Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [107]
“It is a weapon of evil!” Vanya replied in stern tones. “A tool of the devil!”
“Then you should welcome the opportunity to be rid of it!” Stretching his arms, the Sorcerer adjusted the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves. This time, however, his air was confident, his composure restored. “In return for this token of goodwill from your world, I will have Major Boris send a message to my world, canceling the reinforcements. Then your people and mine may begin serious peace negotiations. Do you agree?”
The Bishops nostrils flared. Glaring at the Sorcerer, he sucked air into his nose, the pudgy hand suddenly ceasing its spiderlike crawl over the desk, its fingers curling up like the toes of Simkin’s shoes. “It appears I have little choice.”
“Now, have you any suggestions regarding where and how we capture Joram?”
The Bishop shifted his body in his chair, causing the paralyzed left arm to slide off his lap. Surreptitiously, he caught hold of it, giving a sidelong look to see if the magician was watching. What a fool he takes me for! Vanya said to himself, settling the arm back in its place once more. So it’s the sword he’s after! Why? What does he know of it?
The Bishop appeared indifferent. “Capturing Joram must be up to you and Simkin, I’m afraid. I know nothing of sordid matters. I am a churchman, after all.”
“Oh, really!” Simkin heaved an exasperated sigh. “This has gone on quite long enough! Which was something else the Duchess said, her sixth taking an interminable length of time over dying. I told you I have it all planned.”
Spreading the orange silk out upon Vanya’s desk, Simkin waved his hand over it and letters appeared on its surface.
“Shh—” he hissed as Menju was about to read it aloud. “The Font has ears and eyes, you know. Meet me here”—he indicated the name of the place written on the silk scarf—“tomorrow at noon. You will have Joram and his wife, both completely at your mercy and unsuspecting as babes.”
Bishop Vanya, his lips pursed, his eyes practically buried in rolls of fat, took one look at the name of the location written on the silk and grew extremely pale. “This place is out of the question!”
“Why?” Menju asked coldly.
“Surely you know its history!” Vanya said, regarding the Sorcerer incredulously.
“Pah! I have not believed in ghosts since I was five! From descriptions I vaguely recall reading of this place, it will suit our purposes admirably. Plus I begin to see the inklings of Simkin’s plan to get Joram there without suspicion. Most ingenuous, my friend.” The magician glanced down his elegant nose at the Bishop. “You are not using this pretense to wriggle out of our agreement, are you, Holiness?”
“Far from it!” Vanya protested earnestly. “I am concerned only for your safety, Menju.”
“Thank you, Eminence.” The Sorcerer rose from his chair.
“Remember, you have been warned. You will handle everything?” The Bishop remained seated, concealing his handicap.
“Certainly, Holiness.”
“Then I believe that it is all we have to say to each other.”
“Yes, although there is one more matter we need settled.” The Sorcerer turned to Simkin. “You are entitled to a handsome reward for your services, Simkin. That is, I assume, why you’re doing this, after all….”
“No, no!” protested Simkin, looking deeply offended. “Patriotic. I regret that I have but one friend to give for my country.”
“I insist that you accept something!”
“I couldn’t possibly,” said Simkin loftily, but with a glance at Menju from beneath half-shut eyelids.
“My world, and this one”—Menju gestured at Vanya—“will be eternally grateful.”
“Well, perhaps there is one small favor you can do for me, now that you mention it.” Simkin drew the orange silk slowly between his fingers.
“Name it! Jewels? Gold?”
“Bah! What do I need with filthy lucre? I ask only one thing—take me back to your world.”
The Sorcerer appeared considerably astonished at this request. “Are you serious?” he