Part 2 (1/2)

”Must I? If that lout looms up at me, I'll vomit. I swear -”

”Just watch the window!” Joram said grimly.

Placing the orange silk firmly over his mouth and nose, Simkin moved obligingly to the window, peering outside. ”The lout in question has gone to speak to his fellow louts across the street,” he reported. ”They all seem fearfully excited. I wonder what's going on?”

”They've probably discovered that Blachloch's missing,” Joram said, walking over to the bed. Kneeling down beside it, he placed his hands beneath the filthy mattress and drew forth a cloth-covered bundle. Hastily unwrapping it, he glanced at the sword inside and, nodding in satisfaction, looked back at Saryon. The pale sunlight cast a gray glow upon the face of the older man, who was regarding him with a solemn, grave expression.

”Thank you,” Joram said grudgingly.

”Don't thank me. I would to the Almin that it were at the bottom of the river!” Saryon said fervently. ”Especially after this nights business!” He raised his hands pleadingly. ”Reconsider, Joram! Destroy this weapon of evil before it destroys you!”

”No!” Avoiding the catalysts sorrow-filled eyes, Joram angrily shoved the bundle back beneath the bed. ”You saw the power it gave me during during tonight's business. Do you truly believe I'd give that up? It's my concern, not yours, old man!” tonight's business. Do you truly believe I'd give that up? It's my concern, not yours, old man!”

”It is is my concern,” Saryon said softly. ”I was there! I helped you commit mur -” The catalyst bit off his words, glancing at Simkin. my concern,” Saryon said softly. ”I was there! I helped you commit mur -” The catalyst bit off his words, glancing at Simkin.

”It's all right,” Joram said, standing up. ”Simkin knows.”

Of course, Saryon said to himself bitterly. Simkin knows everything, somehow. The catalyst had the feeling that truth - his guide through the mora.s.s - had just left him floundering in a bog.

”In fact,” Joram continued, sinking down on the bed, ”you should thank him, Catalyst. I would never have been able to complete 'last nights business,' as you call it, without him.”

”Yes,” said Simkin cheerfully, turning from the window. ”He was going to dump the body just any old place and, of course, that wouldn't do at all. I mean, you want this to look like centaurs killed dear old Blachloch, don't you? 'Pon my honor. The warlock's - pardon: late, unlamented warlocks - henchmen are stupid, but, I ask you, are they that stupid?

”Suppose that they find their erstwhile master at the foot of some tree with a great, b.l.o.o.d.y hole in his gut and not a track or weapon in sight. Is it likely, I wonder, that they'd remark casually, 'Zounds! Looks like old Blachloch's got himself done in by a maple!' Not on your Aunt Minnie! They'd hurry back here, line everyone up in the square, and ask nasty, insulting questions like 'Where were you between the hours of ten and twelve?' and 'What was the dog doing in the nighttime?' So, to avoid that, we arranged the body - quite tastefully, I a.s.sure you - in a picturesque att.i.tude in the center of a small glade, complete with embellis.h.i.+ng touches.”

Saryon felt suddenly sick. He saw Joram leaving the forge, the warlock's corpse slung over his shoulders, Blachloch's limp arms dangling down behind. The catalysts knees gave way. Sinking down into a chair, he couldn't help staring in horror at Joram, at the bloodstained s.h.i.+rt.

Joram followed the catalyst's gaze, glancing down at himself. His mouth twisted. ”This make you squeamish, old man?”

”You should get rid of it,” said Saryon quietly. ”Before the guards see it.”

Joram stared at him a moment, then, shrugging, he tugged at the s.h.i.+rt. ”Simkin,” he ordered, ”start a fire -”

”My dear fellow!” Simkin protested. ”Waste of a perfectly good s.h.i.+rt. Toss it here. Remove the stain in an instant. The d.u.c.h.ess D'Longeville showed me - You remember hearing of her, the one with all the husbands who kept dying mysteriously. An expert on stains, too. 'Nothing easier to take out than dried blood, Simkin, my dear,' she said to me. 'Most people make such a fuss over it.' All you do is -” Catching the s.h.i.+rt as Joram threw it, Simkin shook it out, then rubbed the stain vigorously with the bit of orange silk. At its touch, the blood vanished. ”There, what'd I tell you? Pure and white as the driven snow. Well, not counting that grime around the collar.” Simkin regarded the s.h.i.+rt with a disdainful smile.

”What about the body?” Saryon interrupted hoa.r.s.ely. ”What 'touches'?”

”Centaur tracks!” Simkin smiled proudly. ”My idea.”

”Tracks? How?”

”Why, turned myself into a centaur, of course,” Simkin replied, leaning back against the wall. ”Jolly fun. Do it on occasion to relax. I stomped about, tore up the turf, made it appear as though there'd been the most savage fight. Considered seriously killing myself and leaving my body beside Blachloch's. Would have been the ultimate in realism. But” - he sighed - ”one can give only so much to one's art.”

”Don't worry, Catalyst,” Joram snapped irritably. ”No one will suspect a thing.” Taking his s.h.i.+rt back from Simkin, he started to put it on, hesitated, then tossed it on the mattress. Yanking a worn leather pack from beneath his bed, Joram took out another s.h.i.+rt. ”Where's Mosiah?” he asked, looking about with a frown.

