Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [156]
Looking at the card before him in some consternation, Simkin regarded his hand thoughtfully. “Plotting against you, O Winning One,” he said with a shrug.
“Ah”—Blachloch smiled slightly, rubbing the tip of his finger along his blond mustache—“I guessed as much. What are they plotting?”
“Doing you in, that sort of thing,” Simkin replied. Looking up at Blachloch with a sweet smile, he laid a card down upon the warlock’s queen. “I’ll sacrifice this to protect my Knight.”
Blachloch’s expressionless face tightened. The lips compressed, drawing the mustache into a straight, thin line. “The Fool! That card has been played!”
“Oh, no, dear boy,” said Simkin with a yawn. “You must be mistaken—”
“I am never mistaken,” Blachloch retorted coldly. “I have followed the fall of the cards with the utmost attention. The Fool has been played, I tell you. Drumlor sacrificed it to protect his King …” The warlock looked at his henchman for confirmation.
“Y-yes,” stammered Drumlor. “I—I … That is—”
Having been invited to play simply so there would be three, Drumlor had neither love for nor interest in the game. Like many of the other guards, Blachloch had taught him to play in order that the warlock would have someone with which to game. These nights were nerve-racking experiences to poor Drumlor, who barely remembered the last card he had played, much less a card ten tricks earlier.
“Really, Blachloch, the only Fool this imbecile remembers is the one he saw this morning when he looked into the mirror. I say, if you’re going to get into a snit, go back through the tricks! It doesn’t matter anyway”—Simkin tossed his cards on the table—“you have defeated me. You always do.”
“It isn’t the winning,” Blachloch remarked, turning over Simkin’s cards and sorting through them, “it is the game itself—the calculating, the strategy, the ability to outwit your opponent. You should know that, Simkin. You and I play the game for the sake of the game, do we not, my friend?”
“I assure you, dear fellow,” said Simkin languidly, leaning back in his chair, “the game is the only reason I continue to exist on this wretched patch of grass and gravel we call a world. Without it, life would be so boring one might as well curl up into a ball and drop oneself into the river.”
“I will save you the trouble one day, Simkin,” Blachloch said mildly, sorting back through the tricks, flipping the cards over with skilled, rapid motions of his slender hands. “I do not tolerate those who mistakenly believe they can outwit me.” With a flick of his wrist, the warlock tossed a card in front of Simkin. There were now two Fool cards upon the table.
“It isn’t my fault,” said Simkin in aggrieved tones. “It’s your deck, after all. I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t trying to cheat me,” The young man sniffed and the orange silk appeared in his hand. Delicately, Simkin wiped his nose. “Frightful night out there. I think I have caught cold.”
An unusually strong gust of wind hit the house, causing timbers to creak. From somewhere nearby came a crash, a tree limb breaking off and falling to the ground. Shuffling the cards, Blachloch glanced out the window. His gaze suddenly became fixed.
“There’s a light in the forge.”
“Oh, that,” said Drumlor, starting. He had been nodding off to sleep, his body slowly sliding out of his chair to Simkin’s infinite amusement. Catching himself, the man struggled upright. “The smith’s got some men … workin’ late.”
“Indeed,” said Blachloch. Stacking cards neatly, he slid them across to Simkin. “Your deal. And remember, I am watching. Which of the men is working?”
“Joram,” said Simkin, sliding the cards over to Drumlor to cut.
A muscle twitched in Blachloch’s cheek, the eyes narrowed. The hand that had been negligently lying upon the table tensed, the fingers curling in upon each other slightly.