Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [101]
The crowd roared its approval. Surging forward, people surrounded their new Emperor, trying to touch him, begging for his blessing. Instantly, the Duuk-tsarith closed ranks around Joram. Prince Garald caused the platform to rise up into the air. The people spiraled upward with it, cheering and applauding.
The old man did not have the magical strength to join them, and so was left standing alone on the ground in the drizzling rain, forgotten.
“The Prophecy!” Vanya muttered in a hollow voice. “It is upon us! There is no escape!” Fear stood out in beads of perspiration on his forehead and trickled down the neck of his elegant robes. With faltering footsteps, he lurched backward, sinking into his chair, assisted by the Cardinal.
“E’gad! No escape? What a defeatist attitude! Quite a touching little reunion, wouldn’t you say, Eminence? What with my tears and the rain, I’m half-drowned!”
The voice came from behind His Holiness. The Bishop, with a fearful start, squirmed around in his chair to see who had entered his private chambers unannounced and uninvited.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” the Cardinal was sputtering.
A young man—chin and upper lip adorned by a soft, well-trimmed beard—stepped casually from the Corridor. He was dressed in a bright red brocade dressing gown, decorated in black fur. The long, pointed toes of his red shoes curled up and in upon themselves, a bit of orange silk fluttered from one hand like a flame.
“Sink me, Your Tubbiness,” said the bearded young man, strolling across the rug toward the Bishop and tripping over his curly-tipped shoes, “you don’t look at all well! You there”—this to the stunned Cardinal—“a glass of brandy. Look lively. Thank you.” Lifting the snifter, the young man remarked, “To your health, Holiness,” and drained it at a gulp. “Thank you.” The young man handed the Cardinal the glass. “I’ll have another.
“Ah, Bishop,” he continued gaily, “you’re looking better already. One more drink and you’ll seem almost human. Who am I? You know me, my dear Vanya. The name’s Simkin. Why am I here? Because, O Rotund and Flabby One, I have two new friends who are longing to meet you. I think you’ll find them interesting. They are—quite literally—out of this world.”
6
Dona Nobis Pacem
We came to this world in peace, Bishop Vanya,” said Menju the Sorcerer in a smooth, melancholy voice. “We made the mistake—as is apparent to us now—of stumbling in upon your … un … war games. We were attacked, entirely by accident, according to you.” This spoken reassuringly as Vanya appeared about to make some remonstrance. “But, not knowing this, we could only assume that Joram, a known criminal who is fleeing the law in our world, had discovered our plans and was lying in wait to destroy us.” The Sorcerer sighed heavily “It is truly a most regrettable incident. The waste of lives on both sides, deplorable. Isn’t that so, Major Boris?”
Bishop Vanya glanced at the military man, who had been sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a soft, cushioned chair, staring fixedly before him. Simkin had removed the disguises the two men wore through the Corridor and the Major was once again dressed in what Vanya assumed was the military uniform of his kind.
“Isn’t that so, Major?” the Sorcerer repeated.
The Major did not reply. He had not spoken a word the entire time that he, Simkin, and this man who called himself the Sorcerer had been in the room. Vanya watched closely for his reaction to the magician’s repeated call for confirmation and did not miss the swift glimmer of hatred and defiance that flickered in the blond. Majors light eyes. The man’s strong, bulldog jaw was clenched so tightly that cords in the thick neck were plainly visible.
Vanya looked to see the Sorcerer’s response. It was an odd one. Raising his right hand in the air, the magician flexed