The Diamond Isle d-3

by Stan Nicholls

  ‘This is all very well,’ Phoenix pronounced. ‘But what do we do about Kinsel?’

  Like the proverbial iceberg, Prince Melyobar’s court showed only a tenth of itself to the world. Not physically, but in terms of the hierarchy of functionaries, servants and labourers needed to service it. Naturally, the bottommost echelons of the pecking order consisted of menials, toiling at jobs those higher up would rather not think about, let alone undertake.

  Two such workers, holders of the rank of private in the Palace Guard Auxiliary, had one of the more onerous tasks. Their duties took them to the lowest depths of the palace, to ignored and feared zones where the court’s less salubrious business was conducted.

  This chilly dawn they walked dank corridors that were badly lit and unheated, so that the winter cold seeped through lichen-covered walls.

  ‘Just one from last night, Nechen,’ the older of the duo declared. He was brawny and grizzled.

  ‘Thank the gods for that,’ his slightly younger, marginally less grizzled and brawny companion replied. ‘I hate it when we have a heap of ’em first thing.’

  ‘There’ll be more as the day wears on, you can count on that.’ He hawked and spat. ‘Damn, but the air down here plays havoc with my tubes.’

  ‘Their number never goes down though, does it, Welst? I mean, when did we last have a day without any?’

  ‘It’s in the nature of this place. There’s bound to be a steady stream, given the Prince’s way of doing things.’

  ‘Yeah, but-’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ Welst cautioned. ‘We do as we’re told. Unless we want to end up down here ourselves. And not walking about, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind being assigned to other duties, I can tell you that,’ Nechen said. ‘This kind of work has a way of getting a man down.’

  ‘The best chance we have of that is by doing this job well.’ He gave his companion a penetrating glare. ‘And by not complaining.’

  They trudged on in silence, their footsteps echoing in the bleak stone corridors. At length they rounded a bend and came to a set of heavy doors. A gaggle of guards sat on benches beside them.

  The sentries knew the privates well, and waved them on without formality. One of the watchmen rose and took a huge bunch of keys from its hook. The doors were unlocked, emitting a throaty creak as the guard pushed them open.

  Beyond lay a further labyrinth of corridors, housing the palace’s dungeons. The turnkey led the way, and several minutes later they arrived at a particular door. A stretcher was waiting for them, propped against the wall outside.

  ‘It’s in there,’ the jailer announced. He leaned forward and undid the door, then backed off. ‘You’ll find this one’s a bit…ripe. I’ll, er, leave you to it.’ He scampered away.

  ‘As usual,’ Nechen muttered. ‘Leave it to the poor bloody infantry. Let’s get it over with, shall we?’

  Welst laid a restraining hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘Not so fast.’ He dug out a couple of grubby face masks. ‘We’re supposed to put these on, remember.’

  ‘If we must,’ Nechen sighed.

  They tied on the cloth masks, covering their mouths and noses. Welst plucked a torch from its bracket and pushed open the cell door. Even with their masks, the odour was overpowering. It was pitch black inside, so Welst held up the brand, casting light. Things scuttled into the shadows.

  ‘Well, there he is.’ He nodded at the bunk, the cell’s only piece of furniture.

  A body was sprawled face down across it, knuckles touching the floor on one side, feet on the other. They approached, crunching over rank straw.

  ‘Good clothes,’ Nechen said. ‘Must be an aristo. Wonder what the poor sod did to warrant the Prince sending him down here.’

  ‘Perhaps he used the wrong teaspoon. Like I said, ours is not to-’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘Come on, we haven’t got all day. Turn him over.’

  ‘Why me? Isn’t it your turn?’

  ‘I did it last time,’ stated Welst.

  ‘No, you didn’t. It was me yesterday, too. Why do I have to-’

  ‘Just do it. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we’re out of here.’

  Nechen sighed and rolled the corpse. ‘Gods, he’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he?’

  ‘Been lying here more than a few days, I reckon. Go and get the stretcher.’

  ‘It’s my turn for that as well, is it?’

