Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Gasps of astonishment from several bystanders caused many more in the crowd to turn and look. The young man was now clad in long, flowing purple silken pantaloons. Gathered tightly about his ankles, they billowed out around his legs, fluttering in the spring breeze. A bright-red sash encircled his slender waist, matched by a bright-red vest trimmed in gold. A purple silk blouse — with long flowing sleeves that completely engulfed his hands when he lowered his arms — matched the pantaloons. All this was topped by a most remarkable hat that resembled a gigantic purple puff pastry, adorned by a red, curling ostrich feather.

  Ripples of laughter and murmurs ran through the growing crowd.

  “Is it?”

  “Why, yes! I’d know him anywhere!”

  “That garb! My dear, I’d give anything to wear those trousers to the Emperor’s ball next week. Where does he find those colors?”

  There was a scattering of applause.

  “Thank you,” said the young man, waving a negligent hand to those who were beginning to gather around him. “Yes, it is me. I have returned.” Raising his fingers to his lips, he blew kisses to several wealthy women, sitting in a carriage made of pomegranate, who laughed delightedly and tossed him flowers. “I call this,” he continued, referring to his purple clothes, “Welcome Home, Simkin. You may dispense with the formalities, my good man,” he said, regarding the Kan-Hanar with a sniff, and dabbing at his nose with the orange silk in his hand. “Simply tell the authorities that Simkin has returned and that he has brought his troupe of traveling players with him!” He made a flourishing gesture with the orange silk at the two young men and the catalyst (who appeared ready to drop from shame) standing behind him.

  The crowd applauded more loudly. Women laughed behind their hands, men shook their heads over his attire, but they glanced down at their own elegant robes or brocade breeches, their faces thoughtful. By noon tomorrow, the flowing silk pantaloons would be seen on half the nobility in Merilon.

  “Tell the authorities?” repeated the Kan-Hanar, not the least disconcerted by the crowd or the antics of the young man in the pantaloons. “Yes, I’ll notify the proper people, you may be certain of that.”

  Making a gesture to the two black-robed figures who stood watching from the shadows, the Kan-Hanar laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

  “Simkin, in the name of the Emperor, I place you under arrest.”

  2

  Welcome Home, Simkin

  Calling for the warlocks, the Kan-Hanar held Simkin firmly. The black-robed Duuk-tsarith floated toward the young man, the crowd parting at their coming like leaves driven by a storm wind. Amid the rustling murmurs of the people, the gasps of shock that were equal parts horror and delight, Gwen’s gaze was drawn from Simkin — who was staring at the Kan-Hanar in absolute astoundment — to his friends.

  Standing behind Simkin, the catalyst had gone from red to a deathly pallor, his hand reaching out and resting on the shoulder of the dark young man in a manner that was both protective and restraining. The other young man, the blond one, laid his hand on his friend’s arm as well, and then it was that Gwen noticed the dark young man reached behind his back, beneath his cloak.

  Weapons of any type are not used in Merilon, since they are considered to be the evil machinations of those who practice the Dark Art, the Ninth Mystery — Technology. The young girl watching had never seen a sword, but she knew of them through the nursery stories her governess told her of the ancient days. Gwen knew instinctively that this young man carried one, that he and his friends were undoubtedly bandits, and that he intended to fight.

  “No!” she breathed, pressing one hand against her mouth, the other crushing the forgotten flowers.

  The dark young man had turned to face the approaching Duuk-tsarith, his back was to Gwen. The warm spring wind blew his cloak aside, and she saw his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, slowly drawing it from a sheath that surrounded the object like the skin of a snake. The weapon was dark and hideous, and Gwen wanted to shut her eyes in horror. But her eyelids were dry and burning. She couldn’t close them, she could only stare at the weapon and the young man in a dread fascination, a smothering sensation in her chest.

  The Duuk-tsarith, now clear of the crowd, stretched out their hands toward Simkin, spell chants on their lips. They did not seem to be paying any attention to the dark young man, who was moving slowly up behind his friend.

  “’Pon my honor!” cried Simkin. “Must be some mistake. Call me when you’ve cleared it up, there’s a good fellow.”

