Free Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story by Fred Saberhagen Page B

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           Vilkata whispered on, venting his frustration, lamenting the fact that he had still been unable to find an opportunity to seize the Sword from Murat, even though in the Dark King’s demon-powered perception Skulltwister loomed ever as a brilliant beacon.
           He came near suggesting—though he stopped short of doing so—that Akbar have a go at snatching the Sword himself if he thought it would be so easy.
           Then the man had a request. “Can you not make my human body younger, swifter, stronger? That would help.”
           “I assure you, Great Master, matters are not that simple. The man Murat is magician enough to detect any sudden magical alteration in your person. Magician enough to sense my presence should I come any nearer him than this. The instant he grows suspicious he will draw his Sword. Where should we both be then?”
           Vilkata grumbled, but forbore to press his partner to give him more help, or to make an attempt to grab the Sword of Glory himself. He really had no wish to see the Sword in Akbar’s hands.
           Sounding as malleable and cowardly as ever, and repeatedly fretting about the dangers of discovery, Akbar wondered querulously if they were even safe from discovery here on the edge of camp, with almost everyone else asleep.
           “There are no magicians here but me—certainly not the Crown Prince. No real magicians at all—well, there is one amateur who might conceivably be dangerous.”
           “Ah?”
           “His name is Gauranga, the bandit with the gray mustache, and he possesses a sensitivity, if no real skill, in matters of magic. I am beginning to fear what he may detect.”
           “Yes, I see, Master. Such an individual could present a problem—let me try to solve it.”
           “I trust you will succeed. Without alarming anyone.”
     
    * * *
     
           It was early on the morning after this conference that four of the converted Tasavaltan guardsmen approached the Crown Prince and asked his permission to speak.
           “Permission granted.”
           Standing before Murat, the troopers informed him timidly, in one or two cases rather sullenly, that they wished to leave him and return to the service of the Princess.
           Murat had begun to expect such a request from some of his men, and readily gave those who asked permission to leave his service. They looked somewhat relieved.
           He raised a cautioning hand. “I would ask you, however, to delay your return to your former duties until after I have a chance to make contact with the Princess, which should be very soon now. Will you promise me that much?”
           Standing as they were, confronting Murat directly, the troopers were unable to refuse him that much, although their Tasavaltan loyalties had obviously regained an ascendancy. The foundations of their conversion, Murat thought, had been built on nothing substantial in the mundane world, and were now eroding swiftly; in another day or two they might be capable of becoming his enemies once more.
           The thought bothered him unreasonably.
           “Wait another day,” said Murat, “and I will put in a good word for you with the Princess. As soon as I have the opportunity.”
           He had thought that this gracious offer would relieve the men’s remaining worry. But to his surprise the troopers looked more uneasy than before.
           “Your pardon, sir, but…” Their spokesman hesitated.
           “Well, what is it? Spit it out. Speak freely.”
           “To put it bluntly, sir, the Princess doesn’t like you.” The man hesitated, then plunged boldly on. “I mean, sir, in the case of someone like Princess Kristin, who doesn’t really know you yet, who’s never had the benefit of your Sword to clear her vision—well, in the light of what happened last year, isn’t