Triumph of the Darksword (32 page)

W
e came to this world in peace, Bishop Vanya,” said Menju the Sorcerer in a smooth, melancholy voice. “We made the mistake—as is apparent to us now—of stumbling in upon your … un … war games. We were attacked, entirely by accident, according to you.” This spoken reassuringly as Vanya appeared about to make some remonstrance. “But, not knowing this, we could only assume that Joram, a known criminal who is fleeing the law in our world, had discovered our plans and was lying in wait to destroy us.” The Sorcerer sighed heavily “It is truly a most regrettable incident. The waste of lives on both sides, deplorable. Isn’t that so, Major Boris?”

Bishop Vanya glanced at the military man, who had been sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a soft, cushioned chair, staring fixedly before him. Simkin had removed the disguises the two men wore through the Corridor and the Major was once again dressed in what Vanya assumed was the military uniform of his kind.

“Isn’t that so, Major?” the Sorcerer repeated.

The Major did not reply. He had not spoken a word the entire time that he, Simkin, and this man who called himself the Sorcerer had been in the room. Vanya watched closely for his reaction to the magician’s repeated call for confirmation and did not miss the swift glimmer of hatred and defiance that flickered in the blond. Majors light eyes. The man’s strong, bulldog jaw was clenched so tightly that cords in the thick neck were plainly visible.

Vanya looked to see the Sorcerer’s response. It was an odd one. Raising his right hand in the air, the magician flexed it several times, absently forming the fingers into a semblance of a bird’s claw. Vanya was considerably interested to note that the Major blanched at the sight. The hate-filled glance was watered down by fear, the massive shoulders slumped, and the man appeared to shrink visibly into his ugly uniform.

“Isn’t that true, Major?” the Sorcerer repeated the question.

“Yes,” said Major Boris briefly, quietly. The lips closed tightly once more.

“The Major is extremely uncomfortable in this magical world and, of course, feels very strange here,” Menju said in apology to Vanya. “Though he has been studying the language for several months and understands what we have been saying quite well, he does not feel confident of conversing yet. I hope you will forgive him his deficiencies in conversation.”

“Certainly, certainly,” the Bishop said, waving a pudgy hand, the hand that functioned. The other remained hidden beneath the massive desk at which His Holiness sat.

The Bishop had quickly recovered from his initial shock of receiving guests from a world that until an hour ago had not existed for him. Despite his stroke, Vanya retained all the shrewd observation and knowledge of mankind that had kept him in power so many years. While he began to chat idly with the Sorcerer about the differences and similarities in the languages of the two worlds—both of which had their roots in ancient times—he was in reality mentally summing up his two visitors, endeavoring to guess their motives for coming.

These two men were similar to anyone in Thimhallan, Vanya realized, with the exception that the Major was quite Dead and that the Sorcerer—having been bereft of magic for a number of years—was crude and clumsy at the art.

Studying the Major, Vanya almost immediately dismissed Boris from consideration. The Major, a blunt and honest military man, was obviously completely out of his depth and drowning in these deep waters. He was overawed by this world; he feared the Sorcerer. Boris was under the magician’s control, which meant that the Sorcerer was the only true player in the game.

Menju the Sorcerer was lying when he claimed that he came here with peaceful intent. Of that, Vanya had no doubt. Menju did not remember Vanya, but Vanya knew and remembered Menju. The Bishop recalled something of the man’s history. A secret practitioner of the Dark Arts of Technology, Menju had attempted to use his arts to seize control of a dukedom near Zith-el. Captured by the
Duuk-tsarith
, he had been summarily tried and sentenced by their tribunal to be cast into Beyond. The execution had been handled quickly and quietly; most of the people in Thimhallan probably never knew anything about it. That had been what—four years ago? Menju had been twenty then, he appeared to be about sixty now, and had spent, he told Vanya, forty years in the world Beyond.

The Bishop didn’t understand that at all, although the Sorcerer had patiently attempted to explain—something to do with the speed of light and dimension doors. The Almin works in mysterious ways, the Bishop told himself, dismissing the matter as unimportant. What
was
important was the fact that this powerful man was here now and he wanted something. What did he want? And what was he willing to give up in return? Those were the urgent questions.

