Part 3 (2/2