Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [106]
“Metal boxes! Wires and cable! Tools of the Dark Arts!” thundered Vanya. “Take Joram from this world, then leave us in peace!”
Menju smiled, shrugging. “As you will, Holiness. All of which brings us back to the question of Joram….”
“Oh, bosh!” said Simkin irritably, sitting up. “Do you realize that it’s past dinner time? And I haven’t had a thing to eat all day! All this talk of Duuk-tsarith and Executioners. Not conducive to whetting the appetite.” The orange silk came fluttering out of the air to land in Simkin’s hand. “You want Joram? Nothing simpler. You, O Toothy One”—he waved the silk at the Sorcerer—“are, I assume, capable of capturing him.”
“Yes, of course. But he must be taken unawares—he and his wife. He mustn’t suspect—”
“Nothing simpler! I have a plan,” interposed Simkin loftily. “Leave everything to me.”
Both Sorcerer and Vanya eyed Simkin warily.
“Begging your pardon, friend Simkin,” Menju said, “if I appear hesitant to accept your generous offer. But I know very little of you, except what Joram has told me, and we know him to be capable of any falsehood or deceit. Should I trust you?”
“I wouldn’t,” Simkin remarked frankly, smoothing his mustache. “There isn’t a soul who does—except one.” Humming to himself again, he formed the orange silk into a loop.
“And this is?”
“Joram.”
“Joram! Why should he trust you?”
“Because his is a perverse nature.” Simkin knotted the orange silk above the loop. “Because I have never given him any reason to trust me. Quite the contrary. Yet trust me he does I find it a constant source of amusement.”
Thrusting his head through the noose he had made in the orange silk, Simkin looked at the Sorcerer and winked.
Menju frowned. “I must protest, Holiness. I don’t like this scheme.”
Simkin yawned. “Oh, come now? Be honest. It’s not the scheme you don’t like. It’s me!” He sniffed. “I’m highly insulted. Or I would be,” he added after reflection, “if I weren’t so frightfully hungry.”
Bishop Vanya made a noise that might have been a laugh at the Sorcerer’s expense. Turning to confront him, the magician saw the sneer on the Bishop’s face and flushed.
“He admits we can’t trust him!” Menju said with some asperity.
“That is just his way,” Vanya said crisply. “Simkin has done work for us before and has proven satisfactory. From what you say, he has done work for you as well. Time is short. Do you have an alternate proposal?”
Menju regarded the Bishop coolly and thoughtfully. “No,” he replied.
“Ah!” Simkin laughed gaily. “As the Duchess d’Longville cried when her sixth husband dropped dead at her feet: ‘At last! At last!’ Now, down to business.” He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “This is going to be an incredible lark! When shall we do the deed?”
“It must be tomorrow,” the Sorcerer said. “If, according to you, he plans to attack us at nightfall, he must be stopped before then. After his capture, we can begin the peace negotiations.”
“There is just one small thing.” The Bishop hedged. “You may keep Joram and do what you like to him, but we want the Darksword returned.”
“I’m afraid that is quite out of the question,” the Sorcerer responded smoothly.
Vanya glared at him, scowling. “Then there is no further point in negotiating! Your terms are unacceptable!”
“Come, come, Holiness! After all, we are the ones threatened by your forces! We must protect ourselves from attack! We will keep the Darksword.”
The Bishop’s scowl became more pronounced—a difficult matter to achieve, with one side of his face hanging limp as his useless arm. “Why? What can it possibly matter to you?”
The Sorcerer shrugged. “The Darksword has become a symbol to your people. Losing it—and