Stan Nicholls: The Diamond Isle

The poor persisted in their wretchedness. Where they had magic at all it was mean. There might be a rudimentary jester glamour, stolen or counterfeit, to divert a hungry child. Perhaps an image charm to remind a destitute wife of a husband taken by the watch.

Or, in the case of this bitterly cold evening, a spell in the likeness of a fire.

It illuminated a filthy alley that snaked between windowless, dilapidated buildings. Its flames looked real enough. There were artificial sparks, and the crackling of burning logs. It faked smoke and the pungent aroma of blazing wood. But the heat it gave out was miserable. The glamour was meant only for ornamental purposes, nor would it last long. Still, it drew a small crowd of ragged drifters, glad of what little cheer there was. They huddled around the deception, trembling hands extended, gazing into the flames.

One seemed out of place. Recently arrived, she stood in partial shadow, and was better dressed than the others. Her hair was inky black, and her smooth skin had a light olive complexion. Despite her loose clothing there was no hiding the fact that she was heavily pregnant.

She was breathing hard and looking about nervously, in the manner of a terrified animal as it tests the air for the scent of a predator.

A movement caught her eye. Beyond the fire, further down the drab alley, a number of figures were approaching. They didn’t shuffle, bent-backed, the way the itinerants did. There was order in their advance, and they moved with purpose. She retreated into deeper shadows.

When the figures reached the flames’ glow they became recognisable, and her fears were confirmed. Their distinctive scarlet tunics left no room for doubt. She cursed herself for a fool for daring to think she’d escaped the paladins.

Uproar broke out. Tattered vagrants were elbowed aside. Heedless of the fire, several of the red-jacketed men waded through it. The flames spluttered, flashed through a kaleidoscope of colours, and died. A patrol, four or five strong, was clearly visible now. Everyone scattered from their path.

The woman touched the string of consecrated beads at her throat and mumbled a swift prayer to her goddess. Then she turned and fled again. The commotion behind her went up a notch. She heard shouting and the rasp of swords being drawn.

The alley she hurried along came to a junction. To left and right the lanes were narrow and twisting. The way ahead broadened out into a street. There were more people in that direction, but not enough of a crowd to lose herself in. She chose the right-hand turn. Twenty paces on she came to a passageway, no wider than her outstretched arms. She entered it. The buildings on either side were so tall, and the sky so leaden, she found it hard to see where she was going. And she was splashing through a sluggish stream of icy water, and from the smell, sewage.

In spite of the cold she was sweating. Her bones ached and every step was an effort. But the noises at her back, which might have been the sound of pursuit, kept her moving.

Another alley crossed hers. This led to a tiny deserted square. She went through that, staying close to the walls, and emerged in a street. It was lined with shabby houses, and to one side a stable, abandoned and boarded-up. There was nobody about.

She stopped to listen. It was quiet, bar the distant, expected sounds of a city. Lost, exhausted, she looked for somewhere to rest, daring to hope that no one was following her. All the doors she could see were closed, and most of the windows were shuttered. The only prospect was the maw of yet another alley, almost opposite. A house forming one of the corners had its wall shored up with a low stone prop. It was flat-topped and of a height to sit on, and the alley was dark. She limped to it, hands pressed to the small of her back.

Sighing, she perched on the crude seat. She felt the chill of the stone through her clothes and shivered. Weary beyond reckoning, she took what ease she could. But whenever she allowed herself pause for thought, no matter how fleetingly, the demons were there to torment her. Her mind turned, as always, to the children; and to her man, lost to her now, and what would become of them. She dwelt on the life she carried. The things she had done in the name of those she loved lay on her like a great weight. Her conscience made certain she never walked alone. Guilt and fear were always with her.

Drained, she closed her eyes.

A rough hand clamped over her mouth. A strong arm encircled her. She tried to scream, but couldn’t.

‘It’s all right,’ her captor said, speaking in an undertone. ‘Don’t struggle, I’m not going to hurt you.’

The voice seemed familiar to her, but it was too indistinct for her to place it.

‘It’s all right,’ he said again, trying to calm her. ‘I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t scream. All right, Tan?’

Hearing her name made the blood run to ice in her veins. She nodded stiffly.

The hand was removed. Its owner faced her.

She almost gasped aloud. ‘Think of my child,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t kill me.’

He looked as shocked as she felt. ‘Tan, it’s me. Quinn. I wouldn’t harm you.’

He didn’t know. She stared at him. At about thirty summers, he was roughly her age, and ruggedly built. Except for a moustache, he was clean-shaven. His eyes were quick and dark.

‘Tan?’

She blinked and stated baldly, ‘Quinn.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Just…surprised to see you.’

‘We’ve been looking for you for months, woman. We thought you were dead.’

‘No. I…I’m not.’

‘Evidently.’ Quinn Disgleirio smiled. ‘And fortunately. Where have you been?’

Tanalvah Lahn wondered if this was some elaborate game. That perhaps he really did know and was playing with her, like a cat with a sparrow. ‘Here and there,’ she answered. ‘Wherever…wherever I could find-’

‘I understand. It’s been a bad time for all of us. What about Teg and Lirrin? Where-’

‘The children are safe. With someone I trust.’ This was the man who once argued for assassinating her lover. How could she trust him?

‘Good.’ He scanned the streets. There was still nobody about. ‘How do you come to be in these parts?’

‘I had some trouble.’ She found it difficult keeping a tremor out of her voice. ‘A patrol.’

‘Right.’

‘Paladins.’

Disgleirio’s expression froze for a second. ‘You know how to pick your enemies, Tan.’ He was looking around again, alert. ‘Lose them?’

‘I think so.’ Tanalvah wished he’d stop asking questions. She tried one of her own. ‘Are you alone?’

‘I started out with a couple of other Righteous Blade members. We had some trouble of our own and got parted. Look, it’ll be curfew soon. I’ll take you somewhere safe. I assume you’ve nowhere to go?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t say anything else.

‘Let’s move then.’ He stopped, and met her eyes. ‘One thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Whatever made you think I might kill you?’

She had no idea what she would have said, if she’d had the chance.

Disgleirio grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to one side. Tanalvah nearly cried out. Then she saw what he saw.

On the other side of the street the paladin patrol was spilling from the alley Tanalvah had come out of. Disgleirio tugged her into the gloom, but it was too late. The patrol spotted them, fanned out and headed their way.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Leave me.’

‘You must be joking. I’m getting you out of here.’ He drew his sword, and placed himself between her and the advancing paladins. ‘Move. Get yourself clear of this.’

Tanalvah backed away from him, as though obeying, but after a few steps lingered at his rear. She couldn’t say why she defied her instinct to flee.