The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘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 on to 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. Osidian’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 Ebeny’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 on to 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-burn 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 on to 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 on to 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 through 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 dead-man’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 on to 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 staring 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.

  Stretching away from them, the sartlar mass could have been a colony of birds miserable in the rain. Carnelian only realized he had been counting their bowed heads when he came across some that were grey. It had never occurred to him that sartlar might grow old. He peered at the creatures nearest him. Clinging, filthy hair betrayed their grotesque, distorted skulls. Immense hands and feet, swollen-jointed, clawed. Crooked backs shaped their rags. Carnelian found his gaze met by a pair of tiny dark eyes. A child that quickly hid its face. Though he knew that all animals had young, he had never imagined that sartlar might have children.

  Carnelian’s reverie was disturbed by a shudder of excitement passing through the creatures. As they lifted their faces, his eyes flitted from one to another, appalled by their fearful ugliness. Some slavers were approaching. They carried baskets into which they dug their hands and, coming out with hunks of something, they sowed these among the sartlar. One fell nearby and, straining, Carnelian managed to get his hands to it.

  At first he thought it wood, but it was too soft, one edge sodden and muddy where it had touched the ground. He brought it to his face and smelled hri. ‘Bread,’ he murmured, his lips curling with distaste as he saw the weevils crawling through it.

  ‘You will eat.’

  Carnelian looked up and discovered that the Ichorian was standing over him. The man slapped the bread out of his hand.

  ‘Here, I’ve kept the best for you.’ He shoved a hunk of the black bread into Carnelian’s lap. Carnelian worked it up his legs with his elbows and managed to get it into his hands. It looked much the same as the discarded piece.

  The Ichorian leaned in close. ‘Let’s take this off.’

  Carnelian held still as the man fumbled with the knots of his gag.

  ‘From now on,’ the man mumbled almost in his ear, ‘you’ll not be needing these. This far from the road, be certain no one will hear your cries.’

  Carnelian endured the gag pulling tighter, his eyes following the black tattoo spirals on the Ichorian’s face as he held on to the thought of escape. Scabs tore from the corners of his mouth as the gag came free. As the Ichorian moved over to Osidian, Carnelian practised gingerly opening and closing his mouth.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done. Soiled or not, you’ll eat it.’

  The Ichorian was looking down at Osidian. He leaned to scoop a piece of bread from the mud and then rubbed it on his jerkin before forcing it on Osidian. The Ichorian removed his gag, then stood back.

  ‘Eat. You’ll both need your strength tomorrow.’

  Carnelian peered at the bread. Rubbing away as many weevils as he could, he took a bite, gave it a chew, then swallowed as quickly as he could.

  ‘Eat!’

  Carnelian saw the Ichorian fli
nch as Osidian looked up at him. The untattoed half of his face darkened.

  ‘You’ll have that bread even if I have to force it down your throat.’ It was costing the Ichorian dear to hold Osidian’s glare.

  ‘I’ll see he eats it,’ Carnelian said, quickly.

  Relieved to have an excuse to disengage from the contest, the Ichorian turned to Carnelian. ‘Make sure he does.’

  As the man walked away, Carnelian leaned forward to look into Osidian’s face. His eyes were windows giving into an empty house. Carnelian tried to formulate questions. He had so many, wanted to know so much, but Osidian seemed so far away that all Carnelian managed to say was: ‘You must eat.’

  Osidian made no sign he had heard. The bread lay in his lap ignored. Carnelian took his own piece and tried to manoeuvre it into Osidian’s hands. Carnelian had to close the lifeless fingers round the bread. He stroked them. ‘Please … please eat.’

  The rain running down Osidian’s face could have been tears. Carnelian frowned back his own.

  ‘Eat.’

  The word seemed spoken by another’s tongue. Osidian became aware he had something in his hand. He seemed a puppet moving his mouth to it. Carnelian watched him take a bite and chew, his lips stroking the bread, the weevils running down his fingers. Carnelian watched him, waiting until Osidian had finished before he reached to take the other piece that was wedged between Osidian’s stomach and his thigh.

  As he ate, Carnelian licked rain from his lips to lubricate the stale mass.

  ‘I almost escaped today,’ he said in a low voice. He looked for a sign of recognition in Osidian’s eye, but there was nothing. ‘This time I failed but not the next. We’ll be free soon, I promise.’

  Osidian turned to him, vaguely frowning, his lips making shapes. Carnelian was forced to lean his ear close enough to hear Osidian’s words.

  ‘Go if you can. Leave me. I am already dead.’

  At first Carnelian thought Osidian delirious, fevered, but then he understood and pulled away. He leaned the ache of his back against the wicker fence, exposing his face to the needling rain. The words ran round and round in his head. Osidian could not return. The moment his brother Molochite had been made God Emperor, Osidian’s life was forfeit. Osrakum held only death for him. Carnelian tried to imagine a life for them in the outer world. It would have to be somewhere beyond the Commonwealth. A vision of his island home blossomed warm and inviting in his mind. It withered as he remembered the snow falling into the ruins Aurum and the other Masters had made of it when they had come to summon his father back from exile. Besides, there would be the sea to cross, not to mention the vast journey to reach its shore. Where else was there in the world in which the Masters were not hated? Even if he and Osidian found a haven, how could they live without wealth, without servants? The Ichorian needed to take the terrible risk of selling Masters so as to buy himself another life, though he could more easily hide his tattoos than Carnelian and Osidian could their height and pallid skin.