  The air shimmered and the Kan-Hanar was left standing in front of Earth Gate, his hand resting firmly on nothing.

  Simkin was gone.

  “Find him!” the Kan-Hanar ordered unnecessarily, for the Duuk-tsarith were already responding. “I’ll watch his friends.”

  Gwen’s eyes — opened wide at this astonishing development — went instantly to the dark young man. Simkin’s disappearance had apparently startled him as well. He hesitated drawing the sword, and Gwen saw the catalyst remonstrating with him, speaking earnestly, his hand once more on the young man’s shoulder. Just as the Kan-Hanar came near, the young man slid the sword back into its scabbard, hastily covering it with his cloak.

  Gwen drew a shivering breath in relief, then realized, too late, that she was betraying far more interest in this young man than was maidenly proper. Hoping her cousins hadn’t noticed the burning flush in her cheeks, she buried her face in the bouquet.

  “I say, loosen up,” yelped a voice. “You’re pinching me most awfully.”

  Gwen gasped, dropping the flowers in her amazement. The voice had come from the heart of her bouquet!

  “Almin’s blood, child!” one of the flowers said irritably. “I didn’t mean for you to loosen up quite that much! I’ve crumpled a petal.”

  The blossoms lay scattered in the street. Slowly, cautiously, Gwendolyn drifted down out of the air to kneel beside the bouquet, staring at it incredulously. One flower stood out amid the dainty selection of violets and roses. This was a bright purple tulip, adorned by a red streak around its middle and a dash of orange on the top.

  “Well, are you just going to leave me lying in the filth?” the tulip asked in aggrieved tones.

  Gulping, Gwen glanced up to see if her cousins were looking at her, but they appeared to be totally absorbed in watching the Duuk-tsarith. The warlocks had not moved from the spot. Hands clasped before them, their black hoods pulled low over their faces, they appeared to be doing nothing. But Gwendolyn knew that they were mentally going over everyone in the crowd, throwing out the long, unseen filaments of their magical web, seeking their prey.

  Her eyes on the warlocks, Gwen reached out and gently picked up the purple tulip.

  “Simkin?” she asked hesitantly. “What —”

  “Shush! Shush!” hissed the tulip. “There’s been a most frightful mistake. I’m positive of it. Why should they arrest me? Well, there was that one incident with the Countess’s jewelry … But surely no one remembers that! Stuff was all fake anyway. Well, most of it…. If I can just get to the Emperor, you see, I’m certain he’ll set everything right! Then, there’s my friends.” The tulip took on an air of importance. “Can you keep a secret, child?”

  “Well, I —” Gwen regarded the tulip in bewilderment.

  “Shush! The dark young man. Noble family. Father died. Left the boy a fortune. Wicked uncle. Boy kidnapped. Held prisoner by giants. I rescued him. Now he returns, expose uncle, claim inheritance.”

  “Really?” Gwen raised her eyes to look at the dark young man over the tulips petals. “I just knew it,” she said.

  “That’s it!” the tulip cried. “Why didn’t it occur to me? Wicked uncle behind this! Heard we were coming back. Should have known. Had me arrested to get me out of the way. Too bad,” the tulip said gloomily. “He won’t stop with kidnapping now. It’ll be murder this time.”

  “Oh, dear, no!” Gwen whispered in alarm. “There must be something you
can do!”

  “I’m afraid not, unless you would — But no, I couldn’t ask it.” The tulip gave a gusty sigh. “I’m destined for life in a bud vase. As for my friend? Bottom of the river …”

  “Oh, no! I’ll help, if you really think I can,” Gwen faltered.

  “Very well,” the tulip responded with seeming reluctance. “Although I hate to involve you. But, you see, sweet child, I was thinking that if you were to drift over there quite casually and appear not to notice that anything was amiss and quite casually grab hold of the dear old catalyst, you could say, quite casually, ‘Father Dungstable! I’m terribly sorry I’m late. Papa and Mama are expecting you at home this moment!’ Then you, quite casually, lead him off.”

  “Lead him where?” Gwen asked in confusion.

