Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [167]
“Warlock could turn them to a heap o’ molten iron, just as they started out,” he was saying to himself gloomily, preparing to leave for the night, when he heard a noise.
“What’s that?” he called out hesitantly, thinking that it might be Blachloch returning. “Who’s there?”
There came a tremendous crash, followed by an oath. Then a plaintive voice rose up from the depths of the shadows in the back of the cavern. “I say, I’m in rather a fix here. Could you give me a hand? Not literally, mind you,” the voice added hastily. “Disgusting trick of the Marquis d’Winter. Same old joke, year after year. Yanks it off at the wrist. I’ve told the Emperor he’d stop doing it if nobody laughed, but—”
“Simkin?” said the smith in astonishment, hurrying through the forge to the back of the cavern where he found the young man attempting unsuccessfully to extricate himself from beneath a mound of tools and implements. “What are you doing, lad?”
“Shhh,” whispered Simkin. “No one’s to know I’m here ….”
“A bit late for that, ain’t it?” asked the smith grimly. “You’ve just waked up half the town by now—”
“It wasn’t my fault,” said Simkin peevishly, casting a scathing glance at the pile of tools. “I was—Oh, never mind,” He lowered his voice. “Was Blachloch here today?”
“Yes,” growled the smith, glancing about nervously.
“Did he find anything, take anything? It’s quite urgent that I know.” Simkin looked at the smith anxiously.
The smith hesitated, frowning. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you. He didn’t keep it a secret. He found a crucible.”
“Crucible?” Simkin raised an eyebrow. “That’s all? I mean, I suppose you have lots of them, lying about.”
“Yeah, we do. That’s what ’e found, though, and ’e took it with ’im. Now, you best come out the front with me. How’d you get in, without my seein’ you?” the smith asked as an afterthought, staring at Simkin suspiciously.
“Oh, I’m easily overlooked.” The young man waved his hand negligently, his bright clothes glistening brilliantly in the light of the banked forge fire. “About this crucible. There wasn’t something odd with it, was there?”
The smith’s frown deepened. Snapping his lips shut, he marshaled Simkin toward the front of the cavern.
“Some sort of strange something in it, for example,” the young man continued nonchalantly, tripping over a mold.
“I wouldn’t know,” said the smith coldly when they finally reached the front of the cavern. “An’ you kin tell whoever’s interested that there’s to be no more night work. Not for a long time. Maybe never.” The smith shook his head gloomily.
“Night work?” repeated Simkin with a shrug and a strange smile. “Ah, I think you’re wrong about that. There’ll be one more piece of night work—but it needn’t concern you,” he said reassuringly to the startled smith, who—glancing at him grimly—shut the door to the forge and sealed it with a magical spell.
10
The Fall of the Cards
The Chamber of Discretion was a one-way-only communication device. Bishop Vanya could contact his minions. They could not contact him. Thus the early designers made certain that the minion remained under the power of his master. It did have a drawback, however, and this was that the master could not be contacted on matters of urgency or those that required immediate instruction. This drawback did not bother Vanya overmuch, the Bishop being in such complete control that he deemed it unlikely any such situation should arise.
He was somewhat disagreeably startled, therefore, to enter the Chamber of Discretion on this late fall evening and feel the very darkness around him humming and vibrating with energy. Though minions could not contact him, the Chamber was so sensitive to the minds of those it touched that any of them, concentrating their thoughts upon their master, could make him aware of their need.
Annoyed, Vanya sat