He watched the drum shudder and squeal as it turned. He saw the narrow ledge running round its side. He edged along it, crouching under the grimy axle, and saw the animals walking in the drum's treadmill hub. He peered and could hear above the din their wheezing breath. One looked up and Carnelian gaped. It was a man's face, a face that bore the chameleon tattoo. The tattoo was scrunching into the pain-grimace of the man's face. Carnelian could not understand why the man made no sign of noticing him until the guttering light showed the empty eye pits into which Carnelian could have poked his finger.
When Fey appeared before Carnelian his glare made her fall prostrate to the floor. He made her rise, oblivious of how she was withering in the face of his wrath. 'I couldn't help it, Master
...'
'Help it?' He tried to clear his mind.
The tears were running down her cheeks. 'As the years passed and we'd no news of you, I crumbled
...
the Master was unrelenting
...'
'Spinel?'
'Forgive me, Master. I've betrayed you.' Fey collapsed and hid her head under her arms.
Carnelian felt tears coming to his eyes. 'We Masters are all terrible. The fault's not yours.'
Fey sobbed.
Carnelian
crouched, touched her gently on the arms. 'Come on, it's fine. I forgive you, and my father will too when he comes. He's not cruel.'
She looked up. 'You don't understand, Master, even here.' She shook her hands at the chamber. 'I've conspired with them to cheat you of your rights. Seduce him with luxuries, they said. In exile he'll have had no experience of them and might succumb to their temptation.' She sobbed. 'I betrayed you to them, Master, I betrayed you.'
He put his arms round her. 'It doesn't matter, I tell you. If as a Master I showed such weakness, how can I expect more strength from you?' He rocked her until her sobbing slowed to groaning. He kissed her wet forehead and whispered, 'You're of my blood. Now please, get up.'
Fey rose shakily, leaning on his arm, wiping her face, and flickered red-eyed looks at him.
'Come on, let me see you smile.'
She managed a crooked one and let go of him.
That's better. I'd already intended to do something about this, and now . . .' As he described the treadwheel she saw the haunted look in his eyes.
'Once they were put there as a punishment, but for years now it happens to those the Master
..
. Master Spinel can find no further use for.'
Carnelian's eyes were burning. 'But why?' 'At this time of year, Master, there's not enough water in the Sacred Wall and so it must be lifted from below.' 'Not enough
...
?'
She pointed to the waterfall that formed one of the walls of the chamber. She watched him go deathly pale and fought the desire to hide her face.
'Close the sluices,' he said in a level, dangerous tone.
'But they cool the air, Master.'
'Damn the air, I said close them.'
'As you command, Master.'
'After you've done this you will please go to Spinel. Tell him that if he's not here with the dawn, with the Seal in his hand, he'll regret the day he ever laid eyes upon my face.'
Fey stared.
‘
Say it just like that. I've had enough of these Masters, of all Masters.'
Fey opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it to say, 'As you command.'
Amidst tyadra and others of his household, Carnelian sat on a throne watching the approach of the Masters of the second lineage. Each was a jewelled spire pulling behind him a train carried by many boys. Behind them, among their guardsmen, walked Fey. She and Carnelian exchanged a look of understanding.
The Masters stopped in front of him, their faces impassive marble.
'You are welcome, my Lords,' Carnelian said and waited for their obeisance, but all they gave him was a nod.
'Have you heard the news, my Lord?' said Spinel. 'News?'
'Rebellion
...'
'What rebellion?' Carnelian said, exasperated, wishing to come immediately to the matter of the Seal.
'In a nearby coomb, a Ruling Lord has been most heinously done to death by' - Spinel sketched
disbelief in the air — 'apparentl
y, by one of his slaves. Such a singular event shakes one's world to its very foundation.'
'What concern is this of ours?'
'It will affect the election and that is the concern of all the Great.' The election?' The Lord Imago was—'
'Imago? You speak of the Ruling Lord of that House?' 'Just so, my Lord.'
'And you say his murderer was a slave.'
Spinel threw his hands up. 'It is entirely beyond comprehension.'
'Will the Lord Jaspar now lead his father's faction?'
'He will if he ha
s the courage to put on the mantl
e of his father's power along with the Ruling Ring of his House.' Spinel looked at Carnelian expectantly. 'He was your companion on the road, was he not, my Lord?'
'He was, but you were not summoned here, my Lord, so that we might discuss politics. You will surrender the Seal to me.'
'My Lord, the Seal is your father's.'
'My Lord might have noticed that my father is not here. Until he returns, I am the head of the first lineage.'
'Still, the customs of this House do not sanction what my Lord requests.'
Carnelian was determined to break the stony resistance in the Master's eyes. To spare your grief I have kept something from you.'
Spinel's eyes narrowed.
'When last I saw my father he was mortally wounded. For all I know he might now be dead.'
'We suspect otherwise,' said Opalid.
Spinel gave his son a sharp look, then reached into his sleeve and pulled out a letter. Then who is this from, my Lord?' The Master beckoned a servant and gave him the letter to take to Carnelian.
Carnelian hesitated, then took the parchment and brought its seal close. In the wax, a pomegranate showed its seeds. The letter began to tremble in his hands. It could only be the seal of He-who-goes-before. Carnelian looked at the letter, reluctant to open it.
'My Lord?' said Spinel.
The look Carnelian gave Spinel made the Master flinch. 'How came this into your hand?'
Spinel's hands were apologetic. 'I rule this coomb
...'
Carnelian broke the wax, unfolded the parchment and read:
My son, I have sent this letter sealed with the Pomegranate because my ring has gone, none knows whither. Leave the House Seal in my mother's hand. Avoid disrupting the flow of power in the coomb. Have a household prepared and send it to me here. Include a letter from yourself. I am making a fair recovery and will come to you as soon as I am free to do so.
