The Third God Read online

  The THIRD GOD

  BOOK THREE of

  THE STONE DANCE OF THE

  CHAMELEON Trilogy

  RICARDO PINTO

  BANTAM PRESS

  LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Also by Ricardo Pinto

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Mothering Mask

  The Living and The Dead

  Dragons

  Council of War

  Raveners

  Burnt Offerings

  The Leper

  Bargains

  Lepers’ Ladder

  Chosen Again

  Mobilization

  Hinterland

  Makar

  Legions

  Incubating

  Tower Sun-Ninety-Three

  Aurum

  The Ichorian

  Like a Tree

  The Dream

  Red Dusk

  The Coming of the Wise

  The Iron House

  The Mirror Breaks

  Murderous Grief

  Into the Black Land

  In the Underworld

  Tributaries

  Apotheosis

  Coronation Masque

  Overrun

  Blood Gate

  The Flood

  Farewells

  The Stone Dance of the Chameleon

  Bone Boats

  Mother Death

  Coda

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407095455

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain

  in 2009 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Ricardo Pinto 2009

  Ricardo Pinto has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9780593050514

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

  The Random House Group Ltd supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest-certification organization. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

  Typeset in 11/12pt Sabon by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon. Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk.

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  To my family

  Ricardo Pinto was born in Portugal but has lived in Scotland since he was a child. He is the acclaimed author of The Chosen and The Standing Dead.

  To find out more, visit www.ricardopinto.com

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Also by Ricardo Pinto

  THE CHOSEN

  THE STANDING DEAD

  Acknowledgements

  In a world where it seems publishers are no longer as fastidious as they once were, Transworld have lavished upon this book the attention of many excellent professionals – from Claire Ward’s book jacket design to Elizabeth Dobson’s precise copy-editing. Neil Gower has produced another set of beautiful glyphs and Jim Burns has given me a wonderful, vibrant jacket illustration. But it is Simon Taylor who has championed the book, and whose editing has made it considerably more than it would otherwise have been. I am grateful to them all.

  Victoria Hobbs has midwived this trilogy with much patience and skill. Jennifer Custer, my other agent, was the first person to read the whole trilogy in one go, and her discerning feedback and much needed enthusiasm was important to me when I was at a low ebb. I want to thank her for reading the final draft as well as Robbie, Sam Edenborough, Remco, Angeline and Simon Bolton.

  My quest for completeness was aided by various experts. Of these I would particularly like to thank Ben Harte for the geology that forms the bones of my invented world – the landforms of which determine the flow of the story; David Adger, who produced for me the translations into Quya which I then wrote with glyphs; Dominic Prior, whose mathematics has brought clarity to my own inelegant calculations. Others include Tom Darling for the talk we had on muscle wastage; John Robertson for his insights into military matters; Mark Haillay for his horticultural advice and Paula Rudall for helping me with a problem concerning banyan wood.

  Though I have worked in blessed isolation, the internet has allowed me to have much needed virtual work colleagues. Among these are Dean Thompson, Dave Newbert, James Worrall, Dave Scott, Colin Bell, Keith Brunton, Graham Gibson, John Robertson and Adrian Smith. Additionally there was Bob Gillies and Max Gaunt, my T’ai Chi buddies. Special mention needs to be made of Remco van Straten and Angeline Adams who have aided me in so many ways. Finally, I would like to thank those of my readers who have written to me and whose kindness and enthusiasm have been an important support to me throughout the more than ten years it has taken me to write these books.

  Sharon Jacobsen helped me, over five years, to unravel the ungordian knot of my own psyche. Without her skill and empathy I doubt if the story could have reached a conclusion that is both natural and true.

  Finally, I owe more than can be said to my partner Robbie who has stood by me through this long, long process, even though it often eclipsed anything else and seemed interminable.

  MOTHERING MASK

  Salty with tears their mother’s milk.

  (fragment – origin unknown)

  SHE SQUEEZED THE RUBY INTO HER LEFT EYE SOCKET, FELT A POP, THEN sensed its shape inside her head. A sister stone nestled its cool weight in her palm. Raising it she filled the other socket, then inclined her head. A hard blink settled the stones, shaped to occupy each socket, their spinel axes aligned to give the orbs the appearance of focus. Though the Wise had robbed her of sight, they could not deprive her of this blood-red gaze. Raking the chamber, Ykoriana heard the uneasy movements that it induced among her slaves. She did not allow her lips to smile. Eyes, even of stone, are weapons.

