The Diamond Isle d-3

by Stan Nicholls

  ‘Your sedition. Your conspiring with enemies of my rule.’

  ‘Those charges, if that’s officially what they are, Your Majesty, are patently absurd. I’ve not been seditious and I don’t associate with the enemies of authority.’

  ‘Well, of course you’d be inclined to lie about it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I take great exception to that slight, Your Majesty. And if I may say so, I think this whole episode is an appalling way to treat an Imperial Ambassador. I intend complaining to the Empress about it in the strongest possible terms.’

  ‘Complaining to my arch-enemy, more like. Complaining to…’ He almost always lowered his voice when referring to death. ‘…Him. Do you deny it?’

  ‘Yes! That is, what exactly am I denying, sire?’

  ‘Your attempts to confuse this hearing are typical of the methods employed by your sort.’

  ‘Hearing? In what way does this represent a properly constituted legal tribunal, my lord?’

  ‘It’s officially constituted as far as the rules of my court are concerned.’

  In other words the Prince was making it up as he went along, Talgorian thought. ‘If this is a form of trial, then I respectfully request the benefit of legal representation.’

  ‘There’s no need. I afford you something much better than that.’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘You’re allowed to talk for yourself. Who’s more qualified to put your case?’

  ‘What case? How can I defend myself when I’m unaware of the exact nature of the offences I’m supposed to have committed?’

  ‘So you admit you have no case. That won’t go well for you.’

  Talgorian wanted to scream. Instead he chose to speak as though to a child, which had worked in the past. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, Your Highness. If it were possible for you to graciously inform me, perhaps I could then assist Your Highness.’

  The Prince lifted a sheet of vellum from his lap and spent an inordinate amount of time studying it. At length he said, ‘It amounts to treason.’

  ‘But I’m not even a Bhealfan subject!’

  ‘Ah, and neither is he. So you’re making the further admission that like my enemy you’re not a Bhealfan subject. This is all starting to sound rather damning, isn’t it?’

  The Ambassador took a steadying breath. ‘You mentioned conspiracy, Majesty. Would you be kind enough to outline the nature of that charge?’

  ‘You’re accused of conspiring against me, and by extension, the people of Bhealfa.’

  ‘If that’s the basis of the accusation against me, sire, then I’m forced to draw to your attention the plot which you yourself are said to have instigated. A plot whose aim is to exterminate a large number of Your Majesty’s own subjects. Is that not a conspiracy against the people of Bhealfa?’

  ‘You say plot, I say project. I’m afraid your own terminology betrays you. For who would describe a project as a plot unless they saw themselves as a victim of it? And to see yourself as a victim must mean that you stand as an enemy of this administration. Indeed, the very fact that you have knowledge of the project indicates an element of espionage, and should constitute another charge against you. So consider yourself lucky on that count.’ He slumped back in his throne, evidently pleased with his display of superior logic. ‘Do you have anything to say before judgement’s passed?’ he added.

  ‘I-’

  ‘Suit yourself. Having considered the evidence in some detail, there can be only one verdict on these grave charges: guilty. And offences of such gravity can attract only one sentence: that you be hanged by the neck until dead. And further, that your remains be contributed towards manufacture of the essence I’ll be employing to cleanse the land.’

  Shocked as he was, what really lodged in Talgorian’s mind was that he had been given a coat and gloves so he wouldn’t feel discomfort at his execution.

  ‘Is there a plea for mercy?’ the Prince asked. ‘Would the condemned man care to confess his guilt, supply details of the conspiracy and throw himself upon our mercy?’

  ‘This is an outrage!’ the Envoy yelled, resorting to the diplomat’s trump card, indignation. ‘The Empress herself shall hear of it!’

  ‘I see no reason to delay the sentence,’ Melyobar decided. ‘But it’s a pity really, because you’ll miss seeing the launch of the project, which starts just as soon as this weather clears. Guards!’

  Talgorian, voicing objections, was prodded towards the scaffold.