As for what he wanted, that at first seemed obvious to the Bishop. Menju wanted the magic. Forty years without Life had gnawed at this Sorcerer. Vanya could see the hunger in Menju’s eyes. Now, back on his home world, the Sorcerer had once more partaken of Life. He had dined sumptuously, and the Bishop saw Menju’s firm resolve that he would never go hungry again.

He’s lying about coming here in peace, Vanya repeated inwardly, outwardly speaking of nouns, gerund phrases, and verbs. The attack upon our forces was no accident. It was too swift, too organized. That much I know from Xavier’s early reports. According to the
Duuk-tsarith
, the strange human army is in serious trouble now. Our magi inflicted heavy casualties, forced them to retreat. Why is the Sorcerer. Here? What is his plan?

How can I make use of him …?

“Speaking of language, I am amazed that Simkin was able to speak ours so quickly,” said the Sorcerer.

“Nothing about Simkin amazes me,” growled Vanya, glaring at the red-clad figure. Reclining leisurely on a couch in the Bishop’s luxurious office, the young man had apparently dozed off during a discussion of prepositional phrases and was snoring loudly.

“Joram has a theory about him, you know,” said the Sorcerer casually, though the Bishop thought he detected a glint in the man’s eyes, the look of a card player endeavoring to calculate what his opponent holds. “He claims that Simkin is the personification of this world—magic in its purest form.”

“An ugly thought and one typical of Joram,” Vanya said sourly, not liking this sudden interest in Simkin. The Fool was a wild card in any deck, and the Bishop had been trying for well over an hour to consider how best to toss him away. “I trust that we as a people are better represented than by this undisciplined, amoral, unfeeling—”

“I say!” Simkin sat up, blinking and peering around in a dazed state. “Did I hear my name?”

Vanya snorted. “If you are bored, why don’t you leave us?”

“E’gad!” Simkin yawned, slumping back down on the couch. “Is there going to be much more vocabulary? Because, if so, I think I
will
go dangle my participle in more entertaining and interesting surroundings….”

“No, no,” said Menju, his teeth flashing in a charming smile. “I beg your pardon, Simkin, my good friend, for putting you to sleep. Linguistics is a hobby of mine,” he added, turning back to Bishop Vanya, “and I find this discussion of our language with one so knowledgeable as yourself a true treat. I hope that in the future we will spend many pleasant
hours in such discussions, if that is agreeable to Your Eminence?” Vanya nodded coolly. “But Simkin quite properly reminds us that time is short. We must exchange these pleasant topics for others of a serious nature.”!

Menju’s handsome face grew grave. “I know you will concur with our earnest desire that this tragic and accidental war come to an end before irreparable damage is done to any relations that might be established between our two worlds, Holiness.”

“Amen!” said the Cardinal fervently.

Vanya started, having forgotten his ministers presence, and, with an icy glance, silently rebuked him for speaking out of turn. The Cardinal cringed. Simkin, with a prodigious yawn, propped his feet up on the arm of the sofa and lay there admiring the curled toes of his shoes, humming a tune on a shrill, off-key note that had the effect of instantly irritating everyone present.

“I concur in your desire for peace,” Bishop Vanya said cautiously, feeling his way ahead, his pudgy hand crawling over the desk, “but as you said there were, tragically, many lives lost. Not the least of which was the life of our beloved Emperor Xavier. The people feel his loss quite keenly—Will you stop that!” This to Simkin, who had launched into a funeral dirge.

“Beg pardon,” Simkin said meekly “Got carried away by my feelings for the deceased!” Covering his face with a sofa cushion, he began to weep loudly.

Vanya sucked in a quantity of air through his nose and shifted his great bulk in his chair, keeping his mouth tightly shut so that he would not say something he might later regret. He noticed the flutter of a knowing smile on the Sorcerer’s lips. Obviously, the magician knew Simkin. …

But why should that surprise me? Vanya thought resignedly, letting out the air with a whoosh, like a deflating bladder.
Everyone
knows Simkin.

“I truly understand your people’s grief,” Menju was saying, “and I am certain that, although there is nothing we can do to bring back their beloved leader, some sort of reparation can be made.”

“Perhaps, perhaps.” Vanya sighed heavily. “But much as I agree with you, sir, I fear the matter is out of my hands.
Joram, that notorious criminal, has hoodwinked not only your people but ours as well. There are even rumors to the effect,” the Bishop added casually, “that it was Joram who was responsible for Xavier’s death….”

