Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [80]
“Yes, he was there,” Simkin returned, smiling charmingly and leaning back in his chair, perfectly at ease once more, “along with the Emperor and the Empress. It was quite a merry party, I assure you.” He twirled one end of his mustache between his fingers. “At last, I felt I was truly in the company of my peers. ‘Simkin’ said the Empress, ‘I adore the color of hose you are wearing. Please tell me the name of the shade, so that I may copy it…’ ‘Majesty,’ I replied, ‘I call it Night of the Peacock.’ And she said—”
“Simkin, you are a liar,” said Blachloch in an expressionless voice as the grinning henchman advanced.
“No, really, ’pon my honor,” Simkin protested, hurt, “I truly do call it Night of the Peacock. But I assure you, I wouldn’t dream of telling her how to copy it …”
Blachloch picked up his pen and returned to his work as his man drew nearer.
In a flash of color, Simkin changed back to his exotic clothes. Rising to his feet gracefully, he glanced around. “Don’t touch me, lout,” he said, sniffing and wiping his nose. Then, placing the silk in the sleeve of his coat, he looked down at the warlock. “By the way, Cruel and Pitiless One, would you like me to offer my services to this catalyst as guide through the wilderness? Something incredibly nasty’s liable to snatch him otherwise. Waste of a good catalyst, wouldn’t you say?”
Apparently absorbed in his work, Blachloch said without looking up, “So there really is a catalyst.”
“In a few weeks, he’ll be standing before you.”
“Weeks?” The henchman snorted. “A catalyst? Let me and the boys go after him. We’ll have him back here in minutes. He’ll open the Corridors to us and—”
“And the Thon-Li the Corridor Masters, will slam shut the gate.” Simkin sneered. “Neatly trapped you’d be then. I can’t think why you keep these imbeciles around, Blachloch, unless, like rats, they’re cheap to feed. Personally, I prefer vermin ….”
The henchman made a lunge at Simkin, whose coat suddenly bristled with thorns.
Blachloch moved his hand; both men froze in place. The warlock had not even looked up but continued to write in the ledger.
“A catalyst,” Simkin murmured through stiff lips. “What … power … give us! Combine … iron and magic ….”
Raising his head, ceasing to write, though he kept his pen poised, the warlock looked at Simkin. With a word, he removed the spell.
“How did you discover this? You weren’t seen?”
“Of course not!” Lifting his pointed chin, Simkin stared down at Blachloch in injured dignity. “Am I not a master of disguise, as you well know? I sat in his very hovel, upon his very table—a very teapot! Not only did he not suspect me. he even washed and dried me and set me on his shelf quite nicely. I—”
Blachloch silenced Simkin with a glance. “Meet him in the wilderness. Use whatever tomfoolery you need to get him here.” The cold blue eyes froze the young man as effectively as the magical spell. “But get him here. Alive. I want this catalyst more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. Bring him and there will be rich reward. Return without him and I will drown you in the river. Do you understand me, Simkin?”
The warlock’s eyes did not waver.
Simkin smiled. “I understand you, Blachloch,” he said softly. “Don’t I always?”
With a sweeping bow, he started to take his leave, his mauve cape trailing the floor behind.
“Oh, and Simkin,” Blachloch said, returning to his work.
Simkin turned. “My liege?” he asked.
Blachloch ignored the sarcasm. “Have something unpleasant happen to the catalyst. Nothing serious, mind you. Just convince him that it would be unwise for him to ever think of leaving us ….”
“Ah …” remarked Simkin reflectively. “Now this will be a pleasure. Farewell, lout,” he said, patting the guard on the cheek with his hand. “Igh …” Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange cloth and swept majestically out the door.
“Say the word …” muttered the guard, glaring through the doorway after the young man, who was sauntering through camp like a walking rainbow.
Blachloch did not even deign