Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘We have come to speak with the Jade Lord,’ one said.

Carnelian saw around his neck a torc of jade and iron that bore four broken rings. ‘You are the Legate here?’

The man raised his hand in elegant affirmation.

Follow me, Carnelian gestured, which in its agreement and requisitive mode made it clear it was only the Legate he was inviting. Walking back through the piers he was pleased to hear the clack of only one set of ranga.

Beneath the arch of Heart-of-Thunder’s beak Osidian seemed a coalescing of the shadows. Carnelian stood aside to let the Legate approach. He watched with trepidation as the exquisitely armoured Master moved to loom over Osidian. Osidian seemed overmatched but, when he spoke, his voice was commanding. ‘Kneel.’

For a moment it seemed as if the Legate might defy him but, after settling his censer before him, shimmering darkly, the Lesser Chosen Lord subsided, spreading his gorgeous train upon the cobbles. Carnelian watched the Master’s grey eyes seeking to pierce the myrrh smoke to make out Osidian’s face in the gloom. ‘We heard, Celestial, you had disappeared.’

‘It seems I have reappeared.’

The Legate began to say something else, but Osidian raised a pale hand that closed his mouth. ‘Where are your auxiliaries, my Lord?’

The Legate raised hands encrusted in gems, fingers vaguely framing evasions. ‘When the Great Lord came he was impossible to resist.’

‘Did he have a mandate from the Wise?’

The Legate did not wholly manage to suppress a grimace. ‘His House is very high, Celestial.’

Osidian’s voice came forth from the abyss of darkness. ‘Is it to House Aurum you owe allegiance, my Lord? I thought you had sworn it to the House of the Masks. Was it not my father who appointed you, my brother who ratified that appointment?’ Then, more severely: ‘How do you imagine They will react to this betrayal of Their trust?’

Suddenly, brass began clattering behind Osidian. He did not flinch as chains collapsed link on link. Even when the prow of Heart-of-Thunder’s head shifted in the air above him Osidian remained motionless.

The Legate had bowed his horned military helm.

‘I will need fitting accommodation.’

‘You shall have my own chambers, Celestial. Though miserable, they are the best I have to offer.’

‘Very well, my Lord, we shall return with you to the sanctum.’

The horned helm rose. ‘Now, Celestial?’

‘Why not?’

As the Legate swept past Carnelian Osidian approached and raised his hand. ‘Come, my Lord.’

‘I shall remain here.’ Carnelian realized the Legate was within hearing and added: ‘Celestial.’

Osidian hesitated. Watching his hand, Carnelian detected a firmness in it that suggested Osidian was about to issue a command. The hand softened. ‘My Lord Legate.’

The Legate turned. ‘Celestial?’

‘Go on ahead, we shall join you presently.’

The man bowed. ‘As you command.’

Carnelian watched the Legate move away, resigning himself to a confrontation with Osidian. He turned to him. ‘Someone needs to keep an eye on things here,’ he said in Vulgate.

‘Morunasa can do that.’

‘I don’t imagine the marumaga would be happy to obey a Maruli.’

‘They will do as they are told!’

Carnelian was shocked at Osidian’s vehemence. He could not understand why this should be so important to him. ‘Surely it is obvious that we must take all precautions? These huimur have been purchased at a heavy price.’

Osidian lowered his head as he crushed one hand with the other. ‘I really want you to come with me, Carnelian.’ His anger had gone. ‘Please.’

Carnelian gazed at Osidian in disbelief, then turned to look at Heart-of-Thunder lurking in his vault. ‘Very well.’

The Legate and his companions had journeyed to the cothon in palanquins. Osidian commandeered one for himself and another for Carnelian. Two of the Lesser Chosen commanders were going to have to walk. As Osidian replaced his bearers and Carnelian’s with Marula, Carnelian looked among them for Sthax, but could not see him there. He dismissed anxiety: there were more immediate things to worry about. As he watched the changeover Carnelian was surprised how much the bearers appeared disfigured by their Masters’ heraldic tattoos. He wondered that he had ever thought it natural that men should be thus marked to show to whom they belonged. Once it had even seemed elegant; now it appeared hardly different from the branding on a sartlar’s face.

When the palanquin was ready he folded himself into it reluctantly. In contrast with the samite brocades, the inlays of tortoiseshell and pearl, his rough-woven marumaga robe appeared to be little more than sackcloth. An Oracle slid closed the lacquered door and the Marula lifted the palanquin. Inside, Carnelian felt imprisoned. Each breath he took was cloyed with the perfume of lilies, the taint of myrrh. Finding a grille he slid it back to let in some air. Framed by its gold filigree, the machines and geometries of the cothon appeared more brutal. The southern gates of the cothon gulped open. He glimpsed gate chains, toothed wheels, then he was being carried through a garden. Trunks showed they were passing down an avenue of gigantic trees. Framed between them, verdant vistas. Shield leaves thrust up fiery flower-spikes. Paths wound among rocks, quaintly carved, banded and spiralled with cultivated lichens. Here and there he managed to snatch glimpses of the sky, but these only served to make the palanquin feel more like a prison. He was uneasy. Perhaps the feeling had been caused by Osidian’s uncharacteristic gentleness towards him back in the cothon. Carnelian hoped he would not regret having agreed to join him. Perhaps his anxiety was about returning to the world of the Masters. Perhaps he was afraid he might be changed back into what he had been.

The palanquin was set down amidst muttering. Carnelian covered his lower face with a fold of his robe before carefully sliding open the door. He cried in Vulgate: ‘Look away, we are unmasked.’

Climbing out he was confronted by a gate that glared at him with a single, tearful eye. Wrought in the bronze, it was surrounded by a silver frieze of ammonite shells. These wards proclaimed whatever lay beyond to be under the jurisdiction of the Wise. Unsanctioned entry was forbidden under penalty of the Law-that-must-be-obeyed.

The gate opened a little and, from behind it, a silver face emerged with solid spiral eyes. ‘Please enter this purgatory, Seraphim. The procedures of purification await you.’

As Carnelian and Osidian approached, more ammonites appeared, hunched as each gripped with both hands the handle of a ladle in which blue fire burned. At a command it was poured over the ground before them. Flames ran across the earth. Carnelian and Osidian were urged forward onto the now purified ground. Fingers fumbled at their feet, trying to free them of their polluted footwear. A hissing made Carnelian turn to see more arcs of blue flame being ladled over the ground on which he and Osidian had walked. The palanquins they had come in were already aflame. The Marula were backing away, eyes bulging.

‘Enough! I have no patience for this,’ boomed Osidian, chasing ammonites from his path. ‘Morunasa, come with me. Bring your people.’

The Oracle gathered up the Marula and they swarmed after him. Ammonites flung themselves in their way, screeching, forbidding entry, but the Marula beat them aside. Some of the ammonites lost their blinding-masks and fell, grovelling, on the still burning earth. Carnelian glanced at the Legate and his commanders, who were watching in stiff disbelief, then followed after the Marula, who were pouring through the gate Osidian had thrown open.