The Diamond Isle

by Stan Nicholls

  Disgleirio watched in horror, to the extent that he momentarily forgot the woman. Then a movement caught his eye. She was almost upon him, charging, sending her sword in a great swipe that he had to jump aside to avoid. Their blades collided and the duel restarted.

  Meanwhile, the glamour-twin soared over cowering bands of citizens, raining fire down on them. A buggy ploughed through the scene, the driver desperate to escape. The twin disgorged a spume of flame at it, and carriage and driver went up like tinder. The spooked horse, towing a blazing funeral pyre, surged in panic. With a grinding crash the buggy overturned, spilling its grisly load. The horse galloped on, dragging the burning remains and scattering onlookers.

  Somebody loosed an arrow at the airborne man from an open window. His fiery breath charred the bolt before it hit. Veering, he headed back. Another arrow skimmed his way, but it was sufficiently off target for him to ignore. He turned his wrath on the archer, huffing flame through the open window and converting him to cinder. The room blazed, venting oily black smoke.

  Disgleirio was only dimly aware of the slaughter. He was embroiled in a swordfight he was beginning to think he couldn’t win. The woman’s stamina never seemed to flag, confirming his instinct that she was replenishing her vigour magically.

  They fought on, each seeking a chink in the other’s guard. Had either of them been a lesser talent the game would have been over long since. As it was, Disgleirio feared her staying power would be the decisive factor.

  But as they fenced, he formed an impression. He could have been deceiving himself, but he got the feeling she wasn’t finding him as easy a mark as she thought. Self-deception or not, it gave him heart. His pace went up a notch. He dared to hope.

  In the event, his determination wasn’t put to the ultimate test. He became aware of a vibration underfoot. It soon translated to the sound of thundering hooves. A large body of riders was approaching. His opponent heard it, too, and as though obeying some silent signal, they disengaged and backed away from each other.

  Other sounds began to overlay the hoof-beats. Shouting, screams, the pounding of boots on cobbles. Disgleirio and the woman turned towards the source. Several hundred people were running their way, chased by a contingent of cavalry wearing the distinctive scarlet tunics of the paladin clans.

  A handful of lead runners darted past Quinn and his adversary. More and more followed, until they were engulfed by a torrent of terrified people. Disgleirio lost sight of the woman, and after a moment resisting the tide he joined the stampede. All was chaos. He was carried along in a sea of frightened faces and bellowing voices. His shins were kicked and his ribs elbowed. He was jostled and shoved.

  Somebody grabbed his arm and held on tight. He struggled violently, then saw it was the wounded Bladesman he’d ordered away. Following his lead, half dragged, he fought his way across the pugnacious flow of humanity. They eventually broke out onto a less densely packed stretch of pavement. The Bladesman hauled Disgleirio across it and into a gap between two decrepit shanties.

  ‘Thanks,’ he panted.

  ‘I know you told me to leave, chief, but–’

  ‘Forget it. It’s a good thing you didn’t.’ He glanced at the bloodstained, makeshift cloth binding the man’s arm. ‘How is it?’

  ‘I’ll live. What the hell was that flying thing, chief? And the woman?’

  ‘I think we ran into a meld.’

  ‘I thought they were a myth.’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Disgleirio looked out at the passing crowd and the paladins harassing them. ‘We can’t do anything here. Best to get away.’

  His companion nodded. ‘Er, what’s that, chief?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your tunic.’ He pointed.

  A scrap of paper was half stuffed in Disgleirio’s pocket. He took it out and unfolded it. There was writing on it, in block capitals. They read: INVASION OF DIAMOND ISLE IMMINENT. EXPECT MORE RAIDS ON RESISTANCE HERE.

  ‘What is it?’ the Bladesman asked.

  ‘See for yourself.’ Disgleirio showed him the note.

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘I don’t know. It must have been…somebody in the crowd.’ He scanned the street again, puzzled.

  Two blocks away, sheltering in the entranceway to a stable, Aphri and Aphrim were locked in a lingering kiss.