Your father, in the Halls of Thunder.
He should have felt joy instead of unease. He examined the glyphs. They were not in his father's hand, though they were very like. There was a difference in the faces that proved to him the letter had been written by someone else. He could feel a corner of his mind steeping in dread. Was this one of Aurum's schemes? He felt sick. What if his father was dead and Aurum had arranged this whole charade to conceal it?
'Is our Ruling Lord well?' asked Spinel.
Carnelian looked at him, striving to keep the misery from his face, trying to gauge the man's intentions. 'Apparently, he is recovering.'
Spinel's face was blank but Opalid's betrayed disappointment before it set like plaster.
'I must go to join him in the Halls of Thunder.' Carnelian heard the emotion breaking into his voice and saw that Spinel could hear it too.
Opalid framed a questioning gesture. 'It is forbidden, my Lord.'
'By whom?'
The Law, my Lord.'
Carnelian stared, not understanding.
Opalid read his face and his lips took on a sneer. 'Surely you know that at this time only Ruling Lords are permitted at court? It is—'
'It is part of the Balance,' Spinel broke in. 'Intended to dissuade the House of the Masks from seeking to take the Ruling Lords hostage, or worse.'
Carnelian fought a frown. He could see that Spinel was thinking furiously. The Master took a step forward, trying a smile. 'However, if my Lord feels it essential that he join his father, there might be a way.'
'What way, my Lord?'
The Ruling Lord Imago, now sadly deceased, was expected at court. It is almost certainly the Lord Jaspar's intention to go there in his father's place. The Law insists that he will have to accompany the body to the Plain of Thrones for its embalming. It is likely that he will go from there straight up to the Halls of Thunder. He might be worked upon
...
but of course I am neglecting to take into account his grief.'
'Finish your thought, my Lord.'
Spinel opened his hands. 'I was just thinking that perhaps the new Imago might be worked upon to take you with him, my Lord
...
passing you off as one of his minor kin. It is unusual to take a companion, but then Imago Jaspar is not yet fully a Ruling Lord and in the electoral negotiations he might well desire to lean upon the experience of an older Lord.'
'You propose that I deliberately break the Law?'
Spinel shrugged. 'It is a minor infringement, my Lord. The penalty would not be above a little wealth.'
'And Jaspar?'
'He could pass it off as an amusing jape. He might do it for a friend.'
Carnelian thought about it. 'We know each other well enough. It might not go amiss if I were to pay him my condolences personally.'
'Such an act of compassion would be
...
eccentric, but then—'
'Imago Jaspar is well used to my eccentricities,' said Carnelian, reliving the road.
'My Lord could join his father, and return here with him once the election is over. Meanwhile, in the time we still have before we ourselves shall go to court, we could continue to prepare the coomb for your return.'
Carnelian nodded. 'I will go to Coomb Imago.'
Spinel smiled. 'My Lord will have need to plan his journey.' The Master bowed. 'We shall return to our halls and immediately resume our labours.' He began to turn.
'My Lord, you have forgotten something.' Spinel turned back, his eyebrows arching.
The Seal?'
Spinel's nostrils flared. 'But I had understood—' 'I will have the Seal.'
Spinel's hands clenched. 'How shall we make all the necessary changes without it?'
The time has come for my Lord to be relieved of the burden of rule that he has borne for so long. On behalf of my father, I thank you for your stewardship of our House, but now it is time for another to bear its weight.'
Opalid stared at Carnelian. 'Surely you do not mean
...
?'
'Urquentha,' said Spinel, his voice as dull as his eyes. 'Yes. I feel my grandmother has been locked away for long enough.'
There was a pleading look in the eyes that Spinel turned on Carnelian. 'It was done for a reason. She is a dangerous woman.'
Carnelian gave him a cold smile. 'Perhaps she has been made so. I shall give her the Seal.'
'Did you see their faces?' said Carnelian, grinning. He was weighing the Seal in his hand.
'I saw them, Master,' said Fey, looking at the Seal with a doleful face.
Alarmed by her expression, he reached out and took her shoulder. 'Are you all right?'
Fey straightened, smiled, nodding. 'I was just thinking that Mistress Urquentha has been much wronged. It is justice that she should have the Seal again.'
Carnelian ran his hands over the carvings on the block of jade, over its handle, its tassels. 'Here, take it.'
Fey put her hands out and he put the Seal into them.
'Please, go now. Take it to her with my respects. Come back as quickly as you can. I'd like you to help me make arrangements to go to Coomb Imago. If I leave it to anyone but you I'll get a lot of fuss. All I really need is a mourning robe.'
Into
the
LABYRINTH
Crucifixion is a punishment capable of infinite refinement. A spectrum of pain effects can be readily achieved. With judicious care, the agony can be extended for long periods without danger of accidental fatality. The technique is particularly useful as an object lesson to the inferior and has, besides, an element of aesthetic display.
(from 'Of this and that' by the Ruling Lord Kirinya Prase)
Fey struck the smallest heart-stone turtle. Its chime rippled off across the water. Fey struck it again. The second vibration dulled away to silence. The crater seemed to be an ear listening to the sky. The further curve of the Sacred Wall could have been a crack in the world. Carnelian's red mourning robe looked grey. He turned to look along the quay, up past the towers of the Lower Palace to the Eyries. While waiting for Fey, Carnelian had tried to sleep, but he had been unable to quieten the arguments in his mind. At last he had given up and gone to a window from where he could see the Pillar blotting milky swathes of stars. He had reread the letter that Spinel had given him many times, until he was able to convince himself it might have come from his father. Fey
had come at last, alone, as Carnelian had asked her to. She had helped him put on the mourning robe. Then, together, they had made their way down the stair with guardsmen carrying lanterns to fight the steps.