Forging the Darksword (25 page)

“Someday you will go too far—” Blachloch began.

“Choo!”
Simkin’s sneeze descended like rain on the warlock’s ledger.

Without a word, Blachloch reached out his white hand, shut the ledger, and stared coldly at the young man across from him.

“Frightfully sorry,” Simkin apologized meekly. Taking the bit of orange silk, he began dabbing at the desktop. “Here, let me mop this up.”

“Dra-ach,”
spoke the warlock, freezing Simkin in place with a motion of his hand. “Continue.”

Unable to move, Simkin made a most pathetic sound with his frozen mouth.

“You can talk,” Blachloch said. “Do so.”

Simkin did as he was told, his lips alone moving in his stiff face. His words coming slowly as he worked to form them, he looked very much like a man having a fit. “Where … was … I? The … village. It … is … true. Catalyst … there.” Halting, he cast Blachloch a pleading glance.

The warlock relented.
“Ach-dra
,” he said, removing the spell. Sinking back in his chair, Simkin massaged his jaw and felt his face with his hands as though reassuring himself it was still there. Glancing at Blachloch out of the corner of his eyes like a punished child, he continued sullenly, “And he isn’t going to be there long, from what I’ve heard.”

Blachloch’s face remained expressionless, giving the impression that it was only the sunlight glinting in his cold eyes that made them gleam. “He
is
a renegade, as we were informed?”

“Well, as to that”—Simkin, feeling the atmosphere thaw slightly, dared to lift the bit of silk and dab at his nose—“I don’t think
renegade
quite describes the catalyst.
Pitiful
is much nearer the mark. But it is true that he intends to journey into the Outland. Bishop Vanya ordered him to go. Which leads me to believe”—Simkin leaned over the desk, lowering his voice conspiratorially—“that he is doing so under duress, if you take my meaning.”

“Bishop Vanya.” Blachloch sent a swift glance to his henchman, who grinned, nodded, and began to walk forward.

“Yes, he was there,” Simkin returned, smiling charmingly and leaning back in his chair, perfectly at ease once more, “along with the Emperor and the Empress. It was quite a merry party, I assure you.” He twirled one end of his mustache between his fingers. “At last, I felt I was truly in the company of my peers. ‘Simkin’ said the Empress, ‘I adore the color of hose you are wearing. Please tell me the name of the shade, so that I may copy it…’ ‘Majesty,’ I replied, ‘I call it
Night of the Peacock.
’ And she said—”

“Simkin, you are a liar,” said Blachloch in an expressionless voice as the grinning henchman advanced.

“No, really, ’pon my honor,” Simkin protested, hurt, “I truly do call it
Night of the Peacock.
But I assure you, I wouldn’t dream of telling her how to copy it …”

Blachloch picked up his pen and returned to his work as his man drew nearer.

In a flash of color, Simkin changed back to his exotic clothes. Rising to his feet gracefully, he glanced around. “Don’t touch me, lout,” he said, sniffing and wiping his nose. Then, placing the silk in the sleeve of his coat, he looked down at the warlock. “By the way, Cruel and Pitiless One, would you like me to offer my services to this catalyst as guide through the wilderness? Something incredibly nasty’s liable to snatch him otherwise. Waste of a good catalyst, wouldn’t you say?”

Apparently absorbed in his work, Blachloch said without looking up, “So there really is a catalyst.”

“In a few weeks, he’ll be standing before you.”

“Weeks?” The henchman snorted. “A catalyst? Let me and the boys go after him. We’ll have him back here in minutes. He’ll open the Corridors to us and—”

“And the
Thon-Li
the Corridor Masters, will slam shut the gate.” Simkin sneered. “Neatly trapped you’d be then. I can’t think why you keep these imbeciles around, Blachloch, unless, like rats, they’re cheap to feed. Personally, I prefer vermin ….”

The henchman made a lunge at Simkin, whose coat suddenly bristled with thorns.

Blachloch moved his hand; both men froze in place. The warlock had not even looked up but continued to write in the ledger.

