It was bitterly cold. He wondered why anyone would want to conduct business of any kind in such a place. Then he remembered that the ‘anyone’ was Prince Melyobar.
The Prince himself sat, incongruously, on a throne mounted on a dais, over which a canopy had been erected. There were various nobles, officials and military types about, as usual, and the higher-ups had their own parasols. Nobody else got an awning, naturally. Or a seat.
Talgorian was frog-marched into Melyobar’s presence like a common criminal. It had been his intention to dispense with formalities like bowing in order to show his displeasure at how they were treating him. Unfortunately, one of the thuggish guards enforced the protocol with a clout to the back of Talgorian’s head.
The Envoy was also frustrated in his next planned snub. He meant to offer the Prince no ceremonial greeting. This was thwarted by the simple fact that Melyobar spoke first and ignored etiquette himself.
‘I trust a night in the cells has helped bring you to your senses,’ the Prince said.
‘My senses about what precisely, Your Royal Highness?’ Talgorian didn’t quite have the nerve to dispense with the man’s correct titles as part of his protest.
‘Your sedition. Your conspiring with enemies of my rule.’
‘Those charges, if that’s officially what they are, Your Majesty, are patently absurd. I’ve not been seditious and I don’t associate with the enemies of authority.’
‘Well, of course you’d be inclined to lie about it, wouldn’t you?’
‘I take great exception to that slight, Your Majesty. And if I may say so, I think this whole episode is an appalling way to treat an Imperial Ambassador. I intend complaining to the Empress about it in the strongest possible terms.’
‘Complaining to my arch-enemy, more like. Complaining to…’ He almost always lowered his voice when referring to death. ‘…Him. Do you deny it?’
‘Yes! That is, what exactly am I denying, sire?’
‘Your attempts to confuse this hearing are typical of the methods employed by your sort.’
‘Hearing? In what way does this represent a properly constituted legal tribunal, my lord?’
‘It’s officially constituted as far as the rules of my court are concerned.’
In other words the Prince was making it up as he went along, Talgorian thought. ‘If this is a form of trial, then I respectfully request the benefit of legal representation.’
‘There’s no need. I afford you something much better than that.’
‘Sire?’
‘You’re allowed to talk for yourself. Who’s more qualified to put your case?’
‘What case? How can I defend myself when I’m unaware of the exact nature of the offences I’m supposed to have committed?’
‘So you admit you have no case. That won’t go well for you.’
Talgorian wanted to scream. Instead he chose to speak as though to a child, which had worked in the past. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, Your Highness. If it were possible for you to graciously inform me, perhaps I could then assist Your Highness.’
The Prince lifted a sheet of vellum from his lap and spent an inordinate amount of time studying it. At length he said, ‘It amounts to treason.’
‘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.