze the words out; his throat seemed to have narrowed. People were looking up at him from their prostrations. Everywhere he saw their bewildered eyes. Anger surged in him. He lumbered forward and slapped a stack of boxes. They crunched to the floor. A bowl rolled and shattered. ‘Why are you packing? You must all be stupid. You’re not going, I tell you.’

  ‘We’re being moved into the slave pens,’ said Keal. ‘When the arrangements have been made we’ll be setting off after you along the road.’

  Carnelian noticed a man’s back wearing the Legate’s green. The stranger was the only one still prostrate. ‘You!’ he shouted. The man trembled. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you.’ The man looked up. The Legate’s sign marred his face like a birthmark. Carnelian pointed at him. ‘Get out and wait for me outside.’ The man stumbled to his feet and cringed past Carnelian, who watched him slip out between the doors before turning back to his people.

  Keal’s eyes, Tain’s eyes, so many eyes.

  Carnelian removed his mask and bowed his head a little, giving in to its heaviness. ‘I did what I could. I can’t see what more you could expect of me.’

  Keal nodded, but did not stop looking at him with pain in his face and something like an accusation of betrayal.

  ‘Crail’s gone,’ said Tain.

  Carnelian turned on him. ‘What do you mean he’s gone?’

  ‘The Master left a command that we were to hand him over to the other Master’s men. The ones with the line tattoo,’ said Keal, running his finger from his forehead down the bridge of his nose to his lips.

  Blood drained from Carnelian’s face. His father had given Crail to Aurum. ‘When?’

  ‘They came for him just after you left with the Master.’

  Carnelian wrung his hands, stared blindly, chewed at his lower lip. He felt snared and bleeding in a trap. ‘Maybe it’s not too late,’ he muttered. He strode over to Keal. A pain of love passed between them. They embraced hard. ‘Look after them, brother,’ said Carnelian.

  He felt Keal’s nod against his chest. He disengaged, making sure he did not look into his face. Sniffing, he turned to the others, all standing now. ‘Don’t fear that I’ll forget you. Take care on the road. I’ll be waiting for you in our coomb in the Mountain.’

  He looked at Tain and saw he was struggling to hold back tears. Carnelian made his decision. ‘You’re staying here.’

  Tain looked appalled. ‘But I’m supposed to go with you.’

  Carnelian shook his head. ‘It’ll be too dangerous.’

  ‘Who’s going to take care of you?’

  Keal wiped his eyes and pointed towards a heap of carefully bound parcels. ‘Everything’s ready. It would take ages to separate his things from yours.’

  Tain looked at Keal gratefully.

  ‘He’ll look after you for us,’ said Keal and there were several nods behind him.

  Carnelian saw the tearful determination in their faces. ‘I’ve no time for this. Tain, come if you must.’

  Tain started scooping up the parcels. Another boy Carnelian did not know helped him. His face was also unmarked. Tain caught his brother looking at the boy. ‘He’s new.’

  ‘For the Master’s care?’ Carnelian asked.

  ‘Bought locally.’

  ‘Come on, then. Take one of those lanterns. We must hurry if we’re going to have any chance to save Crail.’

  Once through the door, Carnelian tried to move fast, but the ranga resisted his efforts. He tripped and almost fell. He stopped to calm himself. The others stood nearby gaping at him. Carnelian bent down and undid the straps of the shoes. He stepped down off them, picked them up, then lurched off with long strides. Even through the bandages he could feel the floor’s cold stone. The hall echoed with the irregular scuffles the others made as they struggled to keep up with him.

  When they had passed the door of the silver ammonites, Carnelian found three archways to choose from. He swung round to find the guide. The man was some way back, flustered, panting. His lantern wobbled its light across the floor and up and down the columns. Carnelian went back, tore it from his hand, then grabbed some of Tain’s burdens. He ignored his brother’s protests at the impropriety and took some more boxes from the new boy, who stared with wide-eyed disbelief at the strange young Master.

  Carnelian turned to the guide. ‘Which way?’

  The guide pointed at one of the archways and Carnelian plunged into it.

