Triumph of the Darksword (33 page)

“I would not touch that if I were you, Major,” Bishop Vanya said coolly. “The
Duuk-tsarith
are standing guard outside the Cathedral. Should they catch a glimpse of you, I could do nothing to protect you.”

“It’s too damn hot in here!” the Major said hoarsely, tugging at his collar.

“The Major is somewhat claustrophobic,” began the Sorcerer.

“There is no need to apologize for the Major,” interrupted Bishop Vanya. “I know his type.”

Menju, leaning back in his chair, regarded the Bishop with a narrow-eyed, speculative gaze. Standing at the opposite end of the room, Major Boris wiped his sweat-covered head with a handkerchief and tugged at his collar. The Cardinal, responding to a swift gesture from his Bishop, rose noiselessly from his chair and went to keep the Major company. Coming up beside the Major, he began a desultory, one-sided conversation.

Bishop Vanya glanced toward Simkin, but a snore from the sofa indicated that the young man had, once again, fallen asleep.

His Holiness, having appeared to allow himself to be persuaded, regarded Menju with due seriousness. “I will, for the sake of the world, listen to what you have to offer. I do not think it necessary to concern the military in these matters, do you? They have so little understanding of the arts of negotiation and diplomacy.”

The Sorcerer made an assenting motion with his graceful hand. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Holiness.”

“Very well. My only desire is that we end this tragic war. As you say, I, too, believe Joram to be the cause. What is it, then, that you want of me?”

“Joram…
and
his wife. Alive.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?” the Sorcerer shrugged “Surely you—”

Vanya cut him off. “Joram is protected by the
Duuk-tsarith.
You have been gone a long time, but you
do
remember them, don’t you?”

It was obvious that the Sorcerer did. His face a shade paler, he glared at Vanya irritably. “I recall that you catalysts have a member of the
Duuk-tsarith
who acts for you alone.”

“Ah, the Executioner.” The Bishop nodded.

The Sorcerer became paler still, his breathing labored.

“I trust you are not claustrophobic, yourself,” the Bishop asked.

“No,” the Sorcerer answered with a ghastly smile. “I am troubled by … old memories.” Nervously, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

“The Executioner might serve our purpose,” began Vanya, frowning, though he saw the discomfiture of the magician with satisfaction. “However, the Font has ears and eyes and a mouth. Joram is now the mob’s darling. I cannot be involved in any incident—”

“I say,” came a fatigued voice, “just what do you intend doing with Joram anyway?”

The Bishop looked sharply at the magician, who looked sharply back at the Bishop. Both glanced wanly at Simkin. Still lying on the couch, his head propped up on his hand, he was regarding them with bored curiosity.

“He will be returned to my world for his just punishment,” said Menju.

“And his mad wife?”

“She will be given the care she needs!” the Sorcerer said sternly. “There are people on my world who are trained in treating insanity Joram has refused to allow them near her—”

“So Joram is to go back to
your world,”
Simkin continued, with a dreamy emphasis on the words, “while everyone on this world—”

“—remains here to live in peace and safety, secure from the machinations of Joram the archfiend, just as we discussed earlier,” Sorcerer interjected smoothly, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Simkin.

“Quite,” said Simkin, and rolled over on his back.

“In fact,” Menju continued, turning to face the Bishop after watching Simkin one final moment longer, “I can make arrangements for Joram’s trial to be broadcast to this planet. It will be a bond between our worlds. I think you will find it quite fascinating, Eminence. We have large metal boxes that we can set up right here in your office. By attaching some wires and cable, you can look into this box and see images of what is transpiring in our world millions of miles away—”

“Metal boxes! Wires and cable! Tools of the Dark Arts!” thundered Vanya. “Take Joram from this world, then leave us in peace!”

Menju smiled, shrugging. “As you will, Holiness. All of which brings us back to the question of Joram….”

