The Diamond Isle Read online

  ‘I’ve never doubted your abilities, sir.’

  ‘I know. But it feels a bit different from my side.’

  ‘You have us,’ Sephor assured him, ‘and not just us; there are thousands now who believe in you and want to support you.’

  The warlord laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘And I’m more grateful for that than I can say. But there’s something even you can’t give me. For all your loyalty and trust, you can’t empathise. Not truly. You can’t know what it’s like to be alone the way I am. If you could, you’d understand why I have to find him.’

  In Bhealfa, too, there was a temporary respite from snowfall.

  Not that weather conditions affected the number of people thronging the streets of Valdarr, or the attendant magical surges. But it certainly made the citizens’ daily lives more miserable as they traipsed through slush and skidded on icy sidewalks, and it snarled up traffic.

  Andar Talgorian’s carriage, travelling to paladin headquarters, took nearly an hour to make a journey that should have lasted minutes. Unsurprisingly, he arrived in a dejected mood.

  Nodding the diplomat to a chair, Bastorran asked, ‘So, how was Merakasa?’

  Mindful that Commissioner Laffon was present, and aware he currently enjoyed favour with the Empress, Talgorian replied cautiously. ‘It was a pleasure to meet with Her Royal Highness, as always. But I must confess I find the prospect of the imminent military action somewhat depressing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Bastorran snorted. ‘It’s exactly the right response to the situation on the Diamond Isle. I only regret it hasn’t happened sooner.’

  ‘War should always be the last resort.’

  ‘We’ve reached the last resort.’ He handed Talgorian a goblet of wine. ‘What would you have done, talk them to death?’

  ‘If you mean do I think there’s still time to reach a negotiated outcome, the answer’s yes.’

  ‘My late uncle often said that you were a peacemonger. He meant it kindly, I’m sure.’

  ‘I prefer to see myself as pragmatic,’ Talgorian countered. ‘And it seems to me that talk has to be a better option than spilling blood.’

  They exchanged frosty smiles.

  ‘I agree with the High Chief,’ Laffon chipped in. ‘If you negotiate with these people you only give them credence.’

  ‘Surely they already have credence in the eyes of our superiors. If they didn’t, why send a costly expeditionary force against them?’

  ‘Because force is what they understand. It just proves my point.’

  ‘The Commissioner’s right,’ Bastorran said. ‘And we should be as ruthless with them at home as I trust we’re going to be overseas.’

  ‘Is it possible to be more brutal than we already are?’ Talgorian wondered.

  It was Laffon’s turn to adopt a feigned smile. ‘If I didn’t know better, Ambassador, I’d think you were sympathetic to these malcontents.’

  ‘No one is more opposed to public disorder than me, Commissioner. I merely query the methods we’re using to deal with it.’

  ‘Whatever our view of the coming conflict,’ Bastorran said, raising his glass, ‘I’m sure we can all agree to toast the mission’s success.’

  Eyeing each other, they drank.

  Talgorian was the first to lower his glass. ‘I hope it goes without saying that the Diplomatic Corps stands ready to offer whatever help it can to both your organisations in this expedition.’

  Bastorran gave a hollow laugh. ‘Forgive me. But there’s hardly much use for the service of diplomats once hostilities begin.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can help me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Laffon said.

  Talgorian finished his wine and waved away a refill when Bastorran offered him the carafe. ‘Tell me, have either of you seen Prince Melyobar recently?’

  ‘As it happens, I have,’ Bastorran replied.

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘I don’t think it would surprise any of us if I said…problematic.’

  ‘As unpredictable as usual, in other words.’

  ‘Yes. But Melyobar’s state of mind is hardly news. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Her Royal Highness has decided that the time has come to take steps as far as the Prince is concerned.’

  ‘Steps?’ Laffon echoed.

  Talgorian produced two folded parchments bearing the Empress’s personal seal. ‘These should explain everything.’ He handed one to each of them. As they tore them open he added, ‘You’ll see that Her Majesty requires the paladins and the Council for Internal Security to cooperate fully.’