“A catalyst,” Simkin murmured through stiff lips. “What … power … give us! Combine … iron and magic ….”

Raising his head, ceasing to write, though he kept his pen poised, the warlock looked at Simkin. With a word, he removed the spell.

“How did you discover this? You weren’t seen?”

“Of course not!” Lifting his pointed chin, Simkin stared down at Blachloch in injured dignity. “Am I not a master of disguise, as you well know? I sat in his very hovel, upon his very table—a very teapot! Not only did he
not
suspect me.
he even washed and dried me and set me on his shelf quite nicely. I—”

Blachloch silenced Simkin with a glance. “Meet him in the wilderness. Use whatever tomfoolery you need to get him here.” The cold blue eyes froze the young man as effectively as the magical spell. “But get him here. Alive. I want this catalyst more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. Bring him and there will be rich reward. Return without him and I will drown you in the river. Do you understand me, Simkin?”

The warlock’s eyes did not waver.

Simkin smiled. “I understand you, Blachloch,” he said softly. “Don’t I always?”

With a sweeping bow, he started to take his leave, his mauve cape trailing the floor behind.

“Oh, and Simkin,” Blachloch said, returning to his work.

Simkin turned. “My liege?” he asked.

Blachloch ignored the sarcasm. “Have something unpleasant happen to the catalyst. Nothing serious, mind you. Just convince him that it would be unwise for him to ever think of leaving us ….”

“Ah …” remarked Simkin reflectively. “Now this w
ill
be a pleasure. Farewell, lout,” he said, patting the guard on the cheek with his hand. “Igh …” Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange cloth and swept majestically out the door.

“Say the word …” muttered the guard, glaring through the doorway after the young man, who was sauntering through camp like a walking rainbow.

Blachloch did not even deign to reply. He was, once more, working in the ledger.

“Why do you put up with that fool?” snarled the guard.

“The same might be asked of you,” Blachloch answered in his expressionless voice. “And I might make the same reply. Because he is a useful fool and because someday I w
ill
drown him.”

Lost

“W
hat was that?” Jacobias, roused from a deep sleep, sat up in bed and looked around the dark hut, searching for the noise that had awakened him.

There it came again, a timid tapping sound.

“It’s someone at the door,” his wife whispered, sitting up beside him. Her hand clutched his arm. “Maybe it’s Mosiah!”

“Humpf,” the Field Magus grunted as he tossed aside the covers and drifted effortlessly across the floor on wings of magic. A soft word of command broke the seal on the door, and the magus peered out cautiously.

“Father Saryon!” he said in amazement.

“I—I’m sorry to awaken you,” stammered the catalyst. “May I disturb you further and—and invite myself in? It’s really quite urgent, imperative that I speak to you!” he added in a desperate tone, staring pleadingly at Mosiah’s father.

“Sure, sure, Father,” Jacobias said, backing up and opening the door. The catalyst stepped inside, his tall, spare figure in its green robes outlined for an instant in the light of a full
moon that was rising in the sky. The moonlight shone for a moment on Jacobias’s face as he exchanged glances with his startled wife, who was sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets to her chest. Then he shut the door, extinguishing the moonlight and plunging the room into darkness. A word from the magus, however, caused a warm light to glow among the branches of the tree that formed the ceiling.

“Please, put that out!” Saryon said, shrinking away from it and glancing fearfully out the window.

Completely mystified, Jacobias did as he was asked, dousing the light, leaving them in darkness once more. A rustling sound from the bed indicated that his wife was getting up.

“Can I get you some … something, Father?” she asked hesitantly. “A … a cup of tea?” What
did
one say to a catalyst who comes into your home at midnight, especially one who looks as if he were being pursued by demons?

“No—no, thank you,” replied Saryon. “I …”he began, but cleared his throat and fell silent.

The three stood in the dark, listening to each other breathe for several moments. Then there was another rustle and a grunt from Jacobias in response to his wife jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Is there something we can do for you, then, Father?”

