Until the black sky comes
Muffled crows fluttering round made him wonder vaguely if it was their beaks he could feel stabbing all the way up his back. His mind cleared enough for him to know he was curled up in the dark. Not crows but men were speaking beyond the wall that was coiling him tighter. Elbows were thrusting their blades into his ribs. Thighs were squeezing his belly. His knees were coated with a moist itchy and stinking skin of vomit. He could feel every tremor in the wall through his wedged-back toes. They were rubbing raw but his ankles would not bend enough to allow his heels to take the strain. Trying to drag his skull free from the jaw-clamp of his knees only grated the knobs of his spine down the wall like gear teeth. The scuffing burn forced him to groan out all the breath he had in his chest. His flesh crowded in to smother him. He managed to inflate his lungs a little before his legs closed like the handles of bellows. His heart pumped him against the wall as he choked on a soundless scream.
Suddenly, light flooded from above. A breeze coated his scalp with chill sweat. Jerking breaths, Carnelian worked his head free from between his knees, then hinged it back against the cramp in his neck, slitting his eyes against the dazzle. He was slow to realize someone was looking down at him. When he did, it was hard to focus. A grey bearded face, one half blacked by tattoos. 'Ichorian,' he breathed.
The man's halved face had the roundest eyes and gape, the most ashen pallor. That it was the right hand side that was tattooed proclaimed him to be one of the Red Ichorians that guarded the canyon entry into Osrakum. Carnelian let out a sigh of relief that he had been rescued, only remotely aware that his face was naked to the man's stare. The effort of holding his head up became too great, so that he had to drop it back into the cradle of his knees.
'Please,' he mumbled, 'help me… out of this… thing.' Silence made him find the strength to lift his head again. 'Release me.'
Still staring, the man shook his head.
'Now!' barked Carnelian, the eruption disrupting his breathing into a gulping cough.
The Ichorian's clammy hands trembled towards him. 'Master… can I…? What can I…?' The man made several attempts to touch him, but each time pulled back as if Carnelian were simmering plague.
Carnelian could see the tear trail bright on the man's tattooed cheek. 'But you… are sworn… to our service,' he hacked out between breaths.
The man's unmarked hand strayed to his throat where the collar he had worn had left its ghost. The hand fell and splayed itself before Carnelian's eyes so that he was able to read the tattoos of the man's service record: the number thirty-nine; a pomegranate and a curved diagonal cross above a zero ring beneath two bars.
'You see, Master, I achieved the rank of Righthand in a tower of the pomegranate dragons.' The old soldier looked worn out, used up.
Carnelian was confused. Each snatch of breath squeezed a tear stinging from his bruised eye. 'Please…'
'How did…? Who has dared put you in this urn, Master?'
The man glanced away, focusing on something else nearby. Guilt stabbed Carnelian in the guts. Osidian. He had forgotten his beloved. 'Another urn… is there another urn?'
The Ichorian looked down, startled, dipped a nod before gazing away again. '… Another Master?' he whispered.
'Open it…' Carnelian hissed. 'He might be smothering.'
The Ichorian's head moving away revealed rafters sagging under yellow, mouldering plaster. Where were they? Desperation to see Osidian convulsed Carnelian. He became an animal in a trap and would have gnawed away half his body to break free.
Shadow fell across him. 'Calm yourself… Master. He's dead.'
Despair clamped Carnelian's body still, making his urn shudder audibly. His breathing stopped and it was a fight to regain its rhythm. Ringing in his ears. 'Drugged…' he said, as forcefully as he could.
'Drugged? Oh, I see…' The Ichorian disappeared again.
To keep the panic at bay, the grief, Carnelian forced himself to count his breaths. Eleven had passed before the Ichorian spoke again.
'You're right, Master, it's deep sleep, not death.'
Relief flooded through Carnelian.
The light dimmed again. 'You were to be buried alive then?'
'Alive…?'
The Masters send me their servants dead in urns. I bury them.' The man's eyes opaqued. They don't know I open them.'
Under its tattoos, his face greyed. 'I'm dead.'
'Release me,' hissed Carnelian, 'and I'll protect you.'
The man's eyes came back into focus. 'But I've seen your face.'
'I'll… deny it.' Carnelian drew hope from the Ichorian's confused expression.
'Master, who dared strike you; dared put you in these urns?'
Carnelian was loath to name the Dowager Empress lest the Ichorian become terrorized. 'My enemies.'
'Masters, no doubt and more powerful than you or else you wouldn't be here.'
They trapped us.'
'And me with you, Master.' With a fixed grimace the Ichorian looked round as if he were searching for somewhere to hide. His head shook.
'Even not knowing I've seen you, they're bound to have me killed.'
Trust me… I'm the son of… He-who-goes-before.'
The Ichorian gave him an idiot stare. He licked his half-black lips. 'If that's true, Master, that only makes it worse for me.' His eyes were twitching. 'I must run… find a hole to hide in.'
'Where could… you go? Your face betrays you.'
The Ichorian's face went blank. True… true… I must go far
… bury myself away from prying eyes… maybe in a house in one of the more remote Ringwall cities… never go out… keep a servant to do for me… perhaps a blind slave… might need more than one… wealth… much wealth to buy this new life. Much, much wealth. A chest overflowing with bronze coins wouldn't be enough.' The Ichorian's greedy eyes made Carnelian flinch. 'Yes, a vast sum is needed… vast.'
'Sum?'
The Ichorian smiled uncertainly, but when he spoke, his voice had calmed. There's a man, in the south, in the city of Makar. I sell him relics.'
Carnelian went cold.
'Why else do you think I'd force open a funerary urn?'
Carnelian did not want to hear any more.
'In the cities of the Guarded Land, there are rich merchants to whom nothing's more precious than things that have belonged to a Master. By such charms they keep at bay their fear of you. Before today, all I've had to sell were flays of pale skin, some sky-coloured eyes; all from marumaga, naturally, but from those choice marumaga in the Mountain close to you whose whiteness the barbarians have no way of knowing is mere amber to your snow. Don't flinch. Now that I have you, I'd be a fool to cut, to deface a living Master… such a trophy must be worth at least a wagonload of bronze. If only I can find a way to take you south…'
As the Ichorian walked away, Carnelian concentrated on his breathing.
'Here, drink… I might be gone some time.'
Carnelian turned his face up as the Ichorian tipped water. Most of it found his mouth, though some trickled into the hot crevices of his flesh. It was Carnelian's choking that made the Ichorian stop and look down with fear.
'You mustn't die.'
