Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [77]
His mind in turmoil, he laid his head on the back of his clenched hands and tried to understand what was happening. But it was beyond him. How clear and simple and pure were the equations of his art. How neatly and logically the world of mathematics fell into place. How dreadful it was, to step into the world of chaos!
Yet, he had no choice. And he would be serving his country, his Emperor, his Church. How much better than believing himself a criminal! The thought gave him courage, and he was able to stand.
“I need something to do,” he muttered to himself. “Something to keep my mind off this or I’ll think myself into a panic again.” In an effort to compose himself, Saryon began to perform the small household tasks around his dwelling that he had, in his despair, carelessly put off.
Taking the teapot from where it stood upon the table, he washed and dried it and put it upon the shelf. He swept the floor and even had the heart, finally, to begin packing a few possessions in preparation for the journey. When he realized he was tired enough that sleep would overtake him, he lay down upon the hard cot. Closing his eyes, he was just slipping into darkness when a thought suddenly occurred to him.
He didn’t own a teapot.
2
Simkin
Blachloch sat at a desk within his brick dwelling, the best and biggest in the camp, deeply absorbed in his work. Through an open window the morning sun shone bright upon a ledger spread open beneath the warlock’s hand. Soft air, sweet with the smell of late summer, accompanied the sunshine, bringing with it sounds of rustling trees, the murmur of voices, the occasional shout of children at play or the harsh, deep laughter of his henchmen, who lounged about outside his cabin. And always, above and below the sounds of life and the seasons, rang the sounds of the forge, clanging rhythmically like the tolling of a bell.
Blachloch noticed all of this and none of it. The least change in one of any of those sounds, the switching of the wind’s direction, a fight among the children, the lowering of a man’s voice, and Blachloch’s ears would have pricked like a cat’s. A cessation of sound from the forge would have caused him to raise his head and, with a soft-spoken word of command, send one of his men to find out the reason why. This is what the Duuk-tsarith are trained for—to be aware of everything going on around them, to be in control of everything, yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it. Thus Blachloch was aware of everything that occurred in the coven, thus he controlled it, though he seldom left his dwelling place, and then only to lead his men upon their silent deadly raids or, as had happened recently, on a trip to the northern lands.
Blachloch had just returned from Sharakan, and it was because of his successful negotiations there that he was penning figures in the ledger. He worked swiftly and accurately, rarely making a mistake, writing the numbers in neat, orderly fashion. Everything around him was arranged in neat, orderly fashion, from his furniture to his blond hair, from his thoughts to his clipped, blond mustache. All was neat, ordered, cold, calculated, precise.
A knock on the door did not interrupt Blachloch. Having been aware of his man’s approach for some time, the former Enforcer did not stop his work. Nor did he speak. The Duuk-tsarith rarely speak, knowing well the intimidating value of silence.
“Simkin is back,” came the report through the door.
This was unexpected, apparently, for the slender, white hand writing the figures paused an instant, hanging suspended above the page as the brain that guided it dealt swiftly with this matter.
“Bring him.”
Whether these words were spoken or simply flashed into the guard’s head was a question no one bothered to consider when addressed by one of the Duuk-tsarith, who were trained in mind reading and mind control, among other arts suitable to those