its murky worm-like body he could see a yellow liquid.
Osidian smirked. 'It is something the Wise drink. It has… let us say, some useful effects.'
Carnelian looked at Osidian's green eyes. He did not like the idea of acquiring any habit from the Wise. He wondered at Osidian's mood. Carnelian almost asked him to drink first, but he did not want Osidian to think that he thought it poison.
'How much?'
'A sip will do.'
Carnelian flipped open the cap and sniffed it cautiously. Its iodous smell nipped his nose. He looked at Osidian who gave him an encouraging nod.
'Do you think I would try to poison you?'
Carnelian answered him by putting the phial to his lips and letting some of its liquid trickle onto his tongue. Its bitterness forced a grimace. He swallowed quickly, sucked his tongue, then licked his teeth to try to rid his mouth of the taste.
Osidian took the phial from his hand and drank. Carnelian was pleased to see his face scrunch up. 'It really is foul,' said Osidian, glaring at the phial.
'And now?' whispered Carnelian.
'Now, we wait.' Osidian shuttered the lantern. In the darkness, Carnelian felt the bench shudder as Osidian, sitting down, threw his back against it. Carnelian slid down beside him. He tried to make conversation, to ask what they were waiting for, but Osidian answered every question with an irritating, 'Wait and see.'
The tingling grew as if coming from far away. Carnelian adjusted his position. Against his back the bench seemed to have become the trunk of some vast tree. His back ran up it for a great length. Carnelian found himself wondering if the yellow potion had made him grow like a giant. His legs had stretched so much they must have pushed his feet into the next chamber. He lifted his hand and it swung up like a crane. He fingered the air, half believing that he would find the ceiling of the chamber just above his head.
'Do you feel it?' asked Osidian's breath. Carnelian could feel its wet heat catching in the folds of his ear. He turned his head and was momentarily disorientated by the thick currents of air that he ruddered into motion. His lungs seemed as large as the sky. He breathed in all the winds.
'My lungs are the turtle's shell,' he said.
Osidian's chuckle was like a shunting of machinery. 'You feel it all right.'
Carnelian felt the earthquake of Osidian rising.
'Stand up,' came Osidian's words, tumbling down from above. Carnelian felt fingers fumble into his like an avalanche of pillars. They kept sliding round and through his until they locked closed. Even lying naked on a rock, Carnelian had never felt such a vast expanse of his skin touching the world. Their hands were a jumble of warm stones in whose crevices lay thrilling moisture.
Suddenly the whole meshed mass of fingers were flying skywards. Carnelian's forearm followed, then his elbow, then his upper arm, all straightening like the links in some monumental chain. The whole mass of him unfolded up and up, faraway joints opening until he found himself standing.
'We should release each other's hand,' rumbled Osidian.
Carnelian struggled. Their flesh seemed wedded together at the hands. When they managed to wrestle their fingers apart, Carnelian was left feeling as if part of him had been cut away. It was all he could do to not flail the night to recover it.
Take some beadcord in your hands.'
Carnelian had to wait for the loss to fade before he ran a finger along the wooden wall of the bench. It had been smooth before. Now it was pitted, gnarled, scored with ruts. His finger ran into something that at first he though must be a skull. He felt the heat radiating from Osidian's fingers touching the other side of the curving ball of bone.
'Can you read it now?' asked Osidian.
Carnelian was startled when he realized he was only touching a bead. He allowed his fingers to explore its landscape. They found the ridges, the sensuous curves. Cool regions, warm strips his mind told him must be narrower than a hair. 'I do not recognize it,' he said.
'Let me.'
Osidian's fingers resumed contact. Carnelian felt as if his skin was drinking from Osidian's. He let his hand climb down from one bead to another until it was a safe distance away.
'Untouchables,' said Osidian.
Carnelian could feel the vibration in the cord. Something was coming down it. His hand escaped further down, bead by bead.
'Removing the Blood… no, the Liver,' said Osidian.
A whole earthful of flesh brushed past Carnelian and set his entire skin quivering like a bell's.
Osidian had moved to the next title cord. 'Preserving the Viscera in Canopic Jars.'
Through the floor, Carnelian could feel the quake as Osidian moved further along the bench.
'Hooking out the Cranial Organs.'
'What?' said Carnelian.
'Peh!' said Osidian. These are nothing but manuals of embalming.'
'Is it a secret art?' asked Carnelian, with a sour taste in his mouth.
'One of the most secret.'
'Not something I desire to learn,' said Carnelian, not bothering to hide his disappointment. 'Nor I.'
Carnelian felt suddenly very angry. 'Is that it then?' he asked loudly. A fleshy door closed over his mouth.
'Hush!' whispered Osidian and took his hand away.
'If these are the most secret books in the Library of the Wise,' whispered Carnelian, 'then, my Lord, I am grown weary of their tame marvels.'
A heavy silence fell. He listened for and found the breeze of Osidian's breathing. 'Does my Lord challenge me to find for him a diversion that is less tame?' the darkness said through a smile.
'Well, if-'
Tomorrow, come to the usual place but wear warm clothes and heavy outdoor paint. Tell your people not to expect your return for three days.'
THE LADDER
I touched with eye
Right hand speaking
But all the while The left
Was sowing the whirlwind
Carnelian looked through the robes Fey had sent him. They were all flimsy, delicate silks, clothing suitable for wearing in his chambers, not for whatever expedition Osidian had in mind. And what was that? He was plagued with speculations. Outdoor paint? Where could Osidian be planning to go that required outdoor paint? For three days? It had to be some region of the Halls of Thunder exposed to the sun. That must be it. No need to worry that he was going against his father's wishes. Still, he was nagged by the thought that it was wrong to go.
'I must,' he said. He knew no way to get a message to Osidian to tell him that he was not coming. How could he just not turn up? He smiled thinking about him. There was still the problem of the robe. He knuckled his forehead. At last, with a sigh, he went to pick up the only outdoor robe he had. He shook out its scarlet mourning brocade, laid it out, then went to the door to call a servant. When the man came he sent him off to fetch body paint.
'Body paint, Master?'
