The Diamond Isle d-3

by Stan Nicholls

None of that stopped Andar Talgorian cursing the Prince. Gaining entrance to the palace was difficult enough at the best of times. Getting aboard when the elements raged, in the dark, was nightmarish.

  The envoy was accompanied by a detachment of hand-picked empire troopers. He had agonised about its size, but in the end decided that Melyobar’s arrest would best be achieved by twenty experienced men. He also brought an approved sorcerer along, naturally. A larger company would have aroused suspicions and possible hostility. This more modest number could be passed off as a bodyguard for troubled times.

  In any event, he intended the task to be carried out quickly and efficiently. He even dared to hope that many in the Prince’s court would be relieved to see him removed, and support the empire’s edict. However, despite sending a message beforehand requesting an audience as a matter of urgency, citing major affairs of state, he was kept waiting. The Ambassador chided himself for thinking Melyobar would have responded rationally. He should have insisted on an immediate audience, or even had his men force their way in. Instead he clung to his diplomatic instincts. He had the foolish idea that his mission could be realised civilly, with the Prince giving way to the higher authority Talgorian represented.

  Now Talgorian was ensconced in an anteroom bordering the royal quarters while, at his hosts’ insistence, his troopers loitered in the humbler surroundings of a nearby guardroom. He paced the opulent chamber, on the verge of acting. Then something caught his eye and he stopped.

  A previously hidden door in a far corner was edging open. Fearing some kind of treachery, Talgorian tensed.

  A young man furtively entered. He wore the distinctive robes of a sorcerer, specifically a version that identified him as being in the service of the sovereign. He looked young for a ranking sorcerer, and unlike most of his brethren, he was clean-shaven.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, holding up his hands placatingly, ‘I’m not here to harm you.’

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘My name is Okrael. I’m a one of the palace’s sorcerers. In fact, we’ve met before. I think we even exchanged a few words.’

  ‘You do look familiar. But why the cloak-and-dagger tactics?’

  ‘I need to speak with you, Ambassador.’

  ‘There are official channels. If you’d care to get in touch with-’

  ‘I have to speak to you now.’

  ‘This isn’t an ideal time. I’m expecting to be called in to the Prince at any moment.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I need to talk to you now, before you see His Royal Highness. I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  The young wizard looked hesitant. ‘I’m taking a hell of a risk here…Can I trust you? Can you be relied on to do something?’

  ‘About what?’

  Okrael nervously scanned the room. ‘The Prince.’

  Talgorian wondered if he should explain that that was why he was here. But he thought it best to be cautious. ‘What of him?’ he said; adding, ‘Anything you say will be treated as privileged. You can trust me.’

  ‘I’ve no choice, I suppose. But then, what’s there to lose? If he goes ahead with his scheme we’ll all be dead anyway.’ Okrael looked pale and sick.

  ‘I know that his Majesty’s methods can sometimes seem a little draconian, but-’

  ‘No, no, no. I’m not talking about the small, everyday cruelties; I’m referring to something far more profound.’

  Talgorian glanced up at the ceiling and the several objects silently hovering there. ‘Is this the most appropriate time and place for such a discussion?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve temporarily immobilised the spy glamours. We can talk freely. But not for long.’

  It occurred to Talgorian that this was all an elaborate plot to trick him into saying something incriminating.

  As though he’d read his mind, Okrael said, ‘If you’re worried that this is some kind of ploy, since when did Melyobar bother with trifles like evidence?’

  ‘Are you implying that His Majesty would employ summary justice in the case of someone like me? I am Gath Tampoor’s Imperial Ambassador, after all.’ He found it hard saying this without a slight swelling of the chest.

  ‘Do you really think that would sway him in any way if he wanted your throat cut?’

  The self-evident truth of that deflated the Envoy somewhat. ‘All right, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But I hope you’re not wasting my time.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep it brief. The Prince has had us working on a special project for months now. A project with only one objective: mass murder.’

