Carnelian looked up at his father's doors with hatred. He wished to throw them down. To erupt in among the gathered Masters. To drive them like vultures from the carcass of his home. To send them winging back across the sea to the vaunted glory of their roosts in Osrakum. But he could not. His father's words lay across those doors like the seal on a tomb. His shoulders fell. The man was still there at his feet. He wanted to lift the fear from him. He put his hand out to touch him. Its shaking betrayed him. Carnelian snatched it back, turned and walked away.

THE BLOOD-RING

Apotheosis transubstantiates the blood of the elected candidate into ichor. The fractions of this holy blood that run in the veins of the Chosen derive ultimately from consanguinity with a God Emperor. Blood-rings are worn as symbol and proof of this relation. Each ring is inscribed with a blood-taint that can be found tabulated in the Books of Blood. Entries will be found arranged according to the Houses. The blood-taint of an offspring is derived by averaging the blood-taints of its procreators. (extract from a beadcord manual used in the training of the Wise)

Carnelian went to seek solitude among the summer pavilions. The courtyards he crossed were empty, unmarred, familiar. He entered one of the pavilions where a bloom of frost dulled the tiles. He wandered maskless, blowing his cloudy breath. He warmed a tile with a puff. Rubbed away the cold traceries to reveal the poppies beneath. He broke the pane of ice that filled the fountain bowl. He sat on a stone bench and recalled summers there but refused to indulge himself with tears.

At last he put on his mask and slipped back through the ruins, a shadow with a gleaming face. He passed scenes of torchlit industry that showed his world being destroyed. When he reached his room he closed the door and slumped back against it. The ache around his eyes had spread to make his face as stiff as the gold of his mask.

He waited, blinded by the flames. Tain came at last. They saw each other's pain. Before Tain had a chance to say anything, Carnelian sent him off to find Keal, and they came back together.

Carnelian looked at Keal. 'You look drained.'

Keal was sure Carnelian looked worse than he did, but he just nodded. 'I've been overseeing our work on the ship.' He hung his head. 'It's a nasty business.'

'Our stores?'

He looked up. That as well, but I was thinking of the ship. It's strange to wander in the warrens beneath her decks. You can feel the floor moving under your feet and hear her creaking all round you. It's brought back memories of coming here… when I was a child. And locked away in her sunless depths,' his frown creased the head of his chameleon tattoo, 'there are men, or something like men.' He shook his head, as if he were trying to dislodge the image in his mind. There was only enough light to make out the merest outlines, but they were there all right, you could smell them.'

'Sartlar,' said Carnelian.

Tain's eyes opened wide. They brought those monsters here?'

'Not monsters, Tain, half-men. Don't judge them too harshly. If it wasn't for them the Commonwealth'd starve. They work all her fields. Their labour is used everywhere by the Masters. They're not monsters but beasts of burden.'

'Monsters or not, I pity them there in that ship,' said Keal.

Carnelian looked at him. He imagined living out his life in the belly of the black ship, and he grimaced. ‘You've been to see the Master?'

Keal nodded. 'He and the visiting Master, the gigantic one, check on everything we do. Grane reports back to them about the work in the Hold and I tell them about the ship.'

'Work…?' snorted Tain.

They both looked round at him.

'When will she be ready, Keal?' said Carnelian.

Three days, maybe four.'

'Who's to go?'

Keal glanced at Tain. He began to list the names of guardsmen. Carnelian nodded at each name, considering the choices, asking questions. He stopped his brother when he began to list those not of the tyadra. 'You've not spoken your name, Keal.'

'I’m to go, and as commander. Grane's to remain here in the Master's place.'

'You don't seem overjoyed by your promotion.'

'I feel the honour, Carnie, really I do. It's just…'

'I know.'

'We're leaving them to die,' said Keal, close to tears. Tain's eyes were already wet. Carnelian would not allow himself to share their despair.

'Come, let's not give up yet. I've brought you here, Keal, to ask you if you'd do something for me.'

'Anything.'

'You've access to the Master.' Keal paled.

'Are the other Masters always with him?'

'Not all of them, just the terrible giant.'

'He frightens me as well, Keal, but if I'm to do anything I must speak with the Master. Will you ask him if he'll give me audience?'

'You ask when you could command.' There'll be no commanding between us.' 'Of course I'll do it, but don't count on it, Carnie. The Master's been stony since they came.'

While they waited, Carnelian had Tain clean off his body-paint. He was ready when Keal came back to say that the Master would see him. Keal had brought an escort with him.

As Carnelian walked through the Hold with Keal, he prepared in his mind what he would say. Along the length of the Long Court he looked straight ahead. He knew his father did not appreciate fevered argument. He must stay calm.

When they reached the sea-ivory door, Carnelian was relieved that only men of their tyadra stood outside. He squeezed Keal's arm. The doors opened before him and he went in.

'Perhaps you could help me choose which of these to take, Carnelian,' said Suth. He held up a folding-screen book whose binding was twisted with jewels. Many more books glimmered on the table beside him.

Reluctantly, Carnelian picked one up, smoother than skin, eyed with leather-lidded watery tourmalines. With care, he opened the first panel. Tracing his finger down the parchment, he unravelled the first two pictures into words.

'Books are doors,' his father muttered. 'And the glyphs are the keys that open them,' said Carnelian.

His father smiled at him. 'You remember that…?' His eyes fell again on the book he held, then looked up. 'Do you remember the lessons we had here?'

In this hall, his father had taught him the art of reading, and guided his hand as he scribbled his first thoughts on parchment with wavering lines.

'Thoughts are like butterflies,' he said.

Take care when capturing them lest you crush their wings,' his father responded. 'You know, it was necessity that drove me.' He shook his head. 'A Ruling Lord… teaching a child his glyphs…'

'And the crabbed, lifeless merchants' script…'

'… with which they trap wealth in their ledgers.' His father's lips always curled when he spoke of the merchants. Like all Masters he found commerce distasteful.

'But wealth is power…' said Carnelian.

'It is a fool who covets wealth, but he also is a fool who discards the way to power,' his father said. He saw Carnelian's expression. 'Have I said that many times?'

'I have it by heart. You showed me that my hands could' speak. The last word was a sign. Fingers are the lips and tongue of the silent speech. Their poetry of movement betrays the emotion behind the words. The words themselves are spoken without breath or sound by forming signs.

'You have a strong, clear hand.'

His father lifted up a book paler than his skin though not as radiant. 'As we have travelled together through these, so shall we travel through the greater world of which they are only impressions.'

'But what shall we be leaving behind, my Lord?' asked Carnelian.

'Famine,' his father replied. His lips compressed to a line.

'Is there no way, my Lord, we might ameliorate its harshness by reducing the amount that is taken by the baran?'