“Oh, bosh!” said Simkin irritably, sitting up. “Do you realize that it’s past dinner time? And I haven’t had a thing to eat all day! All this talk of
Duuk-tsarith
and Executioners. Not conducive to whetting the appetite.” The orange silk came fluttering out of the air to land in Simkin’s hand. “You want Joram? Nothing simpler. You, O Toothy One”—he waved the silk at the Sorcerer—“are, I assume, capable of capturing him.”

“Yes, of course. But he must be taken unawares—he and his wife. He mustn’t suspect—”

“Nothing simpler! I have a plan,” interposed Simkin loftily. “Leave everything to me.”

Both Sorcerer and Vanya eyed Simkin warily.

“Begging your pardon, friend Simkin,” Menju said, “if I appear hesitant to accept your generous offer. But I know very little of you, except what Joram has told me, and we know him to be capable of any falsehood or deceit. Should I trust you?”

“I wouldn’t,” Simkin remarked frankly, smoothing his mustache. “There isn’t a soul who does—except one.” Humming to himself again, he formed the orange silk into a loop.

“And this is?”

“Joram.”

“Joram! Why should
he
trust you?”

“Because his is a perverse nature.” Simkin knotted the orange silk above the loop. “Because I have never given him any reason to trust me. Quite the contrary. Yet trust me he does I find it a constant source of amusement.”

Thrusting his head through the noose he had made in the orange silk, Simkin looked at the Sorcerer and winked.

Menju frowned. “I must protest, Holiness. I don’t like this scheme.”

Simkin yawned. “Oh, come now? Be
honest. It’s not the
scheme you don’t like. It’s me!” He sniffed. “I’m highly insulted. Or I would be,” he added after reflection, “if I weren’t so frightfully hungry.”

Bishop Vanya made a noise that might have been a laugh at the Sorcerer’s expense. Turning to confront him, the magician saw the sneer on the Bishop’s face and flushed.

“He admits we can’t trust him!” Menju said with some asperity.

“That is just his way,” Vanya said crisply. “Simkin has done work for us before and has proven satisfactory. From what you say, he has done work for you as well. Time is short. Do you have an alternate proposal?”

Menju regarded the Bishop coolly and thoughtfully. “No,” he replied.

“Ah!” Simkin laughed gaily. “As the Duchess d’Longville cried when her sixth husband dropped dead at her feet: ‘At last! At last!’ Now, down to business.” He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “This is going to be an incredible lark! When shall we do the deed?”

“It must be tomorrow,” the Sorcerer said. “If, according to you, he plans to attack us at nightfall, he must be stopped before then. After his capture, we can begin the peace negotiations.”

“There is just one small thing.” The Bishop hedged.
“You
may keep Joram and do what you like to him, but we want the Darksword returned.”

“I’m afraid that is quite out of the question,” the Sorcerer responded smoothly.

Vanya glared at him, scowling. “Then there is no further point in negotiating! Your terms are unacceptable!”

“Come, come, Holiness! After all, we are the ones threatened by your forces! We must protect ourselves from attack!
We
will keep the Darksword.”

The Bishop’s scowl became more pronounced—a difficult matter to achieve, with one side of his face hanging limp as his useless arm. “Why? What can it possibly matter to you?”

The Sorcerer shrugged. “The Darksword has become a symbol to your people. Losing it—and discovering that their ‘Emperor’ is, in reality, a murderer—will demoralize them. You hesitate over this trifle, Eminence! It’s just a sword, isn’t it?” he asked blandly.

“It is a weapon of evil!” Vanya replied in stern tones. “A tool of the devil!”

“Then you should welcome the opportunity to be rid of it!” Stretching his arms, the Sorcerer adjusted the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves. This time, however, his air was confident, his composure restored. “In return for this token of goodwill from your world, I will have Major Boris send a message to my world, canceling the reinforcements. Then your people and mine may begin serious peace negotiations. Do you agree?”

The Bishops nostrils flared. Glaring at the Sorcerer, he sucked air into his nose, the pudgy hand suddenly ceasing its spiderlike crawl over the desk, its fingers curling up like the toes of Simkin’s shoes. “It appears I have little choice.”