  Bastorran read quickly, then looked up. ‘You’re in charge of this operation?’

  Talgorian nodded.

  ‘Why you?’ Laffon wanted to know.

  ‘It’s not for me to question the Empress’s decisions. But perhaps she thought the CIS and the paladins would have enough on their plates. And strictly speaking it is a diplomatic matter; after all, Melyobar is constitutionally Bhealfa’s sovereign.’

  ‘Naturally I bow to Her Majesty’s wisdom on the matter. In fact, I expect to be summoned to an audience with her myself quite soon. No doubt she’ll expand on her wishes then.’

  ‘In the meantime you have what you need in that letter.’

  ‘I’m pleased the Prince is finally going to be dealt with,’ Bastorran declared. ‘Something should have been done about the man long since. When are you going to tackle him, Ambassador?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. It’s obviously a delicate situation and needs to be handled discreetly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave it too long if I were you. The last time I was at the palace I saw something rather curious.’

  ‘Oh? Stranger than usual, you mean?’

  ‘Point taken. I don’t know if it fell into the category of abnormal or not, seeing as we’re talking about Melyobar. But he’s installed a battery of siege catapults, and it looked as though the fortifications had been beefed up even further. I can’t help wondering why.’

  ‘As you say, curious. But I don’t intend storming the place. I’m thinking of a more tactful approach than that.’

  ‘What are you going to do, reason with him?’ Bastorran came back acerbically.

  ‘Essentially, yes. But I’m not so naive as to think he’ll appreciate Her Majesty’s proposal. Which is why I’ll need a robust escort to accompany me. And I think it should consist of personnel from different services, given the sensitive political nature of the operation. We’ll need to liaise on this.’

  ‘It’ll have to be large if he decides to be uncooperative.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll come to that. It’s not as though the empire intends making a prisoner of him; he’ll be treated as an honoured guest.’

  ‘You might have a job persuading him of that. Don’t underestimate his liking for power. After all, no one’s ever tried restraining him before.’

  Any response Talgorian might have made was pre-empted by a rap on the door.

  ‘Come!’ Bastorran snapped.

  Lahon Meakin stuck his head into the room.

  The paladin glared at him. ‘I told you we weren’t to be disturbed!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but something’s come up.’

  Bastorran rose, mumbling apologies, and joined his aide in the corridor.

  ‘This had better be important, Meakin,’ he hissed.

  ‘We’ve news of a disturbance on the streets.’

  ‘Is that all? You should know better than to bother me about such a–’

  ‘This is something different, sir, and I think you’ll want to attend to it personally.’

  15

  Somebody was running along the street, smashing windows with a chain.

  A roadblock of wagons sealed one end of the road, manned by dour-faced militia. At a distance, an angry mob faced them. Every so often, people ran forward to lob stones. Houses and a shop burned and no one was trying to put them out. Behind the barricade, mounted troopers were arrivi
ng.

  Sheltering in the mouth of a nearby alley, Quinn Disgleirio and a pair of Righteous Blade members watched the confrontation.

  ‘What started it?’ Disgleirio said.

  ‘There was a raid on a local house,’ one of his companions explained. ‘The militia were heavy-handed, as usual, and this crowd gathered.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to set off a riot these days,’ the other added.

  ‘Well, we don’t need it,’ Disgleirio told him. ‘There’s enough oppression on the streets without inviting more.’

  ‘Can’t see us stopping it now,’ the first Bladesman reckoned.

  ‘No. But we can try to limit the damage.’

  There was uproar at the roadblock as uniformed riders moved through the crowd, laying about them with clubs and sabres.

  ‘Looks like we’re too late,’ the second Bladesman said.

  The fight quickly turned into a rout. People scattered, pursued by baton-wielding militia, and the first of the runners were approaching the alley where Disgleirio and his men sheltered.

