Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [138]
The crosspiece arms elongated. The bulbous head expanded, the hilt became a neck, the blade transformed into the body of a man not old, not young, with a face like a fox wearing a silky beard. He was dressed all in orange, from his feathered hat to his velvet doublet to his shapely legs and glittering shoes.
The astonished Smythe still held on to Simkin—a solid, flesh-and-blood Simkin—who laughed and, flinging his arms around Smythe, gave him a smacking kiss on the lips.
“Did you mean it? Did you truly mean it? Am I yours?” Simkin asked, holding Smythe at arm’s length and regarding him with grave solemnity.
“Seize him!” Smythe shouted in rage, and struck at Simkin with his hands.
“Wrong answer,” said Simkin softly.
A Technomancer ran forward, fixed one of the silver paralyzing disks onto the orange velvet doublet.
“Why, how kind!” Simkin regarded the disk with an appraising frown, then looked up at the Technomancer. “But I don’t think it goes with my outfit.” Casually, he plucked off the silver disk and placed it neatly on the breast of the startled Technomancer.
The man’s body jerked, went rigid.
“Tell me what you have done with the Darksword,” Smythe demanded, almost choked with rage, “or I’ll order them to shoot! You’ll be dead before you can draw your next breath.”
“Fire away,” said Simkin with a yawn. He leaned against the tomb and stared very hard at his fingernails. “What was that, Smythe? The Darksword? I’ll tell you exactly where it is. It is being guarded by a dragon, a Dragon of the Night. You might be able to recover it, but not before midnight. Poor Cinderella. I’m afraid you’re going to turn into a pumpkin.”
Smythe gnashed his teeth in fury. “Shoot him!”
Silver robes shimmered and coalesced. Each Technomancer held a sleek, shining silver handgun.
A beam of blinding light slashed through the darkness. It did not hit Simkin, but struck the tomb right next to him. The marble exploded, fragments of rock flew through the air. A second beam of laser flared. Simkin caught the light in his hands. Molding the laser light as if it were clay, he made it into a shining ball, and flung it up in the air. The ball transformed into a raven, which took wing, flew once around Simkin’s head, then fluttered down to perch on the tomb. The raven began to clean its beak with a claw.
Kevon Smythe’s face was mottled red and white. Saliva flecked his lips. “Shoot him!” he tried to command again, but he was so hoarse with fury and fear that his lips formed the words but no sound came out.
“Oh, I say. I find this quite fatiguing,” said Simkin languidly. He waved an orange silk handkerchief and the Tech-nomancers’ handguns changed into bouquets of tulips. The silver disk fell from my breast onto the ground, where it turned into a mouse and scampered off into the grass. I could move again, breathe again.
Scylla reached down, plucked off the ankle manacles, as she might have plucked off a pair of shoes. She assisted Mosiah to stand. He was very pale, but fully conscious and alert. He regarded Simkin with narrowed eyes, not trusting him. Saryon was freed as well. His expression was troubled. Simkin was having a good time, playing with us all, not just the Technomancers. Certainly, it appeared that he was on our side, but we had no way of knowing how long that might last, especially if he grew bored. Right now, though, he was simply having fun. The Technomancers produced other weapons: stasis grenades, morph guns, reaper scythes, only to have them transformed into objects strange, useless, and grotesque—anything from saltshak-ers to bananas, clock radios, and pink gin fizzes adorned with tiny umbrellas. The magic burst around us in a dazzling array like a fireworks show gone berserk.
I began to fear I was losing my mind and I was not surprised to see some of the Technomancers bolt and run.
In the midst of all his foolery,