Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘At least, stay with me.’

Compassion and the dregs of their love fought within Carnelian with what his heart felt he owed the dead. At last he yielded nothing more than a nod though even that felt like a betrayal.

A clanging brought them back to the outer door. Putting his ammonite mask over his face, Carnelian opened the door. Morunasa was on the landing. He moved aside to indicate a huddle of ammonites ringed by Marula. There was another ammonite laid out on the floor. Carnelian approached the prone figure, crouched, then, using one hand to hold his own mask, with the other he released the ammonite’s. Beneath was a sallow face marred with examination tattoos. Carnelian leaned closer. ‘He’s dead.’

Osidian had followed him. ‘It is the quaestor of this city.’

Carnelian turned to look up at him. ‘How can you tell?’

Osidian interpreted for him some of the markings on the corpse’s face. Then he turned on Morunasa. ‘Did I not tell you to bring all of them to me alive?’

The Oracle presented a stiff face. ‘We found him like that on the roof.’

Carnelian leaned closer to the corpse. ‘Look at how his tongue is swollen.’

Osidian crouched to see for himself. ‘Poison.’

Carnelian was about to ask how Osidian knew that, but then remembered that he had grown up at court where such things were not uncommon.

Osidian rose and stood statue still. Carnelian sensed he was pondering something and chose not to disturb him. Instead he addressed Morunasa. ‘On the roof, you say?’

‘Beside one of those sun machines.’

That was suggestive. Carnelian turned his mask on the huddle of ammonites. They drew away from him as he approached. ‘Have any heliograph messages been sent or received from here today or yesterday?’

He saw himself reflected in the silver of their faces. He raised his hands and signed the command: Unmask. They did so, hesitantly, glancing round at the Marula, their sallow tattooed faces sweaty with fear.

‘Answer me.’

One braver than the rest shook his head. ‘We do not know, Seraph. We have been forbidden the roof.’

‘By the quaestor?’

The ammonite’s eyes flicked to the corpse and back again. ‘That is so, Seraph.’

Without a word, Osidian turned to the stairs and began climbing them. Carnelian assured Morunasa that neither he nor his men had done any wrong, then, telling him to wait, Carnelian followed Osidian.

When they reached the roof the dizzying view drove everything else from Carnelian’s mind. He approached the edge. Laid out at his feet was the Earthsky, turned to copper by the setting sun. Osidian was squinting into the west. Carnelian joined him. Against the liquid gold horizon the limestone margin of the Guarded Land, scored and gouged by gullies, seemed gnawed and incised bone. Away from its rim, the rock became stained with earth like a crust of dried blood. Further inland, his eyes found the knife slash of the Ringwall. He followed this until he came to a thorn. Another watch-tower. He glanced back at the heliograph and saw that it was to that tower it was aligned. He made the inevitable deduction. ‘The quaestor sent a message to Osrakum, then killed himself.’

Osidian shook his head. ‘It seems more likely that he received a command to kill himself.’

‘From the Wise?’

Osidian turned to him. ‘Who else?’

‘But surely there wasn’t enough time for the signal to get here-’

Osidian turned back to gaze at the watch-tower. ‘No, there wasn’t.’

Carnelian felt suddenly exposed, as if at that very moment the Wise had lifted the roof off the world and were peering in at them. ‘How could they know we were coming?’

Osidian shook his head, a look of resignation on his face. ‘It is a fool who underestimates the Wise.’

Carnelian contemplated their situation. ‘But why would they want the quaestor dead?’

‘Perhaps they feared he would fall into my hands.’

Carnelian could not work it out. ‘What could he possibly reveal to us?’

Osidian shook his head again, dejection in his face and posture. ‘Their strategy, or some trap they have set for us.’

Carnelian realized how much he feared Osidian would fail. ‘What shall we do?’

Osidian gazed at him. ‘We proceed as before. What else can we do?’

Carnelian could think of nothing. As Osidian made his way back to the steps, Carnelian remained behind a while, gazing at the watch-tower, almost hoping to see it flash. If the Wise had them defeated he would rather find out there and then. Bleakly, he turned towards the steps.

Carnelian woke lying beside Osidian. Though he had agreed to sleep at his side he had not allowed anything more. Asleep, Osidian regained enough of his unsullied youth for Carnelian to see in him the boy he had loved. His heart ached as he gave in to the seduction of imagining they were still in Osrakum, still lovers. He stared at the ceiling, watching its gilded vault pulse with the pounding of his heart. That was a dream; the massacres were not.

He had to get away from him. He slipped from under the feather blankets. The floor seemed ice. The walls banded with dark stone oppressed him and made him shiver. He drew on his marumaga robe and went in search of light. The next chamber was lit by a faraway opening. Shafts of sunlight beckoned him onto a balcony. Blinded, he advanced into the morning not caring that the sun would taint his skin further. As he basked in its warmth, its wholesomeness, only slowly did his sight return and then he saw he was perched on the rim of the sky. Bleached green mottled with gold grew purple towards a far horizon. It seemed the whole Earthsky was there at his feet. He closed his eyes and breathed the scent that was on the wind. His heart jumped as the world he had known there came alive again. He was sure he could smell the musk of the fernland sweetened by magnolia. He felt in his heart how clean and simple his life had been there. He longed for the murmur of the mother trees. He ached for the touch of Akaisha’s warm hand, for the wise laughter in her eyes.

‘We must talk.’

Carnelian turned and saw Osidian the murderer. He watched him falter under his gaze and was glad of it. Osidian retreated into the shadows. Carnelian tried to return to his reverie, but Osidian had snuffed out the vision of the Earthsky. Only tragedy remained and a sickening regret. He leaned on the balustrade and looked down. Far below in the gorge the blue river frayed white as it tumbled over falls. He was sure he could hear a whisper of its roaring. He gazed downstream, where the gorge carved its curves west to the Leper Valleys. A yearning for Poppy and Fern flared in him, but he crushed it. Regret was an indulgence he could not afford. He straightened and returned to the cold grandeur of his new life.

It was Marula who brought them breakfast. Carnelian vaguely knew two of their faces but, again, there was no Sthax. Plates of white jade, bowls beaten from several colours of folded gold, all sat incongruously in their calloused hands. As they came nearer their stale sweat overpowered the perfume of the food. It was only when Osidian dismissed them that Carnelian found it possible to appreciate the saffron pungency of the porridge, the rosewater sweetness of the hri cakes.

Osidian frowned, gazing at the faraway doors closing behind the Marula. ‘They must be washed and those barbarian corselets disposed of. Their ebony necks would look handsome collared with gold; their limbs adorned with greens, with scarlets. At the very least they must be made to wear legionary cuirasses. If they are to join my household, they must look the part.’

Carnelian noticed that Osidian was studiously avoiding eye contact. He watched him begin to eat, then took a mouthful of the golden porridge. The flavour assaulted him. He ate more, greedily, but subsequent mouthfuls failed to match the first. Soon it seemed too rich. He thought of sharing what he was experiencing, but the distaste on Osidian’s face made him pause. Sensing he was being watched Osidian masked his previous expression. Whatever he was feeling he was clearly determined not to communicate it.