The Standing Dead - Stone Dance of the Chameleon 02 (9 page)

'Her name's Blur,' Fern whispered in Carnelian's ear.

At his touch the aquar rose, thrusting Carnelian up towards the stormy sky. He clawed hold of the chair.

'Are you all right?' Fern asked.

Carnelian nodded. Ravan and the others were lifting Stormrane into the drag-cradle. Fern was freeing something from the side of the saddle-chair. Glancing down, Carnelian saw it was a spear. His eyes followed the haft to the head. He stared.

'Sky-metal,' he said, in Quya.

'What?' said Fern.

Carnelian pointed at the rusty iron spearhead that was the length of his hand.

Fern frowned at the spear. 'It is my father's, passed down through his line from father to son.' His frown deepened as he hefted it.
Carnelian
wondered if Fern was considering that it might soon pass to him.

'It's a precious heirloom.'

Fern regarded him. 'I shall not claim it.'

'You know its worth?'

'I'm not my father's true son,' he said, bitterly. Carnelian realized Fern and the other barbarians could have no idea they had in their possession fabulous wealth. Though, when he considered it, it was wealth that could not easily be realized. Who but the Masters could afford such a treasure? To offer iron for sale was more likely to bring death than riches.

Fern was speaking. 'Can you move further up the chair?' He tapped the spear on the crossbeam of bundled rods that ran transversely across the aquar's back and stuck out on either side. 'Grip this with the back of your knees.'

Carnelian's buttocks were hard against it. As he pushed himself up the chair he felt as if his back were tearing apart. He was hardly aware of Fern's hand helping him.

'The chair's too small for you but we don't have the time to adjust it now.'

He helped Carnelian angle his shins so he could get his feet to the aquar's back.

'She's used to my father and will not respond well to kicking. If you lift your feet from her back, she'll kneel. To move right or left, apply more pressure on that side. To make her pick up speed, rock your feet from heel to toe.' He took hold of one of Blur's three-fingered hands to keep her steady. Try it.'

Carnelian found it was harder than it sounded. Feeling his foot being gripped, he leaned forward to watch Fern moving it in the way he had described. Sensing Carnelian's eyes on him, Fern let the foot go.

To stop her, dig your heels in.'

Carnelian made some ineffectual attempts to follow the instructions. Fern twitched a smile at him.

'You'll pick it up. For the moment, just make sure you keep your feet flat on her back and she'll shoal with the others.'

As Fern had said, Blur maintained her position in the midst of the other aquar with no need of Carnelian's directing. But he failed to find a posture in which her every footfall did not jar his spine.

Carnelian was trying to doze when it occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from seeing Osidian. Recalling Fern's instructions, he dug his heels gently into his aquar's back. Blur slowed and the other aquar began passing by on either side. As she came to a halt, Carnelian searched the drag-cradles. There were four. Two carried Fern's uncle and brother, their corpse faces slimy with rain. In another he recognized Stormrane's grey tousled head. Furthest away, the fourth held nothing that looked like Osidian. Carnelian heard Ranegale's cry and looked up to see him stopped and looking round. Carnelian hardly noticed Fern coming up to Ranegale and paid no attention to their quarrelling. The whole group was beginning to pull away from him.

He focused his attention on the fourth drag-cradle and tried to apply Fern's lessons. Rocking both his feet from heel to toe, he made Blur begin walking. He tried putting more pressure on his left foot. Sweat running down his back, he held to his purpose and, to his delight, Blur veered towards the cradle. When they were near it, he sagged back and left it to her to match her stride smoothly to the rest.

