Triumph of the Darksword Read online

  How can I make use of him …?

  “Speaking of language, I am amazed that Simkin was able to speak ours so quickly,” said the Sorcerer.

  “Nothing about Simkin amazes me,” growled Vanya, glaring at the red-clad figure. Reclining leisurely on a couch in the Bishop’s luxurious office, the young man had apparently dozed off during a discussion of prepositional phrases and was snoring loudly.

  “Joram has a theory about him, you know,” said the Sorcerer casually, though the Bishop thought he detected a glint in the man’s eyes, the look of a card player endeavoring to calculate what his opponent holds. “He claims that Simkin is the personification of this world—magic in its purest form.”

  “An ugly thought and one typical of Joram,” Vanya said sourly, not liking this sudden interest in Simkin. The Fool was a wild card in any deck, and the Bishop had been trying for well over an hour to consider how best to toss him away. “I trust that we as a people are better represented than by this undisciplined, amoral, unfeeling—”

  “I say!” Simkin sat up, blinking and peering around in a dazed state. “Did I hear my name?”

  Vanya snorted. “If you are bored, why don’t you leave us?”

  “E’gad!” Simkin yawned, slumping back down on the couch. “Is there going to be much more vocabulary? Because, if so, I think I will go dangle my participle in more entertaining and interesting surroundings….”

  “No, no,” said Menju, his teeth flashing in a charming smile. “I beg your pardon, Simkin, my good friend, for putting you to sleep. Linguistics is a hobby of mine,” he added, turning back to Bishop Vanya, “and I find this discussion of our language with one so knowledgeable as yourself a true treat. I hope that in the future we will spend many pleasant hours in such discussions, if that is agreeable to Your Eminence?” Vanya nodded coolly. “But Simkin quite properly reminds us that time is short. We must exchange these pleasant topics for others of a serious nature.”!

  Menju’s handsome face grew grave. “I know you will concur with our earnest desire that this tragic and accidental war come to an end before irreparable damage is done to any relations that might be established between our two worlds, Holiness.”

  “Amen!” said the Cardinal fervently.

  Vanya started, having forgotten his ministers presence, and, with an icy glance, silently rebuked him for speaking out of turn. The Cardinal cringed. Simkin, with a prodigious yawn, propped his feet up on the arm of the sofa and lay there admiring the curled toes of his shoes, humming a tune on a shrill, off-key note that had the effect of instantly irritating everyone present.

  “I concur in your desire for peace,” Bishop Vanya said cautiously, feeling his way ahead, his pudgy hand crawling over the desk, “but as you said there were, tragically, many lives lost. Not the least of which was the life of our beloved Emperor Xavier. The people feel his loss quite keenly—Will you stop that!” This to Simkin, who had launched into a funeral dirge.

  “Beg pardon,” Simkin said meekly “Got carried away by my feelings for the deceased!” Covering his face with a sofa cushion, he began to weep loudly.

  Vanya sucked in a quantity of air through his nose and shifted his great bulk in his chair, keeping his mouth tightly shut so that he would not say something he might later regret. He noticed the flutter of a knowing smile on the Sorcerer’s lips. Obviously, the magician knew Simkin. …

  But why should that surprise me? Vanya thought resignedly, letting out the air with a whoosh, like a deflating bladder. Everyone knows Simkin.

  “I truly understand your people’s grief,” Menju was saying, “and I am certain that, although there is nothing we can do to bring back their beloved leader, some sort of reparation can be made.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps.” Vanya sighed heavily. “But much as I agree with you, sir, I fear the matter is out of my hands. Joram, that notorious criminal, has hoodwinked not only your people but ours as well. There are even rumors to the effect,” the Bishop added casually, “that it was Joram who was responsible for Xavier’s death….”

  Menju smiled, understanding Vanya’s plan instantly.

  The Bishop turned over his fat hand, reluctantly showing all his cards. “Be that as it may, Joram caused himself to be proclaimed Emperor of Merilon. He and a vainglorious man—one Garald, Prince of the city-state of Sharakan—are going to pursue this terrible war.”