  Welst shot him another look.

  Fuming, Nechen stumbled out of the cell. Welst watched him go, then bent to the body. Quickly, he searched the man’s clothing. All he found was a few coins, and a glamoured locket bearing the animated, smiling likeness of a woman. The locket was too risky, so he stuffed it back. Grumbling at the poor pickings, he slipped the coins into his pocket.

  ‘What was that?’ Nechen said, dragging the stretcher in.

  ‘Nothing. Just…just saying a prayer for the poor wretch.’

  ‘Really? Oh, that’s nice. I never had you down for the sentimental type, Welst.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve got hidden depths.’ He added briskly, ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’

  They lifted the body, dumped it on the stretcher and threw a filthy blanket over it. Then they manoeuvred their load through the door.

  The guards at the sentry post held their noses as they went past.

  A lengthy journey stretched before them, back along winding corridors, up and down flights of steps, through numerous doors. Yet for all the thousands who populated the palace, they met few other people.

  In a long, completely deserted corridor, dimly lit by glamour orbs, they put the stretcher down and stopped for a breather. Propped on a ledge, Welst took out his clay pipe and began thumbing dark, coarse tobacco into its bowl.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing with them up there?’ Nechen wondered.

  ‘The stiffs? Damned if I know. And I’m not sure I want to.’ He struck flint and lit the pipe, puffing acrid clouds. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll not take too obvious an interest yourself.’

  ‘It’s a rum do though, isn’t it? What with that and the damned zoo we took aboard.’

  ‘That I can sort of understand. Our betters like exotic pastimes.’

  ‘Smelly beasts that have to be fed, when they could have glamours? Makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Who can fathom the rich?’ Welst’s pipe billowed pungent fumes.

  ‘And all this going on when there’s unrest everywhere in the country.’

  ‘In that respect we’re in the best place. There’s probably not a safer billet in the world.’

  ‘Since when was Melyobar in this world?’

  ‘Ssshh. Walls have ears,’ Welst mouthed. He knocked out his pipe. ‘Come on.’

  They hefted the stretcher with a grunt and continued their journey.

  The worst part was the stairs. They had to climb seven floors just to reach what passed for ground level. Their destination was twice as far.

  At last, after much struggling and cursing, they reached their goal. It was a section given over to the sanctums and workshops of the small army of magicians serving the Prince. As one of the palace’s more sensitive areas it was well guarded, which meant another quarter of an hour spent negotiating security checks.

  Finally standing at the entrance to the chamber they sought, Welst rapped his knuckles on its oak door. Almost immediately a spy-hole slid open and they were scrutinised. The door opened and they were ushered in by a minion, who motioned to them to put down their burden and wait while he went for a superior.

  Despite having been inside many times before, Welst and Nechen never ceased to be intrigued by the activity there. The room was cavernous, with much of the floor space taken up by benches where numerous sorcerers toiled. Their work surfaces were strewn with flasks, retorts, herbs and powders, and clusters of mysterious apparatus whose function was impossible to guess. Apprentices moved among the benches, supplyi
ng their masters’ needs.

  Stacks of cages lined the walls, but too far away for whatever occupied them to be seen. There were rows of great iron vats mounted on furnace hearths, their unknown contents bubbling loudly. The entire chamber was suffused by a misty fug, and perfumed with aromas sweet and foul.

  A blue-robed adept appeared. He was young, for a sorcerer, and clean shaven. The preoccupied expression he wore could be mistaken for stern.

  Welst greeted him with a deferential dip of the head. ‘Mage Okrael, sir.’

  Nechen, always awkward in the presence of his elders, made do with a slipshod salute.

  The sorcerer acknowledged them with a distracted nod, his eyes on the stretcher. ‘Do you know how this one met his end?’ he asked, kneeling to pull back the blanket.

  ‘Nobody said, sir,’ Welst replied.

  ‘Very well. Bring him over here.’

  They lifted the stretcher and followed him, weaving through the bustle. No one took much notice. Okrael led them to a table and they deposited the body on it. The wizard began a cursory examination.

