Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [121]
“He’s inside the prison cell.”
“It’s urgent,” said the D’karn-darah.
“I’ll go tell him,” volunteered the other Technomancer.
“Wait,” said the first. His tone was suspicious. “Why didn’t they just send the message the usual way—using the seerstones?”
“None of your seerstones are working. Try them.”
The first Technomancer put his wrist to his ear. The second did the same. The second looked at the first, who shrugged and jerked his head toward the prison cell. The Technomancer left to report.
Smythe emerged. His choleric face was a fierce red, his brows drawn tight in a vicious scowl.
“What do you mean the seerstones aren’t working?” he demanded.
“We don’t know, sir,” returned the newly arrived Technomancer. “Perhaps it’s this cave, blocking the signal. I have an urgent message for you, sir.”
“Deliver it!” Smythe snapped.
The silver-hooded head revolved, glanced in the direction of the other D’karn-darah. “It is for you alone, Master. We should speak in private. It is most urgent, sir.”
Smythe looked back in frustration toward the prison. His unhealthy choler increased. “Of all the damn luck. I just about had, him broken! This better be good!” He turned to one of the guards. “Remind the good father that he has three minutes left. Three minutes.”
“Come over here, Master,” said the messenger, and he gestured—alarmingly—in the direction of our small hidden cavern.
The two walked toward us. The silver robes of the D’karn-darah swished about his ankles, revealing his silver-slippered feet, and I suddenly noticed that this Technomancer was wearing orange socks.
“Simkin!” Mosiah breathed into my ear.
Beyond all reason, it was, it had to be Simkin, disguised as a Technomancer and leading Kevon Smythe straight toward our hiding place.
“That bastard!” Mosiah whispered. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll—”
“Shhh!” Scylla hushed him.
Eliza gripped my hand tightly. We didn’t dare move, for fear he’d hear us. We went completely immobile in the darkness, every breath seeming to whistle loud as a cyclone, our heartbeats booming like thunder. Mosiah’s body tensed. He was readying his magic for one gigantic, lethal burst.
Desperate, frantic plans rushed through my mind, none of them making any sense, or offering any hope.
Four more paces and Kevon Smythe would bump right into us. At the second pace, the D’karn-darah that was Simkin came to a halt.
Smythe stopped, turned to face him.
“What’s all this about?” he asked irritably.
“Sir,” said Simkin, “the representatives of the Hch’nyv have arrived in Zith-el.”
I heard a soft gasp, as if Mosiah had been punched in the solar plexus. Scylla exhaled softly.
Smythe’s color went from red to sallow yellow, as if someone had opened a major artery and drained all his blood in an instant. Such stark terror was on his face that I could almost have felt sorry for him. He quickly recovered his equanimity, but the vestiges of that fear remained.
“What do they want?” he asked, his voice under tight control.
“The Darksword,” said Simkin laconically.
Smythe cast a furious glance back toward the prison. “We haven’t recovered it yet. We will. They must give us more time.”
“Earth Forces are in retreat. Earth takeover is beginning. You haven’t much time. Such were their words to us. It is their religious leaders that are pushing the issue, sir. Their gods or whatever it is they worship have warned them that the Darksword is a distinct threat.”
“I know all about their blasted gods!” Smythe said, his voice shaking with fury and fear. Once again, he clamped down hard on himself. “We made a deal. Remind them of it. They have Earth in exchange for the Darksword. We have Thimhallan. They provide us with Death. We provide them with Life. We will recover the Darksword and we will give it to them, but in our own good time. Tell them that.”
Simkin shook his silver-hooded head. “They will not listen to those they consider underlings.”
Smythe fumed, glanced again at the prison, in an agony of indecision. “Very well. I’ll go deal with the matter.” He turned on his