“Yes,” said Saryon. Drawing a deep breath, he launched into his lines. “That is, I hope so. I’m—uh—desperate, you see, and—uh—I was told—that is I heard—that you had—that you might be able to—” At this point he dried up, the words he’d so carefully prepared flying completely out of his head. Hoping they would come home again, the catalyst latched onto a word he remembered. “Desperate, you see, and—” But it was useless. Saryon gave up. “I need your help,” he said finally, simply. “I’m going into the Outland.”

If the Emperor had appeared in his hut and said
be
was going into the Outland, Jacobias would have probably not been much more astonished. The moonlight had crept in through the window now and was shining on the balding, middle-aged catalyst standing stoop-shouldered in the center of the cabin, clutching a sack of what Jacobias realized must be all his worldly possessions. A noise from his wife, sounding suspiciously like a smothered, nervous giggle, brought a
rebuking cough from her husband, who said sharply, “I think we’ll take that tea, woman. You’d best sit down, Father.”

Saryon shook his head, glancing out the window. “I—I must be gone, while the moon is full …”

“Moon’ll be up for a while yet,” Jacobias said complacently, sinking into a chair as his wife prepared the tea over a small fire she caused to spring up in the grate. “Now, Father Saryon”—the magus eyed the catalyst as sternly as he might have eyed his teen-aged son—“what is this nonsense about goin’ into the Outland?”

“I must. I’m desperate,” repeated Saryon, sitting down, still clutching his sack of belongings to his chest. And indeed, he did look desperate as he sat at the crude little table across from the Field Magus. “Please don’t try to stop me and don’t ask me any questions. Just grant me the aid I need and let me go. I will be all right. Our lives are in the hands of the Almin, after all—”

“Father,” interrupted Jacobias, “I know that among your Order, to be sent here to the Fields is a punishment. Now, I don’t know what sin you committed, nor do I want to know.” He held up his hand, thinking Saryon might speak. “But, whatever it is, I’m certain ’tis not worth throwing your life away. Stay here with us, do your service.”

Saryon simply shook his head.

Staring at him a moment, Jacobias frowned. Shifting in his chair, he appeared uncomfortable. “I—It’s not in me to talk of such things as I’m goin’ to say now, Father. Your god and I have been on fairly good terms, neither one of us askin’ much from t’other. I never felt close to Him, nor He to me, and I figured that’s the way He wanted it. Least, that’s the way Father Tolban seemed to figure. But you’re different, Father. Some of the things
you’ve
said have started me to wonderin’. When
you
say we’re in the hands of the Almin, I can almost believe you mean me, too, not just yourself and t’Bishop.”

Completely taken aback, Saryon stared at the man. He had certainly not expected this and felt ashamed, because it suddenly occurred to him that when he said, “We’re in the hands of the Almin,” he himself didn’t really believe it. Otherwise, why would he be so frightened of venturing out into
the wilderness? It’s just as well I’m going, he thought bitterly. I’m a hypocrite now, too, apparently.

Seeing Saryon silent, obviously lost in reflection, Jacobias mistakenly assumed the catalyst was reconsidering. “Stay here with us, Father,” the Field Magus urged gently. “It’s not a good life, but it’s not a bad ’un either. There’s lots worse, believe me.” Jacobias’s voice lowered. “Go out there”—he nodded toward the window—“and you’ll find it.”

Saryon bowed his head, his shoulders slumping, his face pale and tight with fear.

“I see,” said Jacobias after a pause. “So that’s the way of it, is it? These words I’m sayin’ are nothin’ new to you, are they, Father. Ye’ve been hearin’ them in yer own heart. Someone or something is making you go.”

“Yes,” said Saryon quietly. “Don’t ask me any more. I’m a terrible liar.”

Neither spoke as Jacobias’s wife sent the tea floating to the table, where it spilled itself into cups shaped of polished horn. Sitting down beside her husband, she took his hand in hers and held onto it tightly.

“Is it because of our son?” she asked in a frightened voice.

Raising his head, Saryon looked at both of them, his face pale and drawn in the moonlight. “No,” he said softly. Then, seeing her about to speak, he shook his head. “We do what we have to do.”