  ‘No obvious signs of disease,’ he muttered. ‘I’d say he died of brutality and simple neglect. Poor devil.’ He looked troubled.

  ‘Then he’ll be fitting your purposes, sir?’ Nechen ventured.

  ‘Probably not. But that isn’t really your concern, is it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all.’

  ‘Sir.’

  They turned and left, taking the stretcher with them while the sorcerer beckoned a couple of novices to strip the body.

  Outside, Welst said, ‘That mage needs to harden his attitudes a bit.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Doesn’t do to get too involved with the deceased. Not in this place.’

  ‘Where to now, Welst?’

  ‘Back down. Chances are there’ll be another for us by now.’

  Making their way to the inevitable staircase, they were passed by four auxiliaries pushing a large open cart containing a dead camel.

  One of the men knew them. ‘The Prince’s going to be none too pleased about this,’ he remarked in an undertone as they went by.

  The detail pushed their cart towards the same door Nechen and Welst had just come out of.

  ‘See?’ Nechen said. ‘Glamours don’t peg out like that.’

  ‘They do if you run out of coin,’ Welst reminded him.

  Their return trip took them close to the Prince’s quarters, the most heavily defended section of the palace. Suspicious glances and twitchy sword hands discouraged lingering, and Welst and Nechen hurried on with their descent.

  Beyond the hard-faced sentries and watchful sorcerers, through the steel gates and glamoured booby-traps, lay Melyobar’s private chambers. Behind a particular reinforced door, protected by enchanted locks, rested the not quite dead, not quite living body of King Narbetton. Beside the bed, his son sat stiffly.

  ‘And now they tell me this Talgorian’s coming here,’ the Prince complained. ‘The Ambassador, father. Yes, him. Was I consulted? Did anyone ask my permission? No. Nobody listens to me. Anybody would think…What? I have no idea why he’s coming. No one’s had the courtesy to tell me. Yes, it is absolutely outrageous. What’s that?’

  He listened, head tilted, fingers on temples.

  ‘I’m not sure I agree, father. My inclination is simply to refuse him entry. It’s not as though there’s any official business that…Why should I let it go ahead? I understand the need for caution, but…Hmm? Ah, yes. I see.’

  Melyobar pondered the King’s counsel. ‘You’re right,’ he decided. ‘He can come. Whether he leaves is another matter. And as you say, soon that won’t matter. Nothing will.’ He bent to listen again. ‘Yes, very close. But I take your point. The sooner it gets underway, the better.’

  He rose. ‘Thank you, father. As ever, your guidance has proved most valuable. Pardon? Yes, of course I’ll keep you informed.’

  The Prince backed away respectfully, then turned and left the room.

  On exiting, his entourage fell in. Eight hand-picked bodyguards, a personal secretary, a manservant, a scribe, a senior mage, the mage’s apprentice, a healer, two message-carriers, and a pair of baton-wielding vanguards to ensure his way was clear. The usual complement of personnel.

  He stated his destination and the mob moved off with him cocooned inside.

  It didn’t take them long to arrive at the sorcerers’ quarters. As they approached the very door Welst and Nechen had used earlier, it opened and the sorcerer Okrael stepped out. Seeing the procession bearing down immobilised him, but he had the presence of mind to bow.

  ‘Just the man,’ Melyobar puffed, winded from the short trip. He let his entourage scrutinise the wizard for imposture, then waved them aside.

  ‘Sire,’ Okrael greeted him uneasily.

  ‘How goes the work? Are we on schedule?’

  ‘It’s progressing well, Majesty. Only…’

  ‘Yes? There are no hold-ups, I hope?’

  ‘No, sire. It’s just that…’

  ‘Spit it out, man!’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I mean, sire, it presents a danger to everyone, not just whichever enemy Your Highness may choose to turn it on.’

  ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve dared to question the workings of the project, is it…’ The Prince blanked.

  ‘Okrael, sire.’

  ‘…is it, Okrael?’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to question anything, Highness. My only concern is the safety of our own people.’