  ‘We can’t loiter here, my love,’ she whispered, gazing deep into his barren eyes.

  He nodded. There was something in that simple gesture which could have been interpreted as sadness.

  ‘Soon,’ she promised.

  He shrunk in her embrace, not in stature, but mass. His body joined with hers. She drank him.

  Aphri stretched, and belched.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around, drawing her sword.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ Devlor Bastorran demanded.

  She relaxed and let the sword slip back into its scabbard. ‘Just keeping my hand in.’

  ‘Fool. Do you have any idea the risk you’re running brawling in public like this? Not to mention forcing me to be seen with you.’

  ‘You worry too much. We were only disposing of a few malcontents. You should be grateful.’

  ‘Grateful be damned. We’re perfectly capable of dealing with this rabble without your help. I want you out of here.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m going.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not taking your word for it. You’re leaving under escort. I’ll have my aide go with you.’ He looked around. ‘Where the devil is the man? Where’s Meakin?’ he yelled at two lieutenants twenty paces distant. They shrugged and shook their heads. ‘Well, find him!’ he bellowed. The pair scurried off.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Aphri told him.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The new state I’m in. The connection with the grid. I’ve never felt so powerful.’

  ‘I know,’ Bastorran said. ‘But do me a favour, Kordenza. Save it for Caldason.’

  16

  Sluggish winter tides lapped the Diamond Isle’s shoreline. The sky was overcast and the air raw.

  There was activity everywhere. Lookouts haunted cliff tops, guards patrolled the seashore, civilians were coached in spear and sword. Fortifications and defensive lines were being erected throughout the island.

  Several score men and women toiled on a beach in the shadow of the terraced fortress, some working with long-handled spades while others knelt, busying themselves with trowels. Carpenters hefted stacks of narrow timber planks. Braziers, cauldrons and anvils were scattered about the place.

  Two well wrapped figures watched from a nearby promontory.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Kutch said.

  ‘Being inventive,’ Caldason replied. ‘That’s something human beings are pretty good at when their backs are to the wall.’ He pointed at the people digging. ‘They’re using the sand to make moulds for arrow heads, spear tips, even some sword blades. The metal’s heated in the kilns over on that side, and they use the wooden blocks to carry the cauldrons. It’s crude, but effective.’

  ‘Don’t we have enough weapons already?’

  ‘We can’t have too many in a situation like this. And some you can’t easily retrieve once you’ve used them, like arrows. You have to assume they’re single use. So we’ve set a target of turning out twenty thousand arrow heads.’

  Kutch whistled. ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘It’s nowhere near enough. Think about it. Say two hundred archers use fifty arrows each and that’s half of them gone. We could get through that many in one engagement.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound much when you put it that way.’

  ‘It’s the same with the number of people we have to defend this place. But don’t get me started on that.’ Caldason turned away from the scene. ‘If we get a move on we can make supper at the redoubt. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  They had use of a small, two
-wheeled farm cart, with a mare to pull it. As most of the island’s roads were ill-kept, many of them little more than trails, the going was bumpy.

  Five minutes into their journey they saw a work gang felling a small wood close to the road.

  ‘We seem to be cutting down an awful lot of trees,’ Kutch said.

  ‘All those arrow heads need shafts,’ Caldason reminded him, ‘and we have to have bows and spear shanks. Not to mention fuel.’

  ‘What if we run out of wood?’

  ‘Whether it lasts depends on how long we’re holed up here. Actually, timber’s abundant. I’m more worried about victuals. Water’s all right; we have wells. But food could be a problem. Darrok built up a store of dried goods, but there’s not a lot in the way of fresh produce, particularly in winter. There’s fish, of course, though the waters are getting too dangerous for that.’

  ‘You still think there’ll be an invasion?’

  ‘Nothing’s made me think otherwise.’

  ‘Can we hold out?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘I always expect you to tell me the truth, Reeth.’