Menju smiled, understanding Vanya’s plan instantly.

The Bishop turned over his fat hand, reluctantly showing all his cards. “Be that as it may, Joram caused himself to be proclaimed Emperor of Merilon. He and a vainglorious man—one Garald, Prince of the city-state of Sharakan—are going to pursue this terrible war.”

The magician and the Major exchanged glances at this—the cold and wary glances of reluctant allies, but allies nonetheless.

“I know that we are technically enemies, Bishop Vanya,” the Sorcerer said hesitantly, “but in the name of peace if you could tell us what you know about their plans, perhaps we could find some way of forestalling them, of keeping more lives from being lost….”

Bishop Vanya frowned, his hand closed into a fist. “I am no traitor, sir—”

“They’re attacking you tomorrow night,” interposed Simkin languidly. Casting aside the sofa cushion, he blew his nose on the orange silk. “Joram and Garald plan on wiping you out. Obliterating you from the face of this world. Not even a trace of your bodies will be left behind,” he continued cheerfully, tossing the orange silk away into the air.

“It was Joram’s idea. When your world doesn’t hear the tiniest little peep from you, they will, hopefully, presume the worst has happened. The shell crushed, the chick dead; the cuckoo will think twice about laying eggs in this nest again. By which time, of course, we will have the henhouse repaired, the magical Border firmly intact once more. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Traitor! Why have you told them!” Bishop Vanya cried with a great show of anger, slamming his good hand down on his desk.

“It’s only fair,” Simkin returned, glancing at the Bishop in astonishment. “After all,” he continued, raising a foot in the air and causing the toe of the shoe to uncurl, “I told Joram all
their
plans—the reinforcements coming…. Just as I was instructed….”

“Reinforcements? Simkin instructed! What is the meaning of this?” Vanya demanded “You said you came here in peace! Now I find that you are apparently adding to your military might Not only that”—he waved a fat hand at Simkin—“but you are using this young man as a spy? Perhaps that is why you are here now! I will call for the
Duuk-tsarith.”

The Sorcerer’s composure slipped the tiniest bit. The Bishop did not miss the swift, intense flare of anger in Menju’s eyes, or the look he cast at Simkin. If this Sorcerer were
Duuk-tsarith
, Simkin would be a smudge of grease upon the sofa. So, Vanya thought smugly, Menju doesn’t know the Fool that well, after all.

“Please do nothing in haste, Holiness,” Menju said in mollifying tones. “Surely you can understand that we have to act to protect ourselves? The additional troops we called for are to be used only if we are attacked again by your people.”

Major Boris’s boot scraped against the floor Vanya, darting a swift glance at him, saw the man shift nervously in his seat.

“As for spies, we stumbled upon this fellow spying on
our
headquarters and—”

Simkin, with a smile, caused the toe of his shoes to curl back up. “What can I say?” he responded modestly “I was bored.”

“—and finding that he took a sensible view of this situation,” the Sorcerer continued, somewhat irritated at the interruption, “we sent him back to Joram, hoping, I confess, to frighten him into suing for peace.”

Menju paused, then leaned forward, laying his hand upon Vanya’s desk. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest. “Let us be candid with each other, Holiness. Joram is the cause of this dreadful war. A dark and passionate nature such as his, combined with a keen intelligence, must make him a criminal, an outcast in any society.” The Sorcerer’s handsome face grew shadowed. “I understand he committed murder on this world. He has done that and worse in ours.”

Bishop Vanya was appearing carefully dubious.

“Joram was gone for ten years from Thimhallan? Why do you think he bothered to return? Because of his great love for it?” The Sorcerer scoffed at the idea. “You and I both
know better than that! Often Joram has bragged to me how he escaped the punishment he so richly deserved. In the same way, he escaped punishment to which he was sentenced in our world. He came back here because he is being hunted, pursued! He came back here, so he has told me, to have his revenge! To fulfill the Prophecy!”

Major Boris sprang to his feet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked rapidly to the end of the room. Vanya could see a red flush spreading up the back of the man’s thick neck, just above the collar of his shirt. Arriving at the transparent wall, the major stretched forth a hand to push aside the tapestry.