  ‘Do you presume to think I’m unconcerned about the well-being of my subjects?’

  ‘No, sire, of course not.’

  ‘Don’t force me to question your loyalty, wizard. You’re a very small cog in the wheel I have turning here. It’ll spin as well without you.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’ The colour had gone out of Okrael’s face.

  ‘There’s no reason why what you’re creating shouldn’t be effective?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And the work is going well, you say?’

  ‘There have been no hitches, sire.’

  ‘Good. Then there shouldn’t be a problem about speeding up the timetable.’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘You adepts have spent far too long on this. I’m minded to set a date for deploying your handiwork.’

  ‘May I ask when, Your Majesty?’

  ‘I’m thinking that around the time of the new moon would be suitable.’

  ‘That’s…just a few weeks, sire.’

  ‘Yes.’ Melyobar’s face cracked into a gleeful grin. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  19

  The sun hadn’t risen high enough to burn off the mist clinging to the ocean.

  Despite the hour, the quayside was buzzing with activity. Three ships were at anchor; one was the packet that had brought Caldason to the Diamond Isle, the others were similar sized vessels. A line of men chained provisions to them.

  Further along the quay, five people were gathered: Caldason, Serrah, Kutch, Darrok and Pallidea.

  ‘Do you really think this is going to work?’ Serrah said.

  ‘It should,’ Darrok replied. ‘It cost me a small fortune.’

  ‘Then it’s good of you to contribute it.’

  ‘I was keeping it for emergencies. I guess that’s what we can call this.’

  ‘How will it know where to go?’ Caldason wondered. ‘The Resistance are hardly going to be using the same hideouts, are they?’

  ‘It’ll be attuned to a person, not a place. As I said, it’s a top-quality glamour.’

  ‘Who’s it going to search for? Karr?’

  ‘With the best will in the world, he wasn’t in good health when we last saw him. So I thought we’d go for someone younger, fitter; and in a position to pass on the message. Quinn Disgleirio seemed a good choice.’

  Caldason nodded. ‘Makes s
ense.’

  ‘Ironic, though,’ smiled Darrok.

  ‘Why?’ Serrah asked.

  ‘I don’t think Disgleirio’s overly fond of me.’

  ‘He’s a traditionalist,’ Caldason explained. ‘Not the kind to approve of somebody with a reputation like yours.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first to think ill of me. It goes with the territory.’

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ Serrah said.

  ‘Phoenix. This isn’t the kind of glamour anybody can prime. It needs a sorcerer.’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ Kutch volunteered. ‘He was finishing off his studies when I saw him earlier.’

  ‘Well, I wish he’d get a move on.’ Darrok shivered. ‘It’s damn cold out here.’

  ‘You won’t freeze,’ Caldason told him. ‘Here he comes.’

  A wagon arrived, depositing Phoenix. He swept up to them with the vigour of a much younger man, robes whipping in the wind.

  ‘You have it?’ he said without preamble.

  ‘Here.’ Darrok held out a cube on the palm of his hand. The cube was reddish, and made of no easily recognisable material, though it most closely resembled a soft wood. Its surfaces were inscribed with intricate symbols.

  Phoenix took it and cupped it in his hands, as if warming wax. When he opened his hands, it was malleable. He produced a thin black strand and began gently working it into the softened material.

  ‘What’s that?’ Caldason said.

  ‘A lock of Disgleirio’s hair,’ the sorcerer replied.

  ‘That was something you just happened to have, was it?’

  ‘I’ve quite a collection of body-sheddings from Resistance members-hair, nail clippings, flakes of skin-against an eventuality like this. It ensures the glamour homes in on the right target. I can see what you’re thinking, Reeth. Don’t worry; I haven’t got anything of you filed away.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind…’

  They fell silent while Phoenix continued with his preparations. Once he had the strand of hair embedded, he conjured a spell with hand gestures and a short bout of chanting.

  ‘It’s ready,’ he said, holding up the cube between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘You’ve lodged the message?’ Darrok asked.