Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [92]
As he spoke, the green hose and doublet transformed themselves into a red brocade dressing gown, trimmed with black fur cuffs and a thick fur collar. Red slippers with curled toes adorned his feet. Simkin appeared quite charmed with these and, lifting a foot, regarded it with delight.
“The enemy?” Garald reminded him.
“Oh, yes! Well, what else was I supposed to do, Your Grace? I trotted about the battlefield for a bit, but—while undeniably entertaining, it struck me that there was a chance that I might see the light, so to speak, in a most painful manner. Having a hole burned in one’s skull is not my idea of an illuminating experience. However,” continued Simkin, plucking the orange silk from the air and dabbing delicately at his nose, “I was determined to do something for my country. So, at great personal risk to myself, I decided”—dramatic flourish of the orange silk—“to become a spy!”
“Go on,” ordered Gerald.
“Certainly. By the bye, Joram, dear fellow,” said Simkin, reclining among an abundance of silk pillows, “did I say that I am delighted to see you?” He waved the orange silk. “You’re looking well, though I must say you have not aged the least bit gracefully.”
“If you were in the enemy’s camp, tell us what you saw!” Joram persisted.
“Oh, I was there,” said Simkin, smoothing his mustache with a slender finger. “Shall I prove it to you, my King? I am, after all, your fool. Do you remember? Two Death cards.” You dying twice? They laughed at me then”—he glanced slyly at Mosiah and Saryon—“but I don’t see them laughing now. I had a devil of a time getting into camp Corridor is crawling with black and creepy things”—a scathing glance at the Duuk-tsarith—“all lurking about the enemy …
“That’s going to end, by the way,” Simkin added nonchalantly. “An old friend of yours who calls himself Dog Doo the Sorcerer or something like that has sealed off the Corridors—”
Joram went white to the lips, becoming so pale that Saryon went to his side, resting a supportive hand on his arm. So this is it, Saryon thought. What he’s feared all along has come to pass.
“Menju.” Joram said in a barely audible voice.
“What did you say? Menju? That’s it! Beastly name! Charming fellow, however. Travels about with a crude sort—a short, thick-necked military type who doesn’t drink tea. Nevertheless, there I sat, a perfect teapot upon his desk. Crude fellow sent me out with a heavy-handed sergeant, a dim-witted man, fortunately. It was simplicity itself for me to return while he wasn’t looking. I say, dear boy, are you listening?”
Joram didn’t answer. Gently putting aside Saryon’s hand, he walked blindly to the fireplace, his white robes brushing the floor. Gripping the edge of the mantelpiece, he stared into the embers of the dying fire, his face drawn and troubled.
“He is here!” he said at last. “Of course, I was expecting it. But how? Did he escape or did they free him?” He turned, staring at Simkin with eyes that burned more brightly than the smoldering coals. “Describe this man. What does he look like?”
“A handsome devil. Sixty if he’s a day, though he pretends he’s thirty-nine. Tall, broad-shouldered, gray hair, lovely teeth. I don’t think the teeth are his, by the way. Dressed in the most fearfully drab clothes ….”
“It’s him!” muttered Joram, slamming his fist into the mantel in sudden anger.
“And he’s in charge, dear boy. It seems this Major Boris was all for clearing out and—Ha, ha! There was one highly amusing incident, must mention in passing. Sorcerer … ha, ha … mutated the Major’s hand … turned it into a chicken foot! The look on the wretched man’s face … priceless, I assure you! Ah, well,” Simkin said, wiping his eyes, “I suppose you had to be there. Where was I? Oh, yes. Major was going to chuck it all and call it quits, but this—what did you say his name was? Menju? Yes. This Menju fellow changed poor old Boris’s hand into a drumstick, causing the Major to “chicken” out if you’ll forgive the expression.”
Simkin appeared quite pleased with his joke.
“And?” persisted Joram.
“And what? Oh, that. The Major’s