  ‘But he has no legions under his command, no army to wreak destruction. There’s no more than his palace guard, essentially. How are they to undertake a slaughter?’

  ‘You’re thinking conventionally. Melyobar has no intention of killing by force of arms.’

  ‘Then how? Magic?’

  ‘Magic’s played its part. But you might say that what he’s really employing is nature.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘A great deal of effort’s been put into making this place even more independent of the outside world than it already is. We’ve not only taken on enough supplies to feed a city, we also have things the Prince wants preserved.’

  ‘Preserved?’

  ‘Animals, for example. Beasts of all kinds in mating pairs. The lower levels are crammed with pens and cages. It’s a zoo down there.’

  ‘They’re just diversions, surely? For His Highness’s entertainment.’

  ‘No. They’re not there for his edification; he has them because he wants them to survive. To populate a new world.’

  ‘How could he possibly-’

  ‘It’s all about his obsession with death, of course. Putting one over on his old adversary. The way Melyobar reasons is, what better way to find a man hiding in a forest than to burn down the trees?’

  ‘You’re saying he plans destruction, but by what means?’

  ‘He’s had us collecting corpses, putrefying flesh, all manner of vile, corrupt things. The aim was to identify those humours that breed in filth and bring sickness, and having isolated them, to produce a distillation of pestilences. The plan is a cleansing of the world through the spread of plague. He claims his dead father gave him the idea.’

  ‘Could it work?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’ve arrived at a particularly virulent strain of the malady. We know it works; it’s been tested on live subjects.’

  ‘It’s Melyobar’s objective to introduce this…essence into the world?’

  ‘He favours scattering it with the catapults you’d have seen arrayed on the battlements. Though in truth it could just as easily be introduced into wells or rivers, or in any number of other ways. Simply forcing people to drink the distillate and sending them out contaminated would spread the disease.’

  ‘And the result would be…?’

  ‘With no known protection against the strain, and no cure, numerous fatalities. Perhaps even the world denuded of human life, as Melyobar dreams. Purged of all, that is, except him, his servants and obsequious courtiers.’

  ‘All the better to see Death.’

  ‘Yes. At last, there’d be no hiding place for the Prince’s enemy.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘I didn’t become a sorcerer to have a hand in massacring my own people. It has to be stopped. Few outsiders come here, and you’re the only one of late with any power, Ambassador, and not in his thrall. At least I hope so.’

  Talgorian was reeling. Okrael’s story had an awful ring of plausibility. ‘As it happens,’ the Envoy said, ‘our aims regarding the Prince aren’t dissimilar. I’m here to bring about changes.’

  ‘Then I’m more relieved than I can say. But you have to hurry. The quintessence is almost ready.’

  ‘You said magic had a part in this. I don’t see where.’

  ‘The essence is unstable. Extremes of heat or cold can neutrali
se its virulence. Magic binds it, keeps it sure.’

  ‘You’re a sorcerer. Can’t you interfere with that binding?’

  ‘I’m far from being the only one working on this, and certainly not the most senior. One or two of my brotherhood are sympathetic, but most are too frightened to express an opinion. I don’t know who’s against me or with me. I can’t do more than I’m doing, Ambassador. Now it’s down to you.’

  ‘Very well. Before the day’s out, things are going to be very different, Okrael, I can assure you of that.’

  They made their farewells, promising to talk again later, under a new regime. Then the wizard slipped away, leaving Talgorian to mull things over.

  A long time seemed to pass before they came to fetch him, though in reality the minutes elapsed were barely into double figures. He was guided by a pair of liveried servants, who true to form remained aloof.

  He was surprised to find that he wasn’t taken to the throne room, where audiences usually took place. Instead, he was escorted up flights of stairs to a much higher level. He asked his guides what was going on, but they remained noncommittal. His anxiety built, and he found himself nervously fingering the document he had in his pocket.

