down, trailing a smoke of plaster. It crashed into the floor. The impact shook up through their feet. They watched it bounce and rock still. The dust settled. Snow drove down through the ragged hole that had been ripped in the ceiling. Flurries danced among the columns still left standing.
Carnelian strode into the hall in fury, trailing Tain after him. Three columns had already been cut down, felled like trees. He reached one of the stumps and touched its splinter teeth with tender disbelief. The chopping began again. He kicked his way towards it through the debris of the mosaics. Five strange creatures were hacking into the smooth skin of another column. Thin grey light filtered down with the snow. It revealed them to be as bony as old men's hands. Their skin was spotted with bruise-blue wave glyphs.
Carnelian planted himself before them, bellowing, 'What in the names of the Gods do you think you're doing?'
He saw the sailors' narrow faces look up, sweat-glazed, taut with effort. Eyes widened, they collapsed to the ground. An axe clattered to the floor. The blue glyphs had been branded, not tattooed. Joints knobbed their limbs. They reeked of bitumen and fear. Carnelian could see their shaking. Their terror and frailty rebuked him. He saw Tain wandering lost amongst the devastation.
A voice cried out in anger, and a man burst into the light. He was taller than the sailors, but still much smaller than Carnelian. He scolded the bony creatures, jabbing at them with a stick. The man must have seen Carnelian looming there, for the next moment he fell to his knees, mumbling, 'Master.'
Carnelian came further into the light. 'Has this been sanctioned by a Master?'
'Yes, Master,' the man replied without looking up.
'Why is it necessary?'
'Long timbers are needed, Master, to repair the masts.'
'And who're you?'
'Ship's captain, Master.'
'Look up when I speak to you.'
The man lifted his face but not his eyes.
'And my people who were here, where're they?'
They've been moved elsewhere, Master.'
'Show me.'
'Instantly.'
As the captain rose, Carnelian noticed the thick ring of brass circling his brown neck. It widened at his throat and there was inscribed with a wave glyph. To the right of the inscription the collar threaded a slider showing the number eight. To the left were other sliders. Carnelian knew this must be a legionary collar detailing the man's rank and recording his service to the Commonwealth. Only the Masters could make brass. Only they could put that collar about a man's neck, or take it off. Any man found wearing such a collar outside the bounds of his service faced crucifixion.
Carnelian called over to Tain. He came, sullen, cowed. Carnelian reached out and squeezed some reassurance into his arm. Together, they followed the captain out of the hall. Behind them the axes had already resumed their chopping.
As Carnelian accompanied the captain through his home, he found that it had become strange, unknown. Order had passed away. The passages were choked with people, with bundles, with rolled carpets. There was a clatter and echoes and the angry voices of his guardsmen as they herded the children and the women. These last were strangely silent. Thin chameleoned faces, fearful-eyed. When they saw him they looked up with hope. He tried to smile until he realized that all they could see was the disdainful fixed expression of his mask. They made way for him and, as he passed, hung their heads.
The captain brought him to the training hall of the tyadra. Carnelian's people filled it like a colony of birds: jabbering, marking little territories with the salvage of their belongings. Weapon racks were ranged behind them on the walls. The target manikins had been shoved into a corner, with all their ropes and pulleys, their blunted swords and spears.
The captain was standing head bowed, eyes averted, waiting. Carnelian dismissed him. Tain's face expressed incomprehension as he looked around him at the refugees. Carnelian thought his own face must look the same under the mask.
The din quietened to silence. People stood still, their arms clutching their belongings, looking at Carnelian, expecting something, needing something. He felt a fraud. He had nothing to say to them, nothing that could make sense of what was happening. Outside more axes were chopping. There were other violent sounds of pillage. Carnelian could not bear their eyes. So many eyes. He could not resist the cowardice of lifting his hand, to command prostration. Then there were no more eyes, no chameleoned faces, just the backs of heads. Still he felt they were accusing him. These people were in his keeping. It was not only his father that had taught him that, but his own instinct. He turned his back on them and walked out into the Sword Court. His steps were measured enough but Carnelian did not deceive himself, he knew he was fleeing.
Going out into the cold he felt as if a bucket of water had been thrown over him. He stared, not understanding what he saw. Something moved beside him. He glanced down to see Tain looking queasy. The snow that had been swept from the cobbles had been piled in dirty mounds. In one part of the court Carnelian saw some of his people labouring in the mist of their own breath, stacking shutters, pieces of flooring, tables. A queue was filing in from the Long Court alleyway carrying more. Nearby some of the branded men from the ship were splitting these things into planks. Across the court, parchment was being cut from windows. Sleds were being banged together. One already made was creaking as it was loaded. Some more of his people were standing at its head, dejected, hands wedged into their armpits, puffing, stamping their feet. The ropes to pull the sled lay coiled at their feet. Here and there Carnelian could see the leather jerkin of a guardsman of his tyadra. Over against a wall a handful of Aurum's guardsmen were leaning on their forked spears. Their yellow tattoo-bisected faces showed the uncaring arrogance of conquerors.
One of Carnelian's guardsmen came walking straight towards him. It was Grane, his nose and ears red, his hands rasping against each other. 'It is unseemly that you should be here, my Master.'
'Perhaps I can be of some help, Grane.'
His brother came closer, breathing heavy clouds of vapour. This isn't the place for you,' he said in a low voice.
Carnelian grew angry. 'Do you really expect me just to sit back
… watch this happen… do nothing?'
Grane looked up at him, frowning. 'It's not only yourself you shame by coming here, it's all of us.'
'Don't you talk to me of shame. I find enough shame in allowing this – this desecration. I'll go and see the Master and put a stop to it, now!'
Grane looked down at Tain and jerked his head. 'You. Go and help load that sled.' Tain looked up at Carnelian, hoping that he would countermand the order, but Carnelian pretended not to notice him. As the boy stormed off, Grane leant close. 'Don't be a fool, Carnelian. From where do you think the orders came for this?'
Carnelian looked away, knowing Grane spoke truth.
'You can't do anything here.' Grane took a step back, bowed and moved away.
Carnelian stood for a moment looking at nothing in particular. His mirror face made him a pale sun in the chaos of the court. Slowly he turned and walked off towards the barracks.
All that day Carnelian hid in his room. Several times he slept. He tried to distract himself. In flickering firelight he played with his Great-Rings. He tried to conjure up those visions of Osrakum that had always been brighter to him than summer sky. But there was no brightness, only the lonely lightless room. All day he longed for Tain to come. But when finally he did, Carnelian had only pain to share and so pretended to be asleep.
His brother was there, sleeping in his makeshift bed. His breathing sounded as fitful as the wind outside.
Despair lurked in every corner of the room. Carnelian filled his mind with a vision of wide untainted blue sky and then he tried to melt into it like a bather into the sea.
Next morning, Tain uncovered the glow of the embers to make some light. Carnelian's brow was creased. His lips twitched as if he were speaking to someone far away in his dreams. The boy leant forward and pulled the blanket up over him, then slipped away.