”I - I don't know,” Saryon answered, realizing suddenly that he had not seen the young man. ”He was asleep when we left. The guards must have taken him somewhere!” He half-rose in alarm, walking toward the window.

”He probably escaped,” Simkin said nonchalantly. ”Those louts couldn't keep a chick from breaking out of its sh.e.l.l, and you know Mosiah was talking of heading out into the wilds on his own.” Simkin gave a jaw-cracking yawn. ”I say, Saryon, old boy, you don't mind if I use your cot, do you? I'm frightfully sleepy. Witnessing murders, hiding bodies - been a full day. Thanks.” Without waiting for Saryon's reply, Simkin crossed the small room, and stretched himself luxuriously on the cot. ”Nightclothes,” he said, and was immediately garbed in a long, white, linen, lace-decorated nights.h.i.+rt. Winking at Saryon, the young man smoothed his beard, brushed up his mustache; then, closing his eyes, he was fast asleep in an instant, and within three was snoring blissfully.

Joram's face darkened. ”You don't think he did, do you?” he asked Saryon.

”What? Leave, go off by himself?” The catalyst rubbed his aching eyes. ”Why not? Mosiah certainly thinks he has no friends here.” He glanced bitterly at Joram. ”Would it matter to you?”

”I hope he did,” Joram said flatly, tucking his s.h.i.+rt into his breeches. ”The less he knows about this, the better. For him ... and for us.”

He started to lay back down, thought better of it, and walked over to the table. Lifting the pitcher, he broke the ice inside and poured the water into a slop bowl. Then, grimacing, he plunged his face into the chill water. After was.h.i.+ng away the black soot of the forge, he dried himself with his s.h.i.+rtsleeve and brushed back his tangled, wet hair with his fingers. Then, s.h.i.+vering in the dank cell, he began to resolutely scrub his hands, using chunks of ice to sc.r.a.pe the dried blood from his fingers.

”You're going out somewhere, aren't you?” Saryon asked suddenly.

”To the forge, to work,” Joram answered. Wiping his hands upon his breeches, he then began to separate his thick, tangled hair into three parts, to braid it as he did every day, wincing as he tugged impatiently at the glossy black ma.s.s in his hands.

”But you're falling asleep on your feet,” Saryon protested. ”Besides, they won't let you out. You're right, something's going on.” He motioned to the window. ”Look there. The guards are nervous....”

Joram glanced out the window, twisting his hair with skilled hands. ”All the more reason for us to act as if nothing has happened. While I'm gone, see what you can discover about Mosiah.” Slinging a cloak over his shoulders, Joram walked over to the window and began to bang impatiently on the bars. The knot of guards in the street turned suddenly, and one - after a moment's conference with the others - came over to the cell, unlocked the door, and yanked it open.

”What do you want?” the guard growled.

”I'm supposed to be at work,” Joram said sullenly. ”Blachloch's orders.”

”Blachloch's orders?” The guard frowned. ”We haven't had any orders from -” he began, then stopped, biting off his words and swallowing them with a gulp. ”Just get back in the cell!”

”Sure.” Joram shrugged. ”Only you tell the warlock why I wasn't at the forge when they're working overtime to turn out weapons for Sharakan.”

”What's going on?” Another guard came up. All the guards, Saryon noticed, appeared nervous and ill at ease. Their eyes s.h.i.+fted constantly among each other, people in the street, and Blachloch's house upon the hill.

”Says he's supposed to go to the forge. Orders.” The guard jerked his thumb at the house.

”Then take him,” said the other guard.

”But yesterday we was told to keep 'em locked up. And Blachloch's not -”

”I said take him,” the guard growled with a meaningful look at his fellow.

”Come on, then,” the man said to Joram, giving him a vicious shove.

Saryon watched as Joram and the guard made their way through the streets. The guards' nervousness had spread to the populace. The catalyst saw men pa.s.sing by on their way to work cast dark glances at Blachloch's henchmen, who glared at them with equal enmity. Women who should have been going to market or taking laundry to the stream stared out the windows of their houses. Children starting to go out to play were yanked back indoors. Did the Sorcerers know about Blachloch's disappearance or were they simply reacting to the nervous state of the warlock's henchmen? Saryon couldn't guess and he dared not ask.

His brain numb with exhaustion and fear, the catalyst sank down in a rickety chair and leaned his head in his hand. A loud voice made him start, but it was only Simkin muttering about cards, apparently playing a game of tarok in his sleep.

”Last trick falls to the King of Swords....”

4.

Waiting Never had a morning pa.s.sed more slowly for Saryon, who tracked it by the counts of his heartbeat, the drawing of his breath, the blinking of his gummed eyes. There had been a flurry of activity in the house across the street shortly after Joram-left, and the catalyst guessed that a contingent of Blachloch's henchmen had decided to go off in search of their missing leader. Now, every second that dragged past, Saryon expected to hear the commotion that would tell him the warlock's body had been discovered.

The catalyst could do nothing but wait. He actually envied Joram his work at the iron forge, where mind and body - tired though they might be - could find refuge in numbing labor. The sight of Simkin, sprawled luxuriously on his cot, made every muscle in the catalysts middle-aged body ache for rest, and he tried to seek refuge in sleep. Saryon lay down on Joram's bed, tired enough that he hoped he would sink into oblivion swiftly. But the moment he began to slip over the edge of consciousness, he imagined he heard Vanya's voice calling him, and he started awake, sweating and trembling.