  ‘Chief?’ one of his companions queried.

  ‘Protect as many as you can.’

  They stepped into the slush-covered street, drawing their swords.

  The stream of fleeing protestors was turning into a flood. Some were cut down by the cavalry chasing them; others fell, to be trampled by the charging horses.

  Disgleirio and his men fanned out, three rocks in the current of panicked humanity.

  ‘Stand firm,’ he instructed, ‘and watch your backs.’

  A screaming woman dashed past, two militia on her tail with blades in their hands, but they lost interest in her when they saw the trio of Bladesmen. Disgleirio left his comrades to deal with the troopers. His attention was on a cavalryman sweeping along the street, lashing out at fleeing citizens.

  The Bladesmen and the militia engaged. Those trying to escape gave them a wide berth as two frantic duels spilled from the pavement into the road.

  Disgleirio concentrated on the trooper’s galloping horse. As it drew level he slashed at the rider, hewing the man’s leg. The rider cried out and tumbled from his saddle, hitting the ground heavily and bouncing several times on the cobbled surface before coming to rest. His horse bolted into the jostling crowd.

  But Disgleirio had no time to enjoy his luck. Another group of militia was sprinting his way. He turned back to his men just as one downed his opponent; the other had already triumphed and stood over his prone adversary.

  ‘More!’ Disgleirio yelled, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Cluster!’

  At his command they swiftly came together in a well practised manoeuvre. They formed a circle, shoulders touching; sword in one hand, dagger in the other. A formation some called the Porcupine. When the fresh group of law-enforcers arrived, hotfoot, they faced a defensive ring bristling with steel barbs, but as they outnumbered the Bladesmen two to one or more, they thought to overwhelm them.

  One of the militia fell immediately, lung punctured. Another reeled away bearing the yawning gash of a knife stroke. A third toppled with his chest perforated.

  Odds thinned, the Bladesmen abandoned their huddle and set to in a general melee. A quick and bloody round of swordplay ensued, the participants huffing steam in the chill air. In short order, two more foes suffered lethal strikes. The remaining pair of militia, lightly wounded, took to their heels.

  The Bladesmen caught their breath, sweat freezing on their brows.

  ‘They’ll be back with reinforcements,’ Disgleirio panted. ‘We can’t do much more here. I think it’s time to–’

  ‘What is it, chief?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  They followed his gaze.

  A slim, lithe individual with cropped fair hair had appeared on the street. He or she–it was impossible to tell which–was armed, and attacking people seemingly at random, whether they had weapons or not.

  ‘Is it a glamour?’ one of Disgleirio’s men asked.

  ‘I don’t know what it is. But I’m going to find out. You two get yourselves clear.’

  ‘But, chief–’

  ‘We’re taking a risk just being here. Now do as you’re told!’ He began jogging towards the apparition.

  As he approached he got a clearer look at the figure, and decided that on balance it was female. He also saw that she had a somewhat alarming countenance, with unusually large, intense eyes set in a face so pale he thought she might be ailing. But there was nothing feeble about the way she lashed out at anybody within reach.

  When he was just short of a sword’s span from the woman, Disgleirio stopped. He took in the litter of corpses and groaning wounded.

  ‘Yes?’ Aphri Kordenza said. Her tone was casually irritated, as though addressing a bothersome vagrant.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A concerned citizen. What of it?’

  ‘Are you with the militia?’

  ‘Do I look like I am?’

  ‘Then why are you doing their dirty work?’

  ‘Because it pleases me.’

  ‘Murdering innocent people gives you pleasure?’

  ‘You talk like a priest. If you don’t like it, try stopping me.’

  ‘That was my intention.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? I can’t abide idle chatter.’

  She moved so fast it was all he could do to fend off her first blow. The second and third came as swiftly. And she had strength as well as speed; her strikes jarred Disgleirio to the bone. Driven back, he was forced on the defensive, parrying her blade but unable to attack. Her skill and agility shook him. He was a master swordsman, but she was easily his match.