  Finally they reached what Talgorian thought of as the wheelhouse; the area from which the palace’s movement was controlled. The spacious room was dominated by a large panoramic window that occupied almost all of three sides. Its view was one of nearly complete murk, patterned with swirling snowflakes. The glamour orbs that lit the space had been dimmed to improve visibility.

  There were a number of people present, mostly the wizard crew, along with guards and various servants. It was very much the way it had looked the only other time Talgorian had been there.

  Melyobar sat on a throne-like chair set higher than any other, not far from the wheel that directed the massive palace’s movements. He was addressing an individual Talgorian recognised as the Captain. The Ambassador caught only the end of their exchange, but apparently the Captain had objected to the route the travelling court was about to take.

  ‘Enough!’ the Prince exclaimed. ‘I’ve no interest in your snivelling misgivings! We’re following a course through the great lakes area, and that’s an end to it. Unless you want to have your loyalty put to the question.’

  The man grovelled, apologised and withdrew crushed. No one else seemed in the least interested in his humiliation, an indication of how common such occurrences were.

  Only then did the Prince notice Talgorian. ‘Ah, the Ambassador has arrived,’ he announced loudly. ‘Come, step forward. Let’s not delay the progress of affairs of state.’

  The Envoy did as he was bidden, thinking that perhaps the monarch was a little sharper than usual. ‘Greetings, Your Highness. I trust I find you well.’

  The Prince ignored the banality. ‘And what brings you to court with such urgency?’

  ‘These are difficult times, Your Highness. As you’ll be aware, your nation and mine are engaged in a military mission of great importance.’

  ‘Are we?’ A look of befuddlement fleetingly occupied the Prince’s face.

  It was something Talgorian often found when talking to Melyobar about the wider world, and it gave him brief comfort. ‘Indeed. A Gath Tampoor fleet, including representatives of our Bhealfan allies, is dealing with an enclave of rebels as we speak.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘As such, Highness, nothing at all. I merely draw your attention to events in order to give my succeeding statements a relevant context.’

  ‘We’re at war again. What’s so different about it this time?’

  Was his attitude a mite more aggressive than usual? Incisive, even?

  ‘It’s not so much a matter of difference, sire. I mention it only in order to illustrate the great burden our dear Empress shoulders at such times, and to underline the difficulty of the decision she has had to make.’

  ‘Decision?’

  Talgorian slipped out the document he’d been harbouring, and unfurled it. ‘I think it would be best, Highness, if I were to read you the edict drafted by Her Imperial Majesty’s advisers.’ He looked about and saw that furtive eyes were on them. ‘Bearing in mind that this refers to matters of a delicate constitutional nature, perhaps Your Highness would prefer to be informed of its contents in private?’

  ‘No,’ Melyobar responded bluntly.

  ‘Very well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In accordance with the powers invested in me by the relevant authorities, I, Andar Talgorian, Imperial Ambassador to the Royal Bhealfan Court, do hereby submit an official proclamation relieving Prince Melyobar of his position as-’

  ‘As I suspected!’ the Prince roared. ‘Treachery!’

  ‘This is a situation I’m sure we can reasonably discuss and-’

  ‘Guards!’ Melyobar yelled. ‘Guards!’

  Men rushed forward with swords drawn and seized the Envoy.

  ‘Unhand me!’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘Their loyalty lies with me,’ Melyobar told him. ‘Though I wish I could say the same for all my subjects.’ He raised an arm and clicked his fingers.

  The signal brought in a group of guardsmen shoving a bound prisoner, and Talgorian’s heart sank.

  Okrael could barely walk. His face was bruised and bloody.

  ‘Your co-conspirator,’ Melyobar announced.

  ‘No,’ Talgorian replied. ‘There’s no plot, only the writ of higher authority. I act under orders, Your Highness. I’m just the deliverer of my superior’s wishes.’

  ‘You must think I’m very stupid,’ the Prince snorted.

  ‘I’m not here alone. I have an escort of-’

  ‘Your cohorts are in no position to help you. Did you really think I’d allow a band of assassins to wander loose in my palace?’