  “Why, home, of course,” the tulip said matter-of-factly. “I presume you have room enough for us all. I do prefer private quarters, but if I have to, I’ll share, though not with the catalyst. You can’t imagine how he snores!”

  “You mean — Take you all … to my home!”

  “Of course! And you must do it quickly. Before that wretched catalyst says somethig to ruin us all! Poor man is none too bright, if you know what I mean.”

  “But I can’t! Not without asking Mama and Papa. What would they say —”

  “If you brought Simkin to your house? Simkin, the darling of the court? My dear,” the tulip continued in bored tones, “I could stay at the homes of twenty Princes, just like that! To say nothing of the Dukes and Earls and Counts who have literally gone down on their knees to beg me to be their houseguest. The Earl of Essac was devastated when I said no. Threatened to off himself. But really, twenty Pekingese? They yap, you know, to say nothing of nipping at the ankles.” The tulip flicked a leaf. “And of course I can introduce you into court, once this little matter is set right.”

  “Court!” Gwen repeated softly. Visions of the Crystal Palace came to her mind. She saw herself being presented to His Royal Highness, curtsying, her hand on the strong arm of the dark young man.

  “I’ll do it!” she said in sudden conviction.

  “Sweet child!” responded the tulip in heartfelt tones. “Now, carry me with you. Don’t mind the Duuk-tsarith They’ll never penetrate this disguise. I say, though, it would certainly add to the overall effect if you would just tuck me into your bosom —”

  “My … where? Oh … no!” Gwen murmured, blushing. “I don’t think so …” Placing the tulip among the other blossoms, she hastily gathered up the remainder of the bouquet from the ground.

  “Ah, well,” the tulip reflected philosophically, “you can’t win them all, as the Baron Baumgarten said when his wife ran off with the croquet master … and the Baron so fond of the game.”

  “I am going to ask you again, what are your names and what are your doing in Merilon?” The Kan-Hanar glared at them suspiciously.

  “And I am going to tell you again, sir,” said Joram, his voice taut with the visible effort it was taking him to control his temper, “he is Father Dunstable, he is Mosiah, and I am Joram. We are illusionists — traveling actors — who met Simkin by chance. We agreed to form a troupe and we are here at the invitation of one of Simkin’s patrons …”

  Saryon bowed his head, ceasing in his despair to listen. This was a story Prince Garald had suggested and it had sounded plausible at the time. Those born to the Mystery of Shadow, known as illusionists, are — by and large — a classless society. They are the artists of Thimhallan, traveling extensively throughout the world to entertain the populace with their skills and talents. Illusionists entered Merilon constantly, their skills being in great demand among the nobility.

  But this was the third time Joram had told the Kan-Hanar his story and it was obvious to Saryon, at least, that the man wasn’t having any part of it.

  It’s all over, Saryon said to himself bleakly.

  The guilty secret he carried had burned such a huge hole in his mind that he was convinced it must be visible to all who looked at him — marked on his forehead, perhaps, like a Guild stamp upon a silver butter dish. When the Kan-Hanar arrested Simkin, the catalyst immediately jumped to the conclusion that Vanya had caught them. He prevented Joram from using the Darksword in their defense more out of fear for the young man’s life than from fear of discovery. To Saryon, the end had come, and he intended, in just a few seconds, to counsel Joram to tell the Kan-Hanar the truth. He was just thinking, with a kind of wistful relief, that his bitter suffering would soon be over, when the catalyst felt a gentle hand upon his arm.

  Turning, he found himself confronted by a young woman of sixteen or seventeen perhaps (Saryon was not much in the habit of guessing the ages of young women) who was greeting him like a long-lost uncle.

  “Father Dungstable! How good to see you! Please accept my apologies for arriving late. I hope you are not angry, but it was such a lovely day that my cousins and I lingered far too long in the Grove. See the bouquet I gathered? Isn’t it lovely. There is one flower, Father, that I picked especially for you.”

  The girl held out a flower. It was a tulip, Saryon saw, staring at it in bewilderment. Just as he was about to take it into his hand, he noticed that it was a purple tulip — a bright purple tulip … with a bright red sash and a dash of orange….

  Closing his eyes, Saryon groaned.