  The Prince gestured to an official standing by a door leading into the palace. ‘I’m very pleased to say,’ he announced to those present, ‘that on the occasion of this execution we are honoured to have with us our inspiration, our leading exemplar of moral rectitude, the Grandfather of the Nation and originator of the project we’re soon to see underway. Please welcome my father, King Narbetton.’

  To smatterings of polite applause, muffled by gloves, a small procession made its way out of the open door. At first sight it appeared to be a funeral, an observation that sent a chill up Talgorian’s spine. In fact, technically the six uniformed bearers were carrying a glass-fronted cabinet, not a coffin. It contained the comatose body of the not-so-late monarch, dressed in finery and clutching a grand broadsword. His cabinet was manhandled to an upright position and made secure with props, so that he appeared to be standing, albeit on a lower level than his son.

  Talgorian was being hustled to his own stage, for a performance he’d rather not give. His wrists were bound, which meant removing the gloves, and his hands immediately began turning blue. They positioned him beneath the gibbet, just next to the trapdoor that would open and cause his neck to snap. The trap was as big as a small barn door, indicating that the scaffold was used for mass hangings.

  Somebody slipped the noose over his head, leaving it lightly about his neck. At least it wasn’t snowing so heavily.

  All they needed now was for the Lord High Executioner to put in an appearance. His absence caused amusement among Talgorian’s guards, prompting whispered jokes about how Melyobar had probably had the hangman executed. Jests Talgorian considered in poor taste, under the circumstances, though he had no argument with the executioner being late.

  From his raised position on the gallows he could look over the ramparts to the wintry landscape beyond. Turning his head slightly, he saw the other levitated palaces that formed Melyobar’s court. They followed the royal residence in a well established pecking order, travelling single file and snow-caked, looking like an enormous string of pearls.

  The Prince and his courtiers were growing restless waiting for the hangman. Talgorian’s worry was that Melyobar would lose patience and order a lowly soldier to do the job. If he was to be hanged, the Ambassador’s position required the attentions of no less than the Lord High Executioner himself. He didn’t want to lose face over this.

  Standing on his windy perch, surveying a view the others couldn’t see as easily, the Envoy noticed something strange. Ahead, at the mouth of the next valley, a small town clustered, just visible in the greyness because of its lights. As he watched, those lights flickered in unison. Not individually or in segments, which might be explicable, but all of them at the same time. He couldn’t imagine why the town’s entire glamoured lighting should gutter simultaneously. Then it happened again, twice in quick succession. The fourth time, all the lights stayed out.

  His guards hadn’t noticed. They were stamping their feet and huffing into their hands. Going by their resentful glances, they were more anxious to see the executioner than he was.

  The officials around Melyobar’s throne conferred in groups. Messengers were dispatched.

  He looked to the town. There were lights again, but they were different. They flashed, pulsed and shimmered, and they were multicoloured. Some took the form of brief, intense bursts. Perhaps a celebration was taking place. A melancholy thought for a man waiting to be hanged.

  Then he thought he saw movement on the mountain slopes near the
town. It was hard to be sure, but it looked like a large body of snow sliding earthward. An avalanche?

  Another door opened on the battlements. A man hurried to the Prince at speed. He wore the robes that marked him as one of the sorcerer elite responsible for controlling the palace’s movements. He bowed low to Melyobar, then began an animated discourse.

  All the palace lights flickered. The lights on the other palaces did the same, and in unison, like the distant town.

  An odd noise greeted this unprecedented event. It sounded like the buzz of an enormous swarm of insects. In fact, it was a mass murmur; the startled outpourings of the many people on and about the palace, and the ones following. As the floating buildings made no noise, and the snow-blanketed day was equally silent, it was quite possible to hear such things. People hailing each other from one passing palace to another, using just their lungs, was not uncommon, though there were those who considered it vulgar. The misbehaviour of the lights caused a definite stir among Melyobar’s entourage. Much coming and going ensued, and the sorcerer who had briefed Melyobar left even faster than he had arrived. Watching all this, Talgorian was afraid they’d forgotten him. He spiked that thought. On balance, he was more afraid they hadn’t.

