Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [79]
“Change your clothes,” said Blachloch.
“Don’t be such a boor …” the young man started to protest in aggrieved tones.
Blachloch neither moved nor spoke.
“You find my outfit highly ridiculous. You find me highly ridiculous,” said the young man cheerfully, “but you use me anyway, don’t you, my Lord of Benevolence?” Slowly, the colors of the young man’s clothes deepened and darkened, their very shape and nature changing until he was dressed from head to toe in black robes that were an exact copy of Blachloch’s, with only small exceptions. The sleeves were too long and the hood too big, the one completely engulfing his hands, the other drooping down over his eyes to touch his nose. Tilting his head back in order to see, the young man smiled.
“I say, ‘Halt, miscreant!’” He waved his silk in the air. “Isn’t that what you Enforcer chaps say all the time? I rather like this—”
“Where have you been, Simkin?” asked Blachloch.
“Oh, out and about, hither and yon, here and there,” replied the young man in bored tones. Reaching over, dragging the long black sleeve across the desk, Simkin picked up the quill pen from beside Blachloch’s ledger. Leaning back, he tickled himself on the nose with the feather, sniffed, snorted, and finally sneezed prodigiously with the result that the hood flew down, completely covering his head.
Blachloch’s man in the back of the room made a kind of grunting sound, his hands clenching as though they had the young man in their grasp and were enjoying their work. Blachloch still neither moved nor spoke aloud, but Simkin, pushing back the hood, suddenly shifted uncomfortably and very carefully laid the quill back down on the desk.
“I went to the village,” he said in a subdued voice.
“You should have told me you were going.”
“I didn’t think of it.” Simkin shrugged. His nose twitched. “Ahch—” Starting to sneeze again, he caught Blachloch’s eye, and hastily pinched his nostrils together with a delicate hand.
The warlock waited a moment before speaking.
Smiling in relief, Simkin removed his fingers from his nose.
“Someday you will go too far—” Blachloch began.
“Choo!” Simkin’s sneeze descended like rain on the warlock’s ledger.
Without a word, Blachloch reached out his white hand, shut the ledger, and stared coldly at the young man across from him.
“Frightfully sorry,” Simkin apologized meekly. Taking the bit of orange silk, he began dabbing at the desktop. “Here, let me mop this up.”
“Dra-ach,” spoke the warlock, freezing Simkin in place with a motion of his hand. “Continue.”
Unable to move, Simkin made a most pathetic sound with his frozen mouth.
“You can talk,” Blachloch said. “Do so.”
Simkin did as he was told, his lips alone moving in his stiff face. His words coming slowly as he worked to form them, he looked very much like a man having a fit. “Where … was … I? The … village. It … is … true. Catalyst … there.” Halting, he cast Blachloch a pleading glance.
The warlock relented. “Ach-dra,” he said, removing the spell. Sinking back in his chair, Simkin massaged his jaw and felt his face with his hands as though reassuring himself it was still there. Glancing at Blachloch out of the corner of his eyes like a punished child, he continued sullenly, “And he isn’t going to be there long, from what I’ve heard.”
Blachloch’s face remained expressionless, giving the impression that it was only the sunlight glinting in his cold eyes that made them gleam. “He is a renegade, as we were informed?”
“Well, as to that”—Simkin, feeling the atmosphere thaw slightly, dared to lift the bit of silk and dab at his nose—“I don’t think renegade quite describes the catalyst. Pitiful is much nearer the mark. But it is true that he intends to journey into the Outland. Bishop Vanya ordered him to go. Which leads me to believe”—Simkin leaned over the desk, lowering his voice conspiratorially—“that he is doing so under duress, if you take my meaning.”
“Bishop Vanya.” Blachloch sent a swift glance to