Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [57]
“Get rid of this fool!” Flecks of saliva speckled Xavier’s lips.
“I’m going. You needn’t spit!” Simkin said loftily, plucking the orange silk from the air and dabbing at his face. “But first, don’t waste your time with this peasant.” He cast a scathing glance at Mosiah. “Why don’t you ask me? I can tell you where Joram is. I’ve seen him.”
Xavier stared at Simkin, the wild light in The DKarn-Duuk’s eyes flaring with such intensity that it seemed he might burn the young man to the ground. An explosion shook the compound, causing nearly everyone else to start and glance fearfully to the north. The Emperor did not move.
“What do you mean, you have seen him?” Xavier demanded. “Where is he?”
“He is here,” said Simkin imperturbably.
“Fool! I have had enough of your—” The DKarn-Duuk made a furious gesture, and Mosiah froze, expecting to see Simkin burst into flames.
Apparently, Simkin expected much the same thing.
“Not here here,” he amended hastily. “Near here. Somewhere I—uh—Pick a card?” he said suddenly, producing a deck of tarok cards out of nowhere. “Any card.” He held them to the Emperor, whose eyes narrowed alarmingly. “Here, I’ll do it. Don’t trouble yourself.” Simkin held up a card. “Death.” He drew another. “Death again.” A third. “Death three times. That’s Joram, you see. A Dead man. His wife talks with the dead and he walks with the dead Priest.
Xavier clenched his fist.
“You’re right. S-stupid game,” stammered Simkin, tossing all the cards into the air. They fell to the ground, fluttering around him like gaudy, multicolored leaves. Looking at them, Mosiah saw that every single card in the deck was Death.
The air was hazy with smoke, the smell of burning strong. The humming noise grew louder.
“Your Highness!” called out several voices War Masters began crowding around, shouldering forward, vying for The DKarn-Duuk’s attention.
“I will deal with these young men, Your Highness,” offered the witch.
“Swiftly!” said Xavier, fist clenched. His dark-eyed gaze going once again to Mosiah, it stayed with him to the last, when the Emperor finally turned his attention to his ministers.
“I don’t know anything about Joram!” Mosiah cried desperately. “You can do what you like to me,” he continued, the witch’s penetrating gaze staring through his eyes, searching his brain. “I haven’t seen him.”
“But you know he has returned.”
Another explosion shook the ground Mosiah glanced around fearfully.
“I—I don’t know!”
“Of course he’s returned!” Simkin stated, exasperated. “I’ve seen him, I tell you! No one believes me,” he continued, sniffing in wounded dignity. “And if you think I’m going to hang around here and die in the company of people who consider me a liar, you have another think coming. No, don’t apologize. I find this deadly dull. You will, I’m afraid, simply find it deadly. And therefore I am away.”
Gazing at Mosiah, Simkin suddenly burst into tears.
“Farewell, friend of my childhood!” He flung his arms around Mosiah, hugging him close, nearly choking him. “We who are about to flee to a place of safety salute you. Go forth bravely, my son! Come back with your shield or on it!” Simkin raised his hand, the orange silk fluttered wildly in the air. “Once more into our breeches, dear friends, once more!” he cried gallantly.
There was a flurry of orange silk, and Simkin was gone.
“So he’s telling the truth.” It was not a question. The witch, staring thoughtfully and absently at the place where the young man had been standing, was obviously pondering Simkin’s words.
“The truth? Simkin?” Mosiah started to laugh, but it caught in his throat.
A shattering explosion hit the fortress wall, sending sharp fragments of rock skimming through the air. People cried out in fear or pain or both.
“They’re