Quicksilver Rising

‘I think it’s over now,’ Kutch told him.

Sitting up, painfully, Caldason took in his surroundings. They were in the cramped demon hole. The hard, irregular stone floor was uncomfortable and wet.

‘How long?’ he grated, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

Kutch put aside the bucket. ‘All day. It’s late evening now.’

‘Did I do any harm?’

‘Only to yourself.’ He surveyed the Qalochian’s bruised face and grazed arms, his dishevelled hair and the dark rings under his still slightly feral eyes. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Did I speak?’

‘You did little else, though rave might be a better word. But not in any tongue I recognised. You’ve no need to fear you gave away any secrets.’

‘I have few enough, but thank you for that, Kutch.’

‘I’ve never seen anybody the way you were, Reeth. Unless they were ramped or possessed of demons.’

‘Neither covers my situation.’

‘No, that was something else. Is that why you wanted to consult my master?’

‘Part of it.’

‘Part? You nearly uprooted those restraining rings! You frothed, for the gods’ sake! And you have other problems?’

‘Let’s say they are complicating factors.’

Kutch could see he wasn’t going to get any more on that subject. ‘I’d heard you were a savage fighter,’ he said. ‘Is that because of these … fits?’ It was an inadequate word.

‘Sometimes. You’ve seen I don’t control it.’

‘How did you –’

‘Kutch. I ache. I’m soaked and I could use food and something to drink.’ He thrust his manacled wrists at him. ‘Get me out of these.’

Kutch looked wary.

‘The seizure’s passed, you’re in no danger. I have some warning of an onset. If it’s going to happen again I’ll come back here.’

Still the boy hesitated.

‘It’s not as though I’m in a permanent state of derangement,’ Caldason persisted. ‘I’m no Melyobar.’

Despite his apprehension, Kutch had to smile as he reached for the keys.

The royal court of the sovereign state of Bhealfa hadn’t stood still in almost twenty years.

When he gained leadership, though technically not the throne itself, Prince Melyobar was eighteen. Some said he was eccentric even then. Given the unusual constitutional situation he found himself in, with his father, the King, neither dead nor properly living, there were doubts about the Prince’s legitimacy as a ruler. It took an interminable time to sort out the problem. Melyobar distracted himself by consulting seers and prophets, hoping to hear something of his coming, ersatz reign.

It was then that he learned the true nature of death.

Nobody knows which of the numerous mystics he received first put the idea into his head. But the result was that, for Melyobar, death became Death. An animate creature, walking the world as men do, dealing out oblivion. Worse, intent on stalking him.

Backed by the counsel of some of his more pliable soothsayers, the Prince reasoned that if Death walked like a man, he could be outrun. In eluding Death, death could be cheated.

At vast cost, Melyobar ordered the construction of a moveable dwelling, smaller than the present palace but as opulently furnished. It contained hundreds of apartments, including a ballroom and a chamber given over to meetings of his puppet Elders Council.

The new court resembled a ship without sails, its prow and stern squared off. Its motive power was fabulously expensive magic. Steered by hand-picked enchanters, it floated silently above the ground at about the height of a man with his arms raised. It travelled at the pace of a cantering horse, though this could be varied somewhat. The Prince had two lesser versions built to accompany him as escape vessels.

Dozens of courtiers spent fortunes on their own conveyances, vying with each other in size and ornamentation. The Prince’s personal guard, representatives of the sorcerer elite, scholars, lawmakers and servants occupied more land ships. Others carried victuals and provisions. For the lower orders and mere camp followers there was no magical impetus. Their wagons relied on teams of horses, hazardously changed on the move. Everything depended on a complex logistical system, and the administrators who ran it took up yet more vehicles.

As the vast cavalcade journeyed the length and breadth of Bhealfa its route was varied to confound Death. Sometimes that meant the flattening of harvest crops, the fording of swollen rivers, even the destruction of an occasional village if it couldn’t be avoided. The priority was to keep moving at any cost.

This night, the flotilla crossed a relatively unpopulated region of the Princedom. It blazed with light from swaying lanterns and flickering brands. Nor was it quiet. The caravan brought with it the sounds of thundering hooves, squeaking wheels, music, and lookouts hailing each other when collisions threatened.

A carriage arrived at the periphery of the cortege and matched its speed. It was met by outriders who checked the visitor’s credentials. Then they escorted it into the convoy, a chancy undertaking at the best of times. But they reached the gliding palace with a minimum of bumps.

The carriage door opened and an elegantly dressed passenger stepped across onto the rungs of a short ladder. Deck crew assisted him aboard and a uniformed welcoming party saluted.

He was taken to an antechamber and subjected to the indignity of a light search. Not for weapons, but to ascertain that he was who he appeared to be, rather than the entity so much was being done to evade. Familiar with the Prince’s obsession, he suffered it without protest.

At last he was ushered into a lavishly appointed state – room.

‘The Imperial Envoy of Gath Tampoor,’ a flunky announced before discreetly exiting.

The room’s only occupant sat at an exquisite desk, studying a parchment held flat by a pair of silver candlesticks, seemingly unaware of his visitor’s arrival. Containing his impatience, the emissary gave a polite cough.

Prince Melyobar straightened and regarded him. His manner seemed vague, if not actually confused, and recognition took a moment. ‘Ah, Talgorian.’

‘Your Highness.’ The Envoy delivered a small head bow.

They were roughly the same age, but the Gath Tampoorian had worn much better. He was lean and fit, where the Prince was stout and pasty-faced. Talgorian had a neatly trimmed beard; Melyobar’s rotund face was shaved, against the prevailing fashion, and his hair was prematurely white. The Envoy was possessed of diplomatic calm, at least outwardly; Melyobar’s disposition was jumpy.

‘To what do I owe …’ The Prince trailed off, preoccupied.

‘Our regular meeting, Highness,’ Talgorian reminded him firmly, though remaining on the right side of protocol.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And the matter of the provision of additional troops.’ He enunciated this more slowly, in the way a peasant might address an obstinate cow. ‘Bhealfan troops. For our new campaign against Rintarah, Highness, and their troublesome clients.’

The Prince didn’t seem to comprehend. ‘To what purpose?’

‘As I previously explained, my Lord, to protect your sover-eignty and the security of the empire.’ He was having to work to keep his composure, as usual. ‘It wouldn’t do to let Rintarah get the upper hand, would it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’