  ‘Of course. Then…probably not.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But that’s on paper, so to speak. As I said, people can be inventive when they’re up against it. They can be incredibly brave, too. And all sorts of things could turn the tide in our favour.’

  ‘Like finding the Source?’

  ‘You know I’ve got hopes pinned on that for myself, but we shouldn’t rely on it to save us. We don’t really know what it is, and I might not find it.’

  ‘You’ve always been one for going against the odds, Reeth.’

  Caldason smiled. ‘Maybe. But I try to be prepared when I do it. Talking of which, I wish you’d let me teach you some sword craft.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m really cut out for that.’

  ‘Anybody can pick up a few pointers, and you’re young and reasonably fit. I’d feel better if you had some basic self-defence skills, given what’s coming.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could teach me a few essentials. But I think magic serves me better.’

  ‘Force of arms is more likely to be the deciding factor in defending the island. Magic might not be much use.’

  ‘They’ll be using it against us, won’t they? We have to have a way of countering that. You’ve such a strange attitude to the Craft, Reeth. On the one hand you hate magic, and on the other you look to it for salvation.’

  ‘Only because I’ve no choice. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about what’s happening here. I’ve been in a lot of conflicts, and most of them have been settled with blades, not magic.’

  ‘Magic shapes our world, Reeth. It can do stupendous things. That was something I first saw when I wasn’t much more than a baby.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Melyobar’s flying palace. I was with my mother, I think. I can’t remember. But I’ve never forgotten the palace. It must have been…I don’t know; a long way off, and the sun was setting behind it, brilliantly red. It was fabulous.’

  ‘I can imagine that would leave a mark on a child.’

  ‘So much so that when Master Domex came to take me away I wasn’t so unhappy about it. I mean, I hated leaving my mother and everything, but I thought we’d be making palaces fly.’ He grinned. ‘It wasn’t quite like that, of course.’

  ‘I remember a time before the palace was built. Actually saw it under construction if I recall.’

  ‘I keep forgetting how old you are, Reeth. It must be weird having memories going back that far.’

  ‘You might have far-reaching memories yourself one day,’ the Qalochian replied dryly, ‘if you’re lucky enough to live to an old age. But if your best example of what magic can do is a madman’s folly–’

  ‘It isn’t. I’m just saying it can do astonishing things.’

  ‘Like subjugating the population? Stupefying them with illusions? Corrupting their values?’

  ‘That’s not magic’s fault. It’s the people who use it. In the same way you’d use the Source for good if you found it.’

  ‘And how are you going to change human nature?’

  ‘I think people can be good if they’re given the chance.’

  ‘There are always the bad, Kutch, no matter what you do.’

  They were arriving at the redoubt. The renovation and fortifying work on the stronghold was almost finished, though scores of people still laboured there.

  Caldason drew the cart to a halt. As they climbed down, he added, ‘The truth is I prefer the honesty of blades. Magic’s too damned complex, apart from anything else.’

  ‘Not once you’re attuned to it,’ Kutch told him. He looked around and spotted a small pile of logs. ‘See.’ His hands performed an esoteric gesture. He gazed intently.

  One of the logs shuddered slightly. A corner lifted. Then the log rose from the heap and hung in the air. Kutch moved his outstretched finger. The log aped it, swaying from side to side as though floating on agitated water. A second later it dropped back onto the pile with a dull thud.

  From the look on Kutch’s face it had been a physical effort. He turned to Caldason and beamed.

  ‘Impressive. But it’s hardly going to stop an invasion fleet, is it?’

  Caldason headed for the fortress’s cavernous entrance. Kutch followed, seething.

  A wide central corridor bisected the building’s ground floor. The door they were making for, near its far end, led to a dining hall. Before they reached it, they heard raised voices close to hand. Familiar voices, coming from a room they were about to pass. Reeth and Kutch exchanged a look. Caldason opened the door.

  ‘…and I say there’s no justification for it!’ Serrah raged. She saw them come in and stopped.