  When the lights flickered, Melyobar’s personal bodyguards naturally moved closer to him. The Prince’s instinct was to move closer to his father.

  Glamour-heated, Narbetton’s cabinet was pleasant to the touch on a winter’s day. Melyobar embraced it, and began an edgy, whispered dialogue with the old King.

  Some of the courtiers went to the battlements and looked down on the army of camp followers. Things seemed to be out of the ordinary there, too. There were more lights than there should have been, many of them overly busy, and some kind of turmoil was evident. Sounds accompanied all this. They drifted up as pure clamour, but there were higher-pitched, faintly distressing chords woven in. The courtiers took to exchanging anxious looks.

  ‘Father says it’s all right!’ the Prince reported. ‘It’s just a little glitch in the magic, due to…the bad weather,’ he ended weakly.

  The entire palace lurched. It took a drop of perhaps a second’s duration, though it felt much longer. Stomachs turned. Breaking glass could be heard, and loud curses. People screamed.

  ‘Father thinks it might be best if we were to bring the palace down to as near the ground as possible,’ the Prince announced. ‘Not that there’s any danger, of course. I’m issuing an order to that effect.’ A lithe messenger sped off with it as he spoke.

  A full half minute passed before the next scare. Another tremor ran through the palace. This time the effect was more violent, with the structure not just descending sharply, as it had before, but drifting alarmingly off-course as well. The sheer wall of the mountain on their right loomed uncomfortably close.

  The other palaces had similar problems. Several dropped in height appreciably. One was spinning, apparently uncontrollably. Small explosions blossomed on their surfaces, dislodging debris, and in one case, a balcony.

  On the royal palace, the mood was one of barely suppressed panic. One of the military brass in the crowd milling about the Prince remarked, ‘This is a fine time for the executioner to turn up.’

  Melyobar caught the remark, and followed the officer’s gaze. Tiers of stone walkways lined the side of the palace above the battlements. On the lowest there was a figure. It somehow gave the impression of masculinity, although there were no obvious signs. He was tall and slender, and dressed entirely in black. The mantle he wore covered him completely. His hood was up, and it was impossible to see his face. His hands were the only visible part of him. They were strikingly pale and long-fingered. Some might say skeletal.

  The figure didn’t move. He just stood there, looking down at the Prince.

  In many respects his demeanour conformed to the image of an executioner, dressed for anonymity and come to earn his coin.

  For Melyobar, there was another, more dreadful possibility.

  He pressed himself to his father’s cabinet, their faces inches apart. ‘A fine time for the executioner, father, is that it? Or the perfect time to foil our plan?’ His breath misted the glass.

  The palace swung alarmingly. It began unsteadily revolving on its axis, looking for all the world like a demented children’s fairground ride. Columns, statues and strips of filigree dislodged and dropped away. One of the catapults broke its restraints and rolled across the battlements, scattering everyone in its path and crashing into the restraining wall, before beginning the return journey as the palace started to tilt in the opposite direction.

  Hysteria broke out. People ran in all directions, aimless, screaming and shouting. The few trying to maintain order were overrun by the panicked majority. Cracks rippled through floors and walls.

  The other floating palaces were in just as much trouble. Towers crumbled and causeways collapsed. Fires erupted. Several of the manors bumped each other, the jolting impacts breaking a thousand windows and fracturing their marble facades. Two collided head on with a sound like thunder.

  Terror held sway. Giving in to irrationality, or simple desperation, many on the royal palace had deserted the battlements and fled indoors. None, not even his personal guard, had elected to stay with or protect their prince.

  ‘Father?’ he whispered, hugging the cabinet. ‘Father? What do I do?’ He listened attentively, and at last said only, ‘Oh, yes.’

  The Prince again lifted his gaze to the parapet where the figure had stood. He saw what he expected.