“Now, have you any suggestions regarding where and how we capture Joram?”

The Bishop shifted his body in his chair, causing the paralyzed left arm to slide off his lap. Surreptitiously, he caught hold of it, giving a sidelong look to see if the magician was watching. What a fool he takes me for! Vanya said to himself, settling the arm back in its place once more. So it’s the sword he’s after! Why? What does
he
know of it?

The Bishop appeared indifferent. “Capturing Joram must be up to you and Simkin, I’m afraid. I know nothing of sordid matters. I am a churchman, after all.”

“Oh, really!” Simkin heaved an exasperated sigh. “This has gone on quite long enough! Which was something else the Duchess said, her sixth taking an interminable length of time over dying. I told you I have it all planned.”

Spreading the orange silk out upon Vanya’s desk, Simkin waved his hand over it and letters appeared on its surface.

“Shh—” he hissed as Menju was about to read it aloud. “The Font has ears and eyes, you know. Meet me here”—he indicated the name of the place written on the silk scarf—“tomorrow at noon. You will have Joram and his wife, both completely at your mercy and unsuspecting as babes.”

Bishop Vanya, his lips pursed, his eyes practically buried in rolls of fat, took one look at the name of the location written on the silk and grew extremely pale. “This place is out of the question!”

“Why?” Menju asked coldly.

“Surely you know its history!” Vanya said, regarding the Sorcerer incredulously.

“Pah! I have not believed in ghosts since I was five! From descriptions I vaguely recall reading of this place, it will suit our purposes admirably. Plus I begin to see the inklings of Simkin’s plan to get Joram there without suspicion. Most ingenuous, my friend.” The magician glanced down his elegant nose at the Bishop. “You are not using this pretense to wriggle out of our agreement, are you, Holiness?”

“Far from it!” Vanya protested earnestly. “I am concerned only for your safety, Menju.”

“Thank you, Eminence.” The Sorcerer rose from his chair.

“Remember, you have been warned. You will handle everything?” The Bishop remained seated, concealing his handicap.

“Certainly, Holiness.”

“Then I believe that it is all we have to say to each other.”

“Yes, although there
is
one more matter we need settled.” The Sorcerer turned to Simkin. “You are entitled to a handsome reward for your services, Simkin. That is, I assume, why you’re doing this, after all….”

“No, no!” protested Simkin, looking deeply offended. “Patriotic. I regret that I have but one friend to give for my country.”

“I insist that you accept something!”

“I couldn’t possibly,” said Simkin loftily, but with a glance at Menju from beneath half-shut eyelids.

“My world, and this one”—Menju gestured at Vanya—“will be eternally grateful.”

“Well, perhaps there
is
one small favor you can do for me, now that you mention it.” Simkin drew the orange silk slowly between his fingers.

“Name it! Jewels? Gold?”

“Bah! What do I need with filthy lucre? I ask only one thing—take me back to your world.”

The Sorcerer appeared considerably astonished at this request. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“As serious as I generally am about anything,” Simkin replied offhandedly. “No, wait. I take that back. I fancy I’m more serious about this than usual.”

“Well, well. Is that all? Take you with me?” Menju laughed expansively. “Nothing easier! It’s quite a brilliant idea, in fact! The hit you will make as part of my act! You will be the toast of the universe without doubt, my friend! I can see the marquee now!” The magician waved his hand.
“THE SORCERER
and Simkin!”

“Mmmm….” The young man smoothed his mustache thoughtfully. “Well, well. We can discuss
that
later. For now, we really must be going. Collect the Major, don our disguises, and return to those remarkably ugly buildings in which you odd people choose to dwell.”

Rising slowly up into the air, his red brocade dressing gown flashing like flame in the bright lights of the Bishop’s chambers, Simkin drifted over to the tapestry-covered wall.

As he passed by Menju, muttered words came floating back.
“SIMKIN
and the Sorcerer …”