Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [134]
Simkin moaned, shuddering convulsively.
Joram’s stern expression softened. Taking the orange silk, he dabbed gently at the sweat-covered forehead. “My poor fool,” he said softly.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Saryon.
“Nothing. I don’t know what’s kept him alive this long, unless it’s his magic,” Joram replied.
I should pray. I should say something, Saryon thought confusedly, although the idea of sending Simkin heavenward on the wings of prayer was, somehow, ludicrous.
Easing the shivering body to the ground, the catalyst placed his hand upon the young man’s forehead. Bowing his head, he murmured, “Per istam Sanctam Unctíonem indúlgeat tibí Dominius quidquid—”
“I say, Bald One,” came a weak, peevish voice, “could you quidquid somewhere else? Damnably annoying!”
“Why did you do this, Simkin?” Joram asked softly.
“E’gad!” Simkin stared up at Joram with fevered eyes. “You’ve … gone all fuzzy.” He grimaced. “Beastly sort of game this. Don’t much … fancy it…at all. Where are you, dear boy! Everything … dark…. Frightened of… dark. Where? Where are you …?” He gasped, his hand twitched feebly.
Clasping the bloodstained hand in his, Joram held it tightly. “I’m here,” he said. “And it’s dark because you’ve got that stupid helm over your head, the one that makes you look like a bucket.”
Simkin smiled, relaxing. “I was … fond of being a … bucket. Damn good one … too. They … never suspected, in fact. That’s how I knew….”
“Knew what?”
The eyes became unfocused, wandering off to stare far away into the pale, cold sun.
“‘Brave, new world…’ Take you! Not Simkin.” A glimmer of life, of spirit flickered in the eyes. Slowly, their gaze came back, focusing on Joram. “So I … became you! Would have been … grand trick. I would have won … the game.”A spasm of pain contorted his face. Gripping Joram’s hand with his last strength, Simkin pulled him near. “Still, it’s been a jolly time … hasn’t it?” he whispered. “Jolly time—as…. Duchess d’Longville said Final words before … her last husband hanged her.
A smile fluttered on his lips, then became fixed and rigid. The voice died away, the hand went limp. Gently, Joram placed it over Simkin’s breast, tucking the bit of orange silk in the lifeless fingers.
“—deliqústi. Amen.” Saryon murmured.
Reaching out, he closed the empty eyes.
9
There Will Be Born …
One Who Is Dead
Joram, I don’t understand!” Saryon, bewildered, gazed at Simkin pityingly. “What happened to him?”
“Did you hear sharp, cracking sounds right before he fell?”
“Yes! It was dreadful—”
“Exploding powder, like we read of in the texts of the ancient practicers of the Dark Arts. It fires lead projectiles.” Joram’s eyes scanned the area, squinting in the sunlight. “Did you see anyone? Where did the sound come from?”
“From over there, I think,” Saryon said hesitantly, pointing toward the edge of the mountains summit. “It was … difficult to tell. And I saw nothing.” He paused, licking his dry lips. “Joram, whoever did this to Simkin was trying to kill you.”
“Yes. And I think we both know who it is.”
“The Sorcerer?”
“Of course. He’s probably hiding among the rocks there on the edge of the cliff. Though why would he use a revolver? It’s not his style.” Joram’s brows came together, frowning thoughtfully. “Why indeed?” he muttered. “Unless it isn’t him.”
“Who else?”
“Someone who fears not only me as Emperor but the Prophecy as well. Someone cunning enough to make it appear to be the work of the enemy.”
“Vanya?” Saryon paled.
Swiftly, Joram glanced around, keeping his hood pulled over his face. “Don’t move,” he cautioned, placing his hand firmly over the catalyst’s wrist. “We’ve got to think this out and right now, while whoever’s out there is confused, wondering who I am.”
“Perhaps the killer’s gone,” Saryon suggested. “If he thinks he succeeded.”
“I doubt it. After all, he didn’t get what