  The magician and the Major exchanged glances at this—the cold and wary glances of reluctant allies, but allies nonetheless.

  “I know that we are technically enemies, Bishop Vanya,” the Sorcerer said hesitantly, “but in the name of peace if you could tell us what you know about their plans, perhaps we could find some way of forestalling them, of keeping more lives from being lost….”

  Bishop Vanya frowned, his hand closed into a fist. “I am no traitor, sir—”

  “They’re attacking you tomorrow night,” interposed Simkin languidly. Casting aside the sofa cushion, he blew his nose on the orange silk. “Joram and Garald plan on wiping you out. Obliterating you from the face of this world. Not even a trace of your bodies will be left behind,” he continued cheerfully, tossing the orange silk away into the air.

  “It was Joram’s idea. When your world doesn’t hear the tiniest little peep from you, they will, hopefully, presume the worst has happened. The shell crushed, the chick dead; the cuckoo will think twice about laying eggs in this nest again. By which time, of course, we will have the henhouse repaired, the magical Border firmly intact once more. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Traitor! Why have you told them!” Bishop Vanya cried with a great show of anger, slamming his good hand down on his desk.

  “It’s only fair,” Simkin returned, glancing at the Bishop in astonishment. “After all,” he continued, raising a foot in the air and causing the toe of the shoe to uncurl, “I told Joram all their plans—the reinforcements coming…. Just as I was instructed….”

  “Reinforcements? Simkin instructed! What is the meaning of this?” Vanya demanded “You said you came here in peace! Now I find that you are apparently adding to your military might Not only that”—he waved a fat hand at Simkin—“but you are using this young man as a spy? Perhaps that is why you are here now! I will call for the Duuk-tsarith.”

  The Sorcerer’s composure slipped the tiniest bit. The Bishop did not miss the swift, intense flare of anger in Menju’s eyes, or the look he cast at Simkin. If this Sorcerer were Duuk-tsarith, Simkin would be a smudge of grease upon the sofa. So, Vanya thought smugly, Menju doesn’t know the Fool that well, after all.

  “Please do nothing in haste, Holiness,” Menju said in mollifying tones. “Surely you can understand that we have to act to protect ourselves? The additional troops we called for are to be used only if we are attacked again by your people.”

  Major Boris’s boot scraped against the floor Vanya, darting a swift glance at him, saw the man shift nervously in his seat.

  “As for spies, we stumbled upon this fellow spying on our headquarters and—”

  Simkin, with a smile, caused the toe of his shoes to curl back up. “What can I say?” he responded modestly “I was bored.”

  “—and finding that he took a sensible view of this situation,” the Sorcerer continued, somewhat irritated at the interruption, “we sent him back to Joram, hoping, I confess, to frighten him into suing for peace.”

  Menju paused, then leaned forward, laying his hand upon Vanya’s desk. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest. “Let us be candid with each other, Holiness. Joram is the cause of this dreadful war. A dark and passionate nature such as his, combined with a keen intelligence, must make him a criminal, an outcast in any society.” The Sorcerer’s handsome face grew shadowed. “I understand he committed murder on this world. He has done that and worse in ours.”

  Bishop Vanya was appearing carefully dubious.

  “Joram was gone for ten years from Thimhallan? Why do you think he bothered to return? Because of his great love for it?”
The Sorcerer scoffed at the idea. “You and I both know better than that! Often Joram has bragged to me how he escaped the punishment he so richly deserved. In the same way, he escaped punishment to which he was sentenced in our world. He came back here because he is being hunted, pursued! He came back here, so he has told me, to have his revenge! To fulfill the Prophecy!”

  Major Boris sprang to his feet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked rapidly to the end of the room. Vanya could see a red flush spreading up the back of the man’s thick neck, just above the collar of his shirt. Arriving at the transparent wall, the major stretched forth a hand to push aside the tapestry.

  “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?