Stan Nicholls: The Diamond Isle

‘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.