  Passages, gates, Carnelian blazed a trail for them through the blackness. It seemed a long time till they reached the stairway. The portcullis that led to it was raised. Above them its toothed edge just caught the light. Carnelian held his lantern up and saw the wide shallow steps going down. Looking back he saw the knot that Tain and the others made. ‘I’ll go ahead,’ he cried to them. ‘You lot follow as fast as you can.’

  Finding each step was difficult. Carnelian could hardly see them through the eyeslits of his mask. He put the lantern and the shoes down and removed his mask. Carrying it and the boxes in one hand and the lantern and shoes in the other, he raced off, taking the steps two at a time.

  He descended flights that were straight and others that curved leftwards out of sight. He came to a long landing. The portcullis that controlled access to it was up. His lantern found a grating halfway along the landing’s right-hand wall. It was a gateway closed against him. There was no way of knowing if it was the right one. He put down everything he was carrying and gave the bars a good shake. They hardly moved at all. He punched his fist into his hand. The scuffling sounds the others made came remotely down from the airy dark. He had to wait for them.

  He held his mask in front of his face as Tain appeared followed by the guide and the new boy, both looking scared. Carnelian grabbed one of the portcullis bars. ‘Here?’ he cried.

  The guide was breathing heavily. ‘This . . . this is only . . . the legionary stratum . . . Master. The West Gate lies . . . further down.’

  Carnelian did not wait to hear more, but was off down the next flight cursing at the delay.

  The stairway widened as he reached another closed gate. He hesitated for a moment. He could hear the noises of Tain and the others following him down. He looked through the grating. He made his decision. On he ran, finding the steps in the swing of lantern light. A glow welled up to meet him. He could hear the distinctive tones of Quya. The voices stilled. He put his mask up and rounded a bend.

  Guttering torches revealed a line of guardsmen making a fence with their swords. Their anxious faces were all disfigured by the Legate’s mark. He walked down to meet them. Their swords and heads fell together. Carnelian looked over them, searching for his father. He spotted the tall shadows standing at the back. One of them came forward, breaking through the guardsmen.

  ‘Carnelian.’ It opened its cowl to reveal his father’s mask. ‘Hide yourself, boy.’ He
was holding up Carnelian’s salt-stained travelling cloak. He stiffened. ‘By the blood, are you actually carrying baggage?’ He looked down. ‘And where are your ranga?’

  Carnelian looked at the shoes dangling from his hand on their straps. ‘To aid my speed.’

  His father leant close, pushing the cloak into his hand. ‘Why do you persist in shaming me?’

  Carnelian’s cheeks burned as if they had been slapped. He sat down on the steps. His fingers were clumsy doing up the mask’s bands behind his head and strapping the shoes to his bandaged feet. It seemed to him that he could feel the eyes of all the Masters on him. He stood up on the ranga, threw the cloak around his shoulders, then shoved his way through the Legate’s guardsmen, pushing towards his father. The forbidding shapes of the other Masters loomed around him.

  ‘We had thought you lost,’ said Jaspar.

  ‘It would appear that we are all lost,’ said Vennel.

  ‘Nobody is lost, my Lord,’ snapped Aurum.

  ‘I still cannot understand why we could not bring our slaves to help us on our way,’ said Vennel. ‘It is distasteful to have to use another’s tyadra, especially when they come from a Lesser—’

  ‘We all feel naked,’ snapped Suth. ‘But what use is it standing here on this stairway discussing it? We must press on. Soon it will be dawn.’

  ‘One is forced to point out that it is your own son who delays us, my Lord.’

  Suth ignored him and set off down the stairway at a furious pace. The guardsmen scrambled after him, their torches painting everything with jerking shadow.

  Carnelian walked beside his father. Aurum was on his father’s other side. He hoped the old Master would not move away from them to allow him to talk freely. They passed under another raised portcullis. He looked round and saw Tain and the others coming into sight. Carnelian turned back to his father. ‘My Lord?’

  His father’s mask looked sideways at him.

  ‘Your old and trusted servitor, Crail—’

  ‘Has been destroyed,’ said Aurum in a monotone. ‘The trauma of the amputations . . .’ He waved his hand dismissively.

  Carnelian felt a numbing spreading from his stomach. ‘By whose command was this done?’