  Melyobar returned his attention to the cabinet and his father’s severe countenance. ‘Look, daddy, look. Watch me. Watch me, father.’ He smiled. ‘Are you ready? Watch me now. We…all…fall…down!’

  Magic deserted them.

  The distance to the ground was not that great, being equivalent to a moderate cliff face, or even some of the remarkably tall trees found in tropical regions. But height is irrelevant when plummeting objects weigh untold thousands of tons, and the locality over which the court travelled was not without bearing.

  The royal palace and its attendant chateaux, mansions and citadels dropped like a handful of pebbles released by a bored god. They came down in a region dominated by lakes. Lakes much deeper than wide, and very wide indeed.

  Not all of the buildings fell on iced-over lakes. Several came to grief on marshes and farmland, and in one case, a road. But that wasn’t the fate of the majority, including Melyobar’s palace. They smashed through ice, breaking up on impact or plunging into the freezing water whole. As they sank, the increasing pressure stove in windows and doors, and a deluge invaded their warrens of corridors, their staterooms, grand apartments and auditoria.

  The lake was greedy. It swallowed everything. Or almost. Melyobar came to himself in the murderously cold water. An object nudged him. It was King Narbetton’s glass sepulchre, floating serenely by. The look of inscrutability on his father’s face was the last thing the Prince saw before the water took him.

  A head broke the surface.

  Andar Talgorian took great gulps of air, his lungs burning. He was so numb from the cold that he couldn’t feel his body except as pain. Somehow, the bonds tying his wrists had broken.

  He didn’t imagine surviving for more than a couple of minutes in this cold. The irony of escaping death twice in succession, only to fall at the last hurdle, was not lost on him. Perhaps the gods were set on him dying.

  It was getting harder to keep afloat, or even to think straight. His stamina was draining away, and his limbs were growing weaker. The cold was beyond cold, and seeping into his very bones. What he found amazing was that the equivalent of a sizeable town had just dropped into the lake and you wouldn’t know it. He couldn’t see anyone or anything else.

  Then he heard a sound. Or thought he did; his ears might have been cut off for all the feeling he had in them. There it was again. A voice. Correction, voices. Shouting. He saw nothing the way he was facing. So laboriously, painfully, he turned himsel
f about.

  Something was coming towards him. He couldn’t make out what it was. As it got nearer it began to look like two figures walking on the water. Crouching, more like, the closer they got. They were calling and waving. They hauled him out. He lay gasping on their makeshift raft, the hangman’s rope still about his neck. One of his rescuers put a pocket flask to his lips. The fiery alcohol brought back some feeling as it burned its way through his system. As his senses returned, he realised that the sodden clothes the two men wore were uniforms.

  ‘Nechen and Welst, Palace Guard Auxiliary,’ one of them said. ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Thank…you,’ Talgorian managed.

  ‘Glad to share our good fortune, sir,’ the other told him. ‘Why, if it hadn’t been for this piece of wreckage, we wouldn’t be here ourselves.’

  Talgorian focused on the slab of wood supporting them. It was the trapdoor from the gallows.

  Many stories were told about the day destruction swept the empires and their many protectorates. Some would become legends.

  One concerned a notorious pirate chief who threw in his lot with the empires against the fledgling rebel state.

  It was said that on that fateful day a man came seeking an accounting with the pirate, a man terribly wronged and ill-treated by him. He came not by sea, but through the air, riding a wondrous flying disc. Alone he overcame the pirate’s band, raining down magic from above that blasted and seared, until at last only the pirate captain himself stood against him.

  The release of the magic caused great convulsions, in many ways. One was uproar in the balance of nature. Many disasters were triggered, and there were earthquakes as the world accommodated itself to the loss. Where these happened at sea, their offspring was tidal waves.

  As the pirate and his foe battled to the death, a cluster of breakers as tall as mountains swept their way. They crushed the buccaneer’s armada, sinking every ship bar his. It was taken by the biggest wave and flung into a portside hamlet on the Diamond Isle, giving the pirate the island he coveted, though not in a way he had intended.