  As slaves intruded into every part of her with their unguents, perfume blossomed so that in her mind she escaped from her forbidden house and was walking in a garden. Her nostrils drank in the musk of mummified roses. She became intoxicated by attar of lilies. Spidersilk flowed over her, so finely woven it seemed liquid spilling down her shoulders and breasts, her hips and thighs. She had learned to derive some consolation from sensuousness.

 
Though it was their daughter her son claimed he was coming to see, he knew well enough that Ykoriana would not allow him near Ykorenthe unless she were safe in her embrace. Molochite knew also that, because he was God Emperor, his mother would have to be cleansed according to the exact procedure demanded by the Law. The Grand Sapient of the Domain of Blood had come himself as usual to oversee the ritual. She felt his presence though he had not yet spoken through his homunculus. All the Wise had earned her hatred, but he most of all, whom she considered chief among her jailors.

  This visit was typical of Molochite. He liked to remind her of her vulnerability. He enjoyed humiliating her. Now they rarely met. She could maintain her control over him through intermediaries. She had exploited his lust for her, but now she had a daughter, she only invited him into her bed to renew her dominance. The rest of the time she let him vent his desires where he would. As for his petty defiances, she could bear them. Though he wore the Masks, it was she who ruled.

  The women of the House of the Masks had always played a major part in the choosing of a God Emperor, but even as they dropped their blood-rings into the voting urns, they squandered their power by fighting each other. Their ichorous blood would not allow them to yield supremacy to another. This disunity Ykoriana had abolished with her birth. The first female of blood-rank four for generations, her rings cast eight thousand votes. Enough power to dominate the House of the Masks. Enough even to empower her to stand alone, if she chose, against half the assembled might of the Houses of the Great. Power coursed in her veins that all her mothers had dreamed and bred for. What a bitter jest, then, that such power had brought her nothing but suffering.

  The Grand Sapient’s homunculus murmured and the slaves began loading her with robes of brocade denser than armour. She conquered the familiar fear of being shut in, smothered.

  She had been only a girl when her father had died. She had loved her brother Kumatuya, but never forgave him gifting Azurea, their sister, to his lover Suth Sardian. Azurea had died bearing him a son, Carnelian. Grief overcoming policy, Ykoriana had demanded her brother exile Suth as the price for her votes in his election as God Emperor. In revenge, Kumatuya had had her eyes put out. She had not imagined the Wise would support him. A foolish misjudgement. All who spun out their lives in the forbidden houses of the Chosen had reason to know how much the Wise feared and hated women.

  A procession was approaching. They were bringing her daughter. Hastily she reached for what she termed her ‘mothering mask’ and hid her face behind it. She loathed that mask. She had had it made so as not to scare her daughter. She did not want her child to see her withered face, her ruby eyes. Those baleful stones she wore to express her bitter anger, to terrorize, but, most of all, in defiance of the Wise who had insisted that, as they did, she should wear eyes of jade or obsidian to reflect whichever of the Masks the God Emperor was wearing.

  As the procession halted, her ears searched among the tinkling metals, the clink of jewels. When she heard her daughter’s faltering steps, it was as if sunlight fell upon Ykoriana’s face. She touched the cold gold of her mask to reassure herself that she was hidden. Her fingers traced its kind smile, the small nose, its loving eyes of embedded shell and sky-blue sapphire. Her robes would not allow her to stoop so she had them lift Ykorenthe. Her hands sought her daughter’s face. She found the familiar warm curve of her chin with a caress. ‘Ykorenthe, my delight,’ she said, brightly.

  Ykoriana longed to hold the child, but the weight of her sleeves had consumed her strength. Little Ykorenthe’s wordless chatter was sweeter than music. Protecting her had become the very heart of Ykoriana’s life. She suppressed the familiar longing to see the tiny face. She had been told the girl had her father’s beauty. The daughter she had lost, Flama, she too had been beautiful. Time had not dulled the blade of Ykoriana’s grief. Her extreme purdah had made her sons Molochite and Osidian Nephron strangers to her, but Flama she had kept as close as the Law permitted. Headstrong, the girl had fought her mother over the election of Kumatuya’s successor. Had she been given time, Ykoriana was confident she would have been able to gently poison Flama’s love for Nephron. Ykoriana’s spies had revealed enough about him for her to have had no illusions about what her role would be should he become the Gods. Flama’s blood was ichor in even greater part than Ykoriana’s. Nephron would have married his sister and their mother would have been exiled to the depths of the imperial forbidden houses. Still, she had loved Flama enough to risk that fate. It was her other son she had underestimated. Molochite had known Flama’s votes would neutralize those his mother could cast for him. Also he had known that his brother was more popular than he, not only in the House of the Masks, but, beyond, among the Great. Fearing to lose, Molochite had murdered his sister. Enraged, Ykoriana had come close to handing him over to the justice of the Wise; that she was no longer so ruled by her passions was what had saved him. Flama was dead and her death had opened a way to power through him.