  Darrok was there, his disc perched on a bench. Pallidea stood beside him.

  ‘Reeth,’ Serrah said. ‘Good. You’ll back me on this.’

  ‘Back you on what?’

  ‘That.’ She nodded at a large open chest sitting on a table.

  He walked over to it, Kutch in tow. The chest was crammed with fist-sized cloth pouches. One had been slit. Inside was a quantity of tiny, almost translucent, bluish-white crystals.

  Kutch was puzzled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ramp,’ Caldason said.

  ‘Yes, fucking ramp,’ Serrah confirmed, near incoherent with anger. ‘It’s Zahgadiah’s.’ She glared at him.

  ‘What’s going on, Darrok?’ Caldason said.

  ‘Nothing anybody need get worked up about.’

  ‘Really?’ Serrah hissed dangerously. ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘I’m not denying it’s mine. Or the island’s, strictly speaking.’

  ‘I knew you’d been a rogue in your time, but I thought even you’d draw the line at dealing in this shit.’

  Darrok held up a hand. ‘Hear me out,’ he grated. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do. But the fact is I inherited it. Well, more accurately it came as one of the assets when I bought the island.’

  ‘Assets? This stuff killed my daughter!’

  ‘I know, Serrah, and I’m sorry about that. But you have to understand the nature of the Diamond Isle. People paid fortunes to come here. Or they used to, in its heyday. In exchange they expected to indulge in whatever experience took their fancy. Ramp was one of the things they wanted. But I never offered it. They had to ask.’

  ‘But it’s illegal.’

  ‘Not here. Ordinary laws never applied to this place because we’ve always been outside any state’s jurisdiction. The only rules were the ones we imposed ourselves. Actually, I guess that’s why some guests wanted ramp. You know, the allure of something they couldn’t safely get at home. For most it was plain curiosity.’

  ‘That’s how it started with Eithne.’

  ‘She was a child, Serrah,’ Darrok replied gently. ‘I’m talking about adults. People mature enough to make their own decisions.’

  ‘It’s a fine
distinction. And it’s not one my old employers back in Gath Tampoor made. For all their many faults, they had no tolerance for ramp traffickers. Fighting those people was part of my job, remember.’

  ‘Do you know where ramp came from?’

  ‘Came from? What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not a natural substance, you must know that. It consists of a number of natural ingredients, but it has to be processed. Manufactured. Who do you think first did that? Do any of you know? Reeth?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Kutch added gravely.

  ‘Criminal gangs,’ Serrah said. ‘The same people who make the stuff.’

  ‘I was part of a criminal gang,’ Darrok reminded her. ‘Not that we had much to do with narcotics, despite being pirates. But I know ramp didn’t come from the criminal underworld.’

  ‘Where, then?’ Caldason asked.

  ‘One of the empires.’

  ‘What?’ Serrah exclaimed.

  ‘Some say Gath Tampoor, others blame Rintarah. Perhaps it was something they both came up with independently. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Kutch admitted. ‘Why would anybody invent such a horrible thing?’

  ‘As a weapon. A covert munition in the war between the empires. It was designed to disrupt the enemy’s population and weaken morale; to encourage criminality and corrupt institutions. Not to mention diverting resources to deal with it.’

  ‘But that’s wicked,’ Serrah said.

  ‘Since when was morality a strong point for either empire? In its twisted way, it was a brilliant idea. Nobody could deny the damage it’s caused. But it was stupid, too. For all their cunning, the empires didn’t foresee it getting out of control. They didn’t anticipate it seeping into the lives of those who served them. Or affecting their own children, come to that. That young man whose death you were accused of, Serrah. What was his name?’

  ‘Chand Phosian,’ she whispered. ‘The Principal-Elect’s son.’

  ‘Phosian, yes. He was killed by ramp, indirectly.’

  ‘And through that my eyes were opened and I came to the Resistance.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘If what you say is true, they killed Eithne as well, as surely as if they plunged a blade into her heart.’