Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [102]
“Isn’t that true, Major?” the Sorcerer repeated the question.
“Yes,” said Major Boris briefly, quietly. The lips closed tightly once more.
“The Major is extremely uncomfortable in this magical world and, of course, feels very strange here,” Menju said in apology to Vanya. “Though he has been studying the language for several months and understands what we have been saying quite well, he does not feel confident of conversing yet. I hope you will forgive him his deficiencies in conversation.”
“Certainly, certainly,” the Bishop said, waving a pudgy hand, the hand that functioned. The other remained hidden beneath the massive desk at which His Holiness sat.
The Bishop had quickly recovered from his initial shock of receiving guests from a world that until an hour ago had not existed for him. Despite his stroke, Vanya retained all the shrewd observation and knowledge of mankind that had kept him in power so many years. While he began to chat idly with the Sorcerer about the differences and similarities in the languages of the two worlds—both of which had their roots in ancient times—he was in reality mentally summing up his two visitors, endeavoring to guess their motives for coming.
These two men were similar to anyone in Thimhallan, Vanya realized, with the exception that the Major was quite Dead and that the Sorcerer—having been bereft of magic for a number of years—was crude and clumsy at the art.
Studying the Major, Vanya almost immediately dismissed Boris from consideration. The Major, a blunt and honest military man, was obviously completely out of his depth and drowning in these deep waters. He was overawed by this world; he feared the Sorcerer. Boris was under the magician’s control, which meant that the Sorcerer was the only true player in the game.
Menju the Sorcerer was lying when he claimed that he came here with peaceful intent. Of that, Vanya had no doubt. Menju did not remember Vanya, but Vanya knew and remembered Menju. The Bishop recalled something of the man’s history. A secret practitioner of the Dark Arts of Technology, Menju had attempted to use his arts to seize control of a dukedom near Zith-el. Captured by the Duuk-tsarith, he had been summarily tried and sentenced by their tribunal to be cast into Beyond. The execution had been handled quickly and quietly; most of the people in Thimhallan probably never knew anything about it. That had been what—four years ago? Menju had been twenty then, he appeared to be about sixty now, and had spent, he told Vanya, forty years in the world Beyond.
The Bishop didn’t understand that at all, although the Sorcerer had patiently attempted to explain—something to do with the speed of light and dimension doors. The Almin works in mysterious ways, the Bishop told himself, dismissing the matter as unimportant. What was important was the fact that this powerful man was here now and he wanted something. What did he want? And what was he willing to give up in return? Those were the urgent questions.
As for what he wanted, that at first seemed obvious to the Bishop. Menju wanted the magic. Forty years without Life had gnawed at this Sorcerer. Vanya could see the hunger in Menju’s eyes. Now, back on his home world, the Sorcerer had once more partaken of Life. He had dined sumptuously, and the Bishop saw Menju’s firm resolve that he would never go hungry again.
He’s lying about coming here in peace, Vanya repeated inwardly, outwardly speaking of nouns, gerund phrases, and verbs. The attack upon our forces was no accident. It was too swift, too organized. That much I know from Xavier’s early reports. According to the Duuk-tsarith, the strange human army is in serious trouble now. Our magi inflicted heavy casualties, forced them to retreat. Why is the Sorcerer. Here? What