The drag-cradle looked like the pupae of some monstrous butterfly. He managed to find a face, but did not immediately recognize it as Osidian's. Faded to brown, the bitumen made the white skin showing through appear to be leprosy. He could see nothing of the familiar beauty, nor any sign of life. There seemed not enough of the man he loved even to make Carnelian grieve. Osidian's life had reversed the order of things. He was a butterfly who had returned to melt his beauty into the filthy casing of a chrysalis. Carnelian could not bear to imagine what of Osidian might survive. It was better he should die. How could there be a life for him worth having in this outer world? Should Ranegale's plan work they might be found and then, no doubt, be returned to Osrakum. Even if Osidian were to reach there alive, he would suffer the death the Law decreed for those who were brothers to a new God Emperor. Over his corpse, Carnelian would accuse those responsible for the kidnapping, the defilement. He would unmask Ykoriana and Jaspar's schemes. He would liberate his father from whatever punishment they had inflicted on him. He, Suth Carnelian, would have his revenge on all of them. He closed his eyes, savouring it.

Laughter rattled his chest like a fit of coughing. It seemed the greatest irony that it was only now he had become a slave and captive that he should have finally acquired the taste for vengeance of a true Master.

Slow lightning was playing over the bellies of the clouds.

A word was passing among the raiders like a rumour. 'Dragonfire.'

Carnelian watched the next burst flicker for a while, then die. Looking round at the barbarians, he could see their fear. Voices made bleak requests about stopping, but Ranegale insisted they must push on until they reach the next kraal.

They headed towards the silent, flickering dragonfire until, at last, they reached a kraal. Ranegale scaled its tower accompanied by Loskai and Cloud. Carnelian waited with the others, his heart fluttering between hope and a bleak desire that the coming crisis should be delayed.

When the men came down it was obvious they had seen nothing but the dragonfire. Everyone was glad when Ranegale declared they would camp there for the night. Carnelian lifted his feet from Blur's back and she sank to the ground. He bowed his head as he mustered the endurance to climb out.

'Fern sent me to help,' a voice said in a thick Vulgate. Carnelian lifted his head and saw it was a youth he did not know.

'I'm
...'
The youth hesitated, then smiled. 'Krow, from Father Cloud's tribe.'

In the uncertainty of that smile Carnelian could see the fears that had been haunting everyone for days. He let the youth take his weight and slowly they managed to get him standing. Carnelian lent back against the saddle-chair fearing he might faint.

'She's a good one,' said Krow.

Carnelian looked at him not understanding.

"This aquar
...'
said the youth, patting the creature's neck.

'Yes,' said Carnelian.

'I could try and adjust her chair for you, if you'd like.'

'You're kind but I'll not have much further need of it.' He indicated the flickering sky.

When Krow turned to look, Carnelian saw fear peeping through.

'You've never seen it before?'

The youth turned to look at him, then shook his head. 'Neither have I,' Carnelian admitted. Krow looked incredulous. 'No, really.'

They waited for the sky to light up again and then watched it until Carnelian noticed Fern approaching. He looked so morose Carnelian felt compelled to say something. Pointing he called out: 'No doubt you've seen dragonfire often before.'

As
Fern
blushed, Carnelian remembered his legionary collar had no sliders and he regretted his clumsiness.

Fern locked eyes with him. 'We're going to have to remove the bitumen from your skins. Krow here will help.'

'And Ravan?'

Fern sent Krow away to fetch some water. 'My brother and his father are very close.'

'He blames me,' said Carnelian, sadly. 'Does that surprise you?'

Carnelian held Fern's gaze. 'I can't regret that you saved our lives but I do regret at what cost.'

Fern looked down at his hands. 'Do you need help walking?'

'I'll manage, thank you.' They moved off, Carnelian enduring the awkwardness of each step.

'How far away are the dragons?' he asked to distract himself from the prospect that he was soon going to look upon Osidian.

'We'll meet the line tomorrow. That's why we've got to wash you now.'

'Of course.'

As they had reached the drag-cradles, Osidian's bitumen-mottled face came into view all glazed with sweat.
Carnelian
helped Fern undo the bands. Though a faded black, the blanket covering Osidian was woven with blue patterns that reminded Carnelian uncannily of those Ebeny had woven. He stared at it for a moment, remembering her. It strengthened his belief she had come originally from the same stock as the raiders. He reached out to touch the blanket but it was too damp for him to be able to tell if it had the same texture as Ebeny's. What he did feel were the tremors coursing through the body beneath.

'Fever,' said Fern.

'Yes,' said Carnelian.