  Pulling himself together, he began to rally. He even got in some offensive strokes. But the more he picked up, the greater the woman’s onslaught. Her passes were increasingly vicious, and landed with ever more accuracy. Disgleirio deflected them, and paid her back in kind, though it took all his expertise. He was holding his own but making no headway.

  As they fought, he noticed another strange thing about the woman. Whenever she lifted her left foot there was a glimmer of light beneath her heel. At first he thought he’d imagined it, but then she had to leap to avoid one of his swings, and he saw an arc of tiny blue sparks flowing between the ground and her foot. It made him think she was magically vitalised in some way, but he was too preoccupied to dwell on it.

  They continued battering and weaving, narrowly avoiding shrieking passers-by and riderless horses. The woman’s movements were so fluid it was hard for him to connect with her blade, never mind land an effective blow. He felt leaden-footed by comparison, and feared he was about to take a lethal hit.

  Suddenly he wasn’t alone. His companion Bladesmen appeared and ploughed into the fray. The woman was unfazed. If the look on her disquieting face was anything to go by, she actually relished the challenge. She widened her attack to engage the newcomers, her blade playing against theirs fast and firm. The rattle of steel was unabated as they dodged and twisted, seeking an opening. Then she cleaved flesh.

  One of the Bladesmen staggered, a hand to his chest, blood pumping through splayed fingers. He went down, beyond help.

  Disgleirio cried out. His remaining companion powered into the woman. Unblinking, she glanced away his blade and laid open his arm, wrist to elbow. He howled and withdrew.

  ‘I told you to get out of here!’ Disgleirio roared, shoving him aside.

  The wounded man lurched clear, clutching his gushing arm. Disgleirio swung back, ready to resume the fight.

  The woman had gone. He scanned the street, trying to distinguish her slender form in the milling chaos. Then he caught sight of her. She was standing in the wide entranceway to an abandoned building on the opposite side of the road. He began elbowing his way towards her. But with a dozen paces to go, he froze.

  In the doorway, a bizarre scene unfolded. The woman stepped smartly to one side, leaving an impression of her shape etched in the air. Rapidly,
the outline filled. Bones, viscera, organs, arteries and veins appeared, then a casing of flesh. The blank face of her double took on features, which as they clarified strongly resembled the woman herself, though on closer inspection they displayed a more masculine set. Finally, clothes formed, identical to the garb the woman wore. The resultant being could have passed for her twin brother.

  The doorway where the pair stood was gloomy, so it took Disgleirio a few seconds to notice something else. Some kind of fine web connected the twins. It was moist and gelatinous, and Disgleirio couldn’t shake the thought that it was a monstrous afterbirth. As he watched, it split and was instantly absorbed into the woman’s body.

  He had never seen a meld before, but knew he must be looking at one now.

  The twins exchanged affectionate smiles, and in unison walked out into the street. Curiously, both of them seemed to have a slight limp.

  There were less people about, the bulk of the mob and their pursuers having moved on. But there were still enough to make Disgleirio worry for their safety.

  His fears were justified.

  The twins were staring at him. She made a comment Disgleirio couldn’t hear, and they laughed. Then she started to march his way. At the same time, something remarkable happened.

  At first, her twin didn’t move. Then slowly, with all the ease and lightness of a child’s kite, he rose from the ground. When he reached the first storey of the building, he levelled, stretching his arms and legs out straight. The next second he was slicing through the air.

  Quinn ducked. The glamour-twin swooped over him, just clearing his head. But the attack he expected didn’t come. Instead, the man swerved and flew down the street. He made for a knot of protestors nursing their wounds, diving at them. When they saw him coming, those who were able tried to scramble out of the way. The glamour-twin puffed his cheeks and spat a gout of flame which enveloped many of the crowd. The stragglers ignited, turning into fireballs, blundering and screaming. Their tormentor turned and made for another bunch of people further along who, seeing what had happened, were trying to outrun him.