  “And so you are telling me, Gwendolyn of the House of Samuels, that these … gentlemen are invited guests of your father’s?” The Kan-Hanar glanced at Joram and Mosiah dubiously.

  After Gwendolyn told her story to the Gate guards, the Kan-Hanar had taken them all to one of the guard towers. Magically shaped to stand next to the Earth Gate, the tower existed primarily for the convenience of the Kan-Hanar, giving them a place to rest during times when the Gate wasn’t busy, and containing supplies for their official duties. It was rarely used for interrogating those seeking admittance to Merilon — that was generally handled at the Gate itself with quick dispatch. But — due to Simkin’s dramatic arrival and even more dramatic disappearance — the Kan-Hanar discovered the crowd growing just a bit too interested in the proceedings. Therefore, he had herded everyone into the tower and now they stood, crowded together, in a small hexagonal room that had never been intended to accommodate six people and a tulip.

  “Yes, of course,” the young woman replied, toying prettily with the flowers she held in her hand.

  Putting a blossom near her soft cheek, Gwen regarded the archmagus over its petals in a coquettish manner that the man found quite charming. He didn’t take any particular notice of the fact that one of these blossoms happened to be an unusual-looking tulip, or that the young woman’s speech contained many pauses and hesitations. On the contrary, he attributed this to a maidenly reserve he considered most proper and becoming in a young girl.

  Saryon knew the real reason, however — the young woman was being coached in what to say, and she was being coached by the tulip! The catalyst could only wonder bleakly whether this was going to help matters or simply add to their long list of crimes. There was nothing he could do about it now, except to play his part and trust Simkin and the girl to play theirs.

  As for Joram and Mosiah, Saryon had no idea whether they had figured out what was going on or not. The Kan-Hanar was watching them all closely, and the catalyst dared not give them any type of sign. He did risk a glance at them, however, and was somewhat startled to find Joram’s gaze fixed on the girl with such burning intensity that the catalyst hoped she didn’t notice. Such ardent and undisguised admiration might frighten and confuse her.

  Seeing Joram’s look, Saryon realized that he might have an entirely new set of problems to contemplate. Although losing one’s heart wasn’t exactly in the same category with losing one’s life, the catalyst remembered his own days of tortured, dreaming youth and gave a despairing sigh. As if they didn’t have trouble enough….

  “You see, sir,” Gwendolyn was explaining, the tulips petals brushing thoughtfully against her bejeweled
earlobe, “Simkin and my father, Lord Samuels, the Guildmaster — You know him?”

  Yes, the Kan-Hanar knew her honored father and indicated so with a bow.

  Gwen smiled sweetly. “Simkin and my father have long been friends (this would have been news to Lord Samuels) and so when Simkin and his … his” — a pause — “tr-troupe of” — another pause — “young actors made known their intention to … to … perform in Merilon, my father extended an invitation to stay at our home.”

  The Kan-Hanar still appeared doubtful, but it wasn’t over the young woman’s story. Simkin was well-known and well-liked in Merilon. He often stayed at the very best homes. Indeed, the wonder of this was that he should consent to reside at the relatively humble dwelling of a mere Guildmaster. Lord Samuels and his family had a most honorable reputation, generations of them haying dwelt in Merilon practically since its founding with not a breath of scandal attached to the name. No, the Kan-Hanar was in truth wondering how to cope with this awkward situation without upsetting Lord Samuels or his charming daughter.

  “The fact of the matter is,” the Kan-Hanar began reluctantly, aware of the gaze of innocent blue eyes, “that Simkin is under arrest —”

  “No!” Gwen cried in horror and shock.

  “That is,” the Kan-Hanar amended, “he would be under arrest if he were here. But he escap — That is, he left rather suddenly….”

  “I am certain there must be some mistake,” the young woman said with an indignant toss of her golden curls. “Simkin can undoubtedly explain everything.”

  “I’m sure he can,” muttered the Kan-Hanar.

  “In the meantime,” Gwen continued, moving a step nearer the Kan-Hanar and gently laying her hand upon his arm in a pleading manner, “Papa is expecting these gentlemen, particularly Father Dungstable —”

  “Dunstable,” corrected the catalyst faintly.