'Soon you'll both be free.'

Carnelian glanced at Osidian's face.

'You don't seem overjoyed,' said Fern.

Carnelian looked up. 'He'll die.'

'You can't know that.' Fern frowned as he saw the certainty in Carnelian's face. 'How did you come to be among sartlar?'

That's too long a tale for now,' said Carnelian. He busied himself peeling the blankets from Osidian's body. The rags the slavers had put on him could not conceal the shivering in his limbs and chest.

Fern put his hand on Carnelian's arm. 'At least tell me why you gave up your drag-cradle for my father?'

Carnelian looked into the barbarian's dark eyes. 'I remembered my own father who once was wounded and near to death.'

'Compassion?' Fern said with such disbelief that it made Carnelian ashamed to be a Master.

They crouched on either side of the drag-cradle. It was Krow appearing with a leather bowl that rescued Carnelian's composure. The bowl regained its shape as the youth put it down and Carnelian saw it was filled with brackish water. They removed Osidian's rags and all three began to wash him.

Carnelian could not help but contrast this with the time he had cleaned him in the Yden. To do for him what only slaves did had been a proof of love. Carnelian tried to hide his tears by leaning over Osidian, rubbing at the brown-edged bitumen patching his face.

'He's so bright,' said Krow in wonder.

'Angelic beauty,' breathed Fern.

Carnelian wiped his eyes and muttered, 'You've not seen the green fire of his eyes.'

'Can they differ much from yours?' Fern asked.

Uncomfortable, Carnelian busied himself with cleaning one of Osidian's stained eyepits. He could not help feeling he was preparing him for the tomb. Carnelian imagined Osidian and himself naked, gleaming bait for the dragons. Of course they would be taken back to Osrakum. No doubt the Wise would come themselves to the Three Gates to oversee a special purification before they should be let in. They would bleed Osidian; embalm him with myrrh. Carnelian leaned to kiss the cold stone lips. He could not bear that the Chosen should see him thus. Osidian's pride would have baulked at appearing so dishonoured; a piece of meat. Carnelian grew angry wishing to keep him from their eyes, their sneers. What delight they would take in witnessing one who had been almost the Gods, brought so low. Come what may, Carnelian determined he would find a way to bury Osidian in the Guarded Land's red earth where they would never find him.

Slowly, carefully, he straightened his back. He watched Fern rubbing away at Osidian's birthmark and he put his hand on his arm.

'He was born with that.'

The barbarian looked at Osidian with a strange intensity of which Carnelian was hardly aware. His life was a bitter taste in his mouth. Could he deny Osidian the second waking of the tomb, however high the price? What else then could he do but take him back to be slain in Osrakum?

He became aware Fern and Krow were staring at him.

'Couldn't you make two masks of leather to hide our faces?' he asked and saw they did not understand. The auxiliaries who look on us tomorrow will be killed.'

Fern's eyebrows rose but then he shook his head. 'It's your white faces Ranegale is hoping to use as bait.'

Carnelian stood naked in the midst of the barbarians, who were getting their aquar ready to make the dash through the scouring line. Ranegale and Cloud were up in the kraal tower trying to spy the dragons. Carnelian's gaze fell on Osidian. The bruised marble of his body had been laid out on a blanket. His legs stretched beyond it into the mud. Carnelian had covered him with another to shield him from any rain, though there had been none since dawn. His gaze lingered on this second blanket. Its indigo-patterned russet was so like Ebeny's it was hard to believe she had not woven it. Beside Osidian lay the corpses of Fern's uncle and brother, weighing the air with the sickening stench of their decay. Stormrane lay beyond them. He had died some time in the night. Fern was crouched over him, mourning, the misery of the decisions that would soon come upon him clear on his face. His back turned, Ravan was gouging a channel in the mud with his heel. Several times Carnelian had seen him glancing at his father, his face sick with sorrow. Around them, already in their saddle-chairs the youths sat, some staring at nothing, others intensely checking knots, testing the tension of ropes or, absentmindedly, caressing the necks of their aquar with their feet. Sometimes one would sneak a glance up at the tower.