  As she had vacillated, a rumour had spread through Osrakum that it was she who had murdered her daughter. Outrage and indignation had given way to contemplation as she had observed how much this news made her feared. She had learned from the Wise, that fear is the path to dominion. Her enemies had taken advantage of her distraction. In the midst of the turmoil caused by the preparations the households had been making to move up to their palaces high in the Sacred Wall, the Lord Aurum had convened the Clave and there had managed to get Suth elected He-who-goes-before. This appointment she could have thwarted had she had time to mobilize her supporters among the Great. But, on reflection, she had seen Aurum’s gambit for what it was, an act of desperation. Let the old fool leave his faction leaderless while he went off on a futile mission to that house of exile in the remote north. The world that mattered, the world she knew, lay within Osrakum’s mountain wall. Beyond was nothing more than the squalid barbarism of the Guarded Land. With characteristic eccentricity, Suth had not even chosen to wait out his exile in one of the cities there, but had sailed with his son to some bleak island across the northern sea. She had been, if anything, amused. She had known what Aurum did not, that Suth’s exile had long ago been revoked, but that he had chosen not to return.

  Still she had taken precautions. Hastily her agents had recruited a minor Lord of the Great, Vennel, to go with Aurum and, with promises of a child brought forth from some woman from her House, she had bought his eyes and ears. When she had received a letter from the fool, she had been less amused. Against her expectations, Suth had returned with Aurum to the Three Lands. Unease had become panic when they had disappeared from the Tower in the Sea. She had feared that, if they reached Osrakum in time, they might influence the Great enough to carry the election for Osidian Nephron. It had been the Hanuses who had offered to organize an attempt to waylay them. She had given those syblings no answer lest she be implicated. They knew that should they fail she would abandon them to the Wise. The syblings’ plot had served only to wound Suth. None had accused her, but most had believed she was behind it. Schism between the factions had deepened. Those who had adhered to her candidate, Molochite, had been drawn closer from fear of her: the opposition had been strengthened in equal measure and blossomed once Suth had arrived in Osrakum. She had bent Molochite to negotiating with the Great for his own election. Coercion and seduction had been employed. The final coup of bringing Imago Jaspar over to her cause had made her certain of victory, but her schemes had come to nothing. The voting had gone against her.

  Fondling Ykorenthe, Ykoriana smiled behind her mask. While Suth and Aurum had celebrated their triumph, she had snatched victory from their grip. Before the election, Imago had told her that Osidian Nephron had descended to the Forbidden Garden of the Yden with Suth’s son, Carnelian. The parallels between their actions and those of their fathers had disturbed her, but when the votes had gone against Molochite, she had become desperate enough for one last throw. She had already let Molochite into her bed. He had been sniffing after her for ye
ars and it had been essential to bind him to her before the imperial power became his. Subverting her purdah, before witnesses, she had allowed him to put a child in her. If it were a daughter and should one day seek to stand against her mother, Ykoriana would be able to prove the child had been conceived before her sire had been made the Gods and thus strip her of her voting rings. That was before Ykoriana came to love her, though she had vowed she would never be so weak again. A loved child was a terrible vulnerability.

  She treasured the iron rings she had demanded the Hanuses bring as proof Osidian and his lover were slain. This triumph had brought another when Suth had drawn the Wise into making a fatal error that had put them in her power. Of course they suspected her hand was behind the disappearance but, without proof, they dared not accuse her. Ykoriana had made certain no bodies would ever be found. The Wise had had no choice but to deify Molochite at an Apotheosis. The new God Emperor had inaugurated Their reign by marrying her.

  Her daughter’s breath was warm against her hand. Ykoriana stroked the little head.

  Forcing the Clave to depose Suth had not brought her the pleasure she had anticipated. Aurum she had had impeached. Struggling to save himself, the old fool had revealed to her why it was that Suth had chosen not to return from exile as soon as it had been revoked. Vennel, having failed to solve this riddle for her, had suffered for it. It was this secret that Aurum had used to control Suth during the election, expecting to wield influence over Osidian Nephron once he was God Emperor. The information had not been as valuable to her as the old fool had hoped. She had been minded only to commute his deposal to exile. She smiled, imagining his despair. Denied the heir he craved, he would waste his remaining years far from Osrakum, imprisoned in the desolation of the outer world.

  THE LIVING AND THE DEAD