Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [11]
“Thank you,” Joram said grudgingly.
“Don’t thank me. I would to the Almin that it were at the bottom of the river!” Saryon said fervently. “Especially after this nights business!” He raised his hands pleadingly. “Reconsider, Joram! Destroy this weapon of evil before it destroys you!”
“No!” Avoiding the catalysts sorrow-filled eyes, Joram angrily shoved the bundle back beneath the bed. “You saw the power it gave me during tonight’s business. Do you truly believe I’d give that up? It’s my concern, not yours, old man!”
“It is my concern,” Saryon said softly. “I was there! I helped you commit mur —” The catalyst bit off his words, glancing at Simkin.
“It’s all right,” Joram said, standing up. “Simkin knows.”
Of course, Saryon said to himself bitterly. Simkin knows everything, somehow. The catalyst had the feeling that truth — his guide through the morass — had just left him floundering in a bog.
“In fact,” Joram continued, sinking down on the bed, “you should thank him, Catalyst. I would never have been able to complete ‘last nights business,’ as you call it, without him.”
“Yes,” said Simkin cheerfully, turning from the window. “He was going to dump the body just any old place and, of course, that wouldn’t do at all. I mean, you want this to look like centaurs killed dear old Blachloch, don’t you? ’Pon my honor. The warlock’s — pardon: late, unlamented warlocks — henchmen are stupid, but, I ask you, are they that stupid?
“Suppose that they find their erstwhile master at the foot of some tree with a great, bloody hole in his gut and not a track or weapon in sight. Is it likely, I wonder, that they’d remark casually, ‘Zounds! Looks like old Blachloch’s got himself done in by a maple!’ Not on your Aunt Minnie! They’d hurry back here, line everyone up in the square, and ask nasty, insulting questions like ‘Where were you between the hours of ten and twelve?’ and ‘What was the dog doing in the nighttime?’ So, to avoid that, we arranged the body — quite tastefully, I assure you — in a picturesque attitude in the center of a small glade, complete with embellishing touches.”
Saryon felt suddenly sick. He saw Joram leaving the forge, the warlock’s corpse slung over his shoulders, Blachloch’s limp arms dangling down behind. The catalysts knees gave way. Sinking down into a chair, he couldn’t help staring in horror at Joram, at the bloodstained shirt.
Joram followed the catalyst’s gaze, glancing down at himself. His mouth twisted. “This make you squeamish, old man?”
“You should get rid of it,” said Saryon quietly. “Before the guards see it.”
Joram stared at him a moment, then, shrugging, he tugged at the shirt. “Simkin,” he ordered, “start a fire —”
“My dear fellow!” Simkin protested. “Waste of a perfectly good shirt. Toss it here. Remove the stain in an instant. The Duchess D’Longeville showed me — You remember hearing of her, the one with all the husbands who kept dying mysteriously. An expert on stains, too. ‘Nothing easier to take out than dried blood, Simkin, my dear,’ she said to me. ‘Most people make such a fuss over it.’ All you do is —” Catching the shirt as Joram threw it, Simkin shook it out, then rubbed the stain vigorously with the bit of orange silk. At its touch, the blood vanished. “There, what’d I tell you? Pure and white as the driven snow. Well, not counting that grime around the collar.” Simkin regarded the shirt with a disdainful smile.
“What about the body?” Saryon interrupted hoarsely. “What ‘touches’?”
“Centaur tracks!” Simkin smiled proudly. “My idea.”
“Tracks? How?”
“Why, turned myself into a centaur, of course,” Simkin replied, leaning back against the wall. “Jolly fun. Do it on occasion to relax. I stomped about, tore