Stan Nicholls: The Diamond Isle

He found Tanalvah cowering. She stared at his burnt hand. ‘Gods, you’re injured. What-’

‘It’s nothing,’ he lied. ‘I’m fine. But now we’ve only got this.’ He showed her the knife.

‘What do we do?’

He left that unanswered and took in their surroundings. This floor was very much like the one below; a couple of rooms, one doorless, with blocked windows. There were a few pieces of cheap, broken furniture.

‘Quinn.’ She pointed at the ceiling. There was a trapdoor, secured by a simple latch. ‘But I don’t think I could-’

‘Wait.’

He glanced at the stairs. As yet there was no sign of the last paladin. Then he went into a room and came out with a shabby wooden chair. ‘Could you manage with this?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, now’s the time to find out.’

He stood on the chair. Stretching, he slid the latch and pushed open the trap, revealing the evening sky. The stars were just beginning to come out.

‘Can you…?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

She accepted his steadying hand and laboriously mounted the wobbly chair. Once more, he looked to the stairwell. Nothing stirred there.

‘Put your foot here,’ he said, ‘on the chair back. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Good. Now the other.’

It took an eternity of straining effort to get the pregnant woman through the trap and onto the flat roof. Panting, he scrambled up after her, slamming the door behind him. There was nothing to secure it with.

The night was growing colder, and their breath expelled in huffing clouds. Ice was starting to form on the pitch.

The roof was edged by a low wall; and as the building was taller than those on either side, getting to them meant a substantial drop. At the back, there was a space too wide to jump separating them from the next jumble of houses. The only thing breaking the flatness of the roof was a brick chimney stack standing not far from the trapdoor. Tanalvah leaned against it as Disgleirio looked for an escape route.

He was checking the roof’s opposite end when she cried out. The trapdoor had risen, and the officer was halfway out. He was already aiming his wand.

Disgleirio dived clear, landing painfully, full-length on the gritty asphalt. With a loud report, a power beam smacked into the wall where he’d been standing. The dazzling blast scattered masonry fragments.

He was on his feet again instantly and running, desperate for cover. The officer was out of the trap and moving forward, levelling the wand. Disgleirio zigzagged, trying to work his way to the chimney stack. He saw that Tanalvah had slipped round to its blind side and was all but hugging it.

A sapphire flash hosed the roof just short of his racing figure. Fiery streaks erupted and the surface bubbled. The tar stank. Perhaps thirty paces from the officer, Disgleirio saw only one choice. Aiming as best he could on the move, he lobbed his knife. The officer dodged, avoiding a body hit. But not fast enough to escape entirely. The knife skimmed the back of his hand, gashing flesh and sending the wand flying. It flipped, bounced and rolled out of sight. He dismissed it. Instead he dragged out his sword and, bellowing, sprinted in Disgleirio’s direction.

Having no weapons except fists and feet, Disgleirio’s sole option was to keep clear. As a strategy it had limited potential. The paladin officer had only to herd him.

Disgleirio retreated in the face of the charging man, who’d now drawn a knife too. But there was little room to move, and soon Disgleirio had his back to the low wall. He was rapidly driven into a corner. The paladin strode forward confidently, a smirk on his face despite the wounds he’d suffered.

‘Ready to pay now?’ he taunted. He came closer, until he was standing over Disgleirio, his blades raised. ‘Die knowing that after you I’ll deal with the whore,’ he promised, swinging back his sword.

The blow didn’t come. Lightning struck instead. Or so it seemed.

An obtuse expression on his face, the paladin froze, sword poised over his right shoulder. He looked down at his chest. His red tunic was smouldering. The outline of a tankard-sized hole began to appear. Orange flames blossomed from his chest.

Dropping his blades, he screamed and lurched forward. Disgleirio stumbled clear, narrowly avoiding the paladin’s outstretched arms. As he did, he caught sight of the man’s back and a large, vivid wound. There was the unmistakable smell of roasting flesh.

The officer teetered at the wall, flames spreading across his upper body. Then he toppled and fell shrieking to the alley below. Broken against the cobbles, his limbs at crazy angles, he continued to burn.

Tanalvah stood nearby, her arm extended, the wand in her hand. She seemed to be in some kind of daze. He called her name. She came out of the reverie, and as though only now realising she held the wand, let it slip from her fingers.

‘How…how were you able to use that thing?’ he asked, still shaken.

‘You know magic,’ she said. ‘Desire triggers it.’ Her words had a faraway quality. ‘That’s all it takes.’

Disgleirio was inhaling deeply, pulling himself together. He looked down to the alley. The paladin whose arm he’d broken was nowhere to be seen.

‘The alarm’s going to be raised,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was small.

‘And, Tan…thanks.’

She only nodded.

The way Tanalvah saw it, she had added no more than a feather to the scales of redemption.

‘How much further?’ Tanalvah asked.

‘Not long now,’ Disgleirio told her.

‘We’re going out of the city?’

‘Not quite. To the outskirts.’ He seemed reluctant to say more, presumably on the principle that what she didn’t know she couldn’t be made to tell, should things go wrong.

They sat side by side in a small gig. As Tanalvah could hardly be expected to walk far, or ride a horse with any ease, Disgleirio had stolen the vehicle shortly after they escaped the paladins. With shadows lengthening and the curfew drawing near, he drove as fast as he dared.

Central Valdarr was behind them and they were entering the city’s outer reaches. Even here there was evidence of Bhealfa’s successive occupation by both empires. Rintarah and Gath Tampoor had subjugated the island by turn for generations, and their most visible legacy was the muddle of architecture. As conquerors will, each erected monuments that commemorated their victory and acted as a reminder of who was in charge. Many of these structures were extravagant statements of imperial might that dwarfed the humble native dwellings surrounding them.

When one empire cast out the other, the loser’s buildings were often demolished to make way for new constructs, or adapted to serve the incomers in a cycle that had repeated itself beyond living memory. The aftermath of recent civil strife also left its mark. Arson had proved popular of late, and the effects of glamour weaponry added another layer of visual discord. In places where they suspected nests of rebels, which is to say in poorer quarters, whole neighbourhoods had been razed by the authorities. All this made for a complicated cityscape.

Wealthy or impoverished, every section of the city had one thing in common: magic was used in profusion. And now that night was falling its expression was more obvious, and spectacular. Far more intense than conventional lamps and candles, a myriad pinpoints of light flickered on and off in every direction. There were dazzling flashes, multicoloured flares, twinklings, sparklings and occasional outbursts that looked like earthbound lightning.

But while the quantity of magical discharges was roughly even, its quality was noticeably variable. The nature of a district could be assessed by the strength or weakness of its emissions, and Disgleirio and Tanalvah witnessed a particularly stark example as they crested a rise. Stretched before them for a moment were two abutting sectors, one well-heeled, the other deprived. The former’s magic shimmered with a bright purity; the latter gave off the feeble glow of cheap and counterfeit sorcery. Disgleirio chose the road that ran through the less fortunate area.