  ‘Assassins? Your Highness, if those troopers have come to any harm, Her Imperial Majesty will be extremely displeased. Likewise this man.’ He nodded towards Okrael, who blinked back through unfocused eyes. ‘He may have evidence germane to my mission, and as such should be afforded the empire’s protection.’

  ‘So you do admit you’re in this together.’

  With an icy fist clutching at his innards, Talgorian could see that he was getting nowhere. ‘Please be aware, Highness,’ he said, playing his last card, ‘that I have the backing of the Empress herself.’

  ‘The backing of my enemy, more likely! Death’s agent!’

  ‘This is absurd, sire! You’re making a terrible mistake!’

  The Prince glared at him malignly. ‘We’ll see how much of a mistake I’m making when torture extracts the truth. Take them to the cells!’

  It was still snowing on the Diamond Isle, too, albeit less fiercely.

  Vivid eruptions and the flicker of magical beams lit up the night. On the redoubt’s parapet, Serrah and Caldason gazed towards the sea. They could just make out a multitude of masts, shrouded in white canvas.

  ‘I don’t care what your parentage is, Reeth,’ Serrah said. ‘It’s you I love. Everything else is background chatter.’

  ‘Look at it from my point of view.’ He gestured in frustration. ‘I’m proud of being a Qalochian, but ashamed of my Founder blood. That Founder heritage has effected me in all sorts of disturbing ways. My rages are obviously due to it; the two opposing sides of my nature are at war, I see that now. And maybe there are other little gifts I don’t even know about yet.’

  ‘But if it hadn’t been for the life extension the blood gave you, you’d be an old man now. Or quite possibly dead. We would never have met.’

  ‘I’ve thought about the irony of that a lot, Serrah, believe me. I’ve also worried about the great age difference between us.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again, Reeth. It’s not a problem for me; it shouldn’t be for you either. Let’s just be grateful that fate brought us together, shall we?’

  ‘You’re right. But that’s kind of ironic too, isn’t it? Finding
each other at a time when future prospects hardly look bright. Assuming we have any future prospects.’

  Serrah looked at him meaningfully. ‘We have each other and we have the moment. That’s more than a lot of people get. Look, forget us for a minute and think about the bigger picture. What did you make of what Praltor said about the Founders surviving?’

  ‘It occurred to me to wonder if it was some kind of mistake, or if he was imagining it all.’

  ‘Reeth. I know it’s hard to take, but don’t go into denial over this. It wasn’t Praltor’s opinion, it was from the Source. He couldn’t fake that.’

  ‘I know. As you said, it’s not easy discovering certain things about yourself.’

  ‘Look on the bright side. It’s not every day you find out you’ve got such influential relatives.’

  Caldason had to smile.

  They kissed.

  A chorus of shouts went up. The lookouts stationed on the battlements were sounding an alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ Serrah said.

  ‘Look.’ He pointed.

  A wagon was heading for the redoubt, accompanied by a handful of riders. The group rode hell for leather.

  Serrah had a spy tube. ‘Reeth! It’s Dulian and Quinn.’

  They were being pursued. Several dozen mounted soldiers were after them, their horses huffing white clouds in the chill air.

  One or two of the redoubt’s sentries began unleashing arrows. Serrah and Caldason ran for the stairs, and went down them in a breakneck clatter.

  When they reached ground level they found the gates had already been opened. Defenders were roaring encouragement at the approaching wagon, and adding to the rain of arrows zeroing in on its pursuers. The latter had already slowed, cautious enough not to get too close to the fortress.

  As the wagon and its smattering of outriders neared safety, there was another development. A body of soldiers emerged from the treeline, their uniforms grey against the night’s blackness.

  ‘How many, do you think?’ Caldason asked.

  ‘Forty or fifty, maybe more. Shit, Reeth, they’ve got to us already. The island must be overrun.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s a basic tactic to send in advance groups of shock troopers. These are probably pathfinders. Small in number but veterans.’