'We must embark,' a voice said near him. It was Jaspar. His mask turned to look up at the Hold. 'My Lord surveys his old dominions?'

Carnelian wondered if mockery was intended. 'It has been the only home I have known.'

'My Lord should not worry himself with that. The glory of Osrakum will soon dim all this deprivation into grey memory.'

'And what of my people, Lord Jaspar, shall they also be dimmed into grey memory?' Carnelian said bitterly.

Jaspar's gold face inclined to one side. Its aloof expression made the gesture seem almost comical. 'Your people, my Lord? This is no cause for great concern. Your palaces in Osrakum will have many and better slaves. Perhaps my Lord is unaware of how much those here have been degenerated by the… climate.'

'And has my Lord detected perhaps such degeneration in myself?'

‘Tut, cousin, the Chosen are made of finer clay.'

Carnelian thought that if he spoke any longer to the Lord Jaspar he would say something he might regret. He turned towards the ship. 'I think my Lord was suggesting that we should embark.'

Through seeing her so close, Carnelian had almost forgotten how much he hated her. Jaspar showed him where staples of bone made a ladder up her side. The Master leant out to one and jumped across. He rose and fell with her as he climbed. Carnelian wondered how his people could possibly have reached over to the staples. He looked down. He watched the water rush up and then suck down again. There was no point in thinking about it. He waited until the ship moved towards him, snatched at a staple and pulled himself across. He hit the hull with a thud. His foot struck something and he managed to stand on it. He adjusted his mask. The ship's black hide was before his face, reeking of tar. The hull lifted him as if he were a wasp on a bobbing apple. He looked up and grasped the next staple. Its bone had weathered yellow and showed its grain. He went up one at a time. Before he reached the deck, the hull cut away to show a wide deep space under it, with supporting uprights like the trunks in a thicket, shapes under tarpaulins, more solid massings of shadow sprinkled with faces. The whole space was roofed with the grating of the deck. There, even his people would have to bend double.

He climbed higher, was looking down to place his foot when hands took hold of him and he was pulled up to be greeted by Keal's grave face. 'Welcome aboard, Master,' he said and tried a wink. Other guardsmen knelt around Carnelian. He looked over their heads and saw the whole length of the ship stretching off to the rise of her prow. Here and there were capstans, openings in the deck and peculiar bronze engines clustered in threes on platforms extending beyond her bows. Before him, from a collar of brass and a ring of posts topped with pulleys, a mast rose higher than a tree and was taut with rigging to which tiny figures clung. The deck shifted under his feet like something alive. He saw his men's faces still turned up to him and gave them the sign to rise. Before he left them he asked that they ensure Tain made it safely aboard.

The Masters stood a short way off by the prow, wrapped in the flutterings of their cloaks and speaking with their hands. Carnelian was glad they had not invited him to join them. He walked towards one of the engines. It had a huge bow, a greased track, release hooks, and beside it a stock of barbed harpoons each as long as he was tall. One was ready, threaded like a needle with a coil of oily rope. He leant against the bow rail and gazed down forlornly at his people who stood there looking back.

A rasping caused him to peer over the edge and see the mushroom-headed poles pushing out towards the quay. One after the other they clunked against its stone. The ship's rocking lessened as she was pushed away. Sailors on the quay untied the hawsers and, in twos and threes, they strained against them. The poles continued to push. The ship moved further from the quay and dragged the hawsers and their sailors closer to its edge. Carnelian watched with disbelief as they plunged into the sea like stones. On board more of their fellows drew the hawsers in. The heads of the sailors bobbed up and soon they were being dragged out of the water. Their feet had barely touched the deck when there was a sudden rattling on either side, rude cries, a scraping. The ship sprouted wings of wood as oars were pushed out from the hull into the water. Under his feet a heart began beating. Driven by its rhythm the oars ploughed the sea. The banks rose and fell churning the slate sea white. The ship began edging backwards into the bay.

The quay was receding. His people stood in uneven ranks. They neither waved nor cried out. Their swarthy faces grew more indistinct with each thump of the drum. When they had become a single grey mass he turned away. His face was stiff with pain under his mask.

The shuddering of the deck changed its rhythm. The sea was threshed to spume as the ship's prow was brought about. He watched the cliff and the Hold slip off slowly to the left, until, past the prow stem, he saw the hills of the sea sliding towards them. The drumming changed again, quickening with his heart. They moved forward. He looked with horror as a smooth glassy slope came rushing on. The world lifted until it seemed the ship was going to fall back upon herself. Then the deck lunged forward and down taking his stomach with it. Up, up, up, then rushing down so that the next wave rose high enough to wash away the sky.

There was a snapping and a rustling above his head like giant birds taking to the air. He looked up to see the fan-sails stretching open their hands. He watched them punch forward as they caught the wind. They seemed as fragile as autumn leaves but they held. He looked up the deck again as his grip tightened on the rail. The prow was knifing into another wall of water. It cut a widening white gash that sent a wind of foam hissing back. He felt the cold splatter on his robe and smelt the salty terror of the open sea.

Alternately he was climbing and then descending the deck. He bent his knees to keep his balance. Every so often spume would lash his back. There was a constant roaring; everything clattered and shook around him.

He saw Keal ahead hanging on to some rigging. He looked as if he were coming to help him. Carnelian put up his hand and commanded him to stay where he was.

'Down there, Master,' Keal cried above the wind. He was pointing into the mouth of a large funnel that opened behind the mast. Carnelian thanked him but his words were lost in the roar. He staggered up to Keal, nodded his thanks, and then passed him. Behind the mast there was some respite from the wind. He lunged towards the funnel, swayed at its lip and peered in. A narrow stairway led down into blackness. He had to duck his head to enter. He fumbled for the balustrade and went down.

With each step the sea noise lessened and the creaking of the ship's timbers grew. He reached a dim corridor that had small doors all the way down on both sides. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the bulkhead on the left had been daubed with crude representations of House Aurum's horned-ring staff. The right bulkhead bore Carnelian's own chameleons. He almost felt like kissing them. He walked down the corridor and had to bend his head down because the ceiling was so low. He knocked on one of the doors. It opened. A familiar face. 'Naith,' he cried in delight.

The man knelt. Over his head Carnelian could see the cabin with its inset bunks. It had a faint smell of home. His pain was almost released in tears. 'Get up, man,' he said, remembering Naith. 'Just get up.'

The guardsman looked at him.

'Where's my cabin?' asked Carnelian.

The man leant out, grasping the threshold lip, and pointed down the corridor.

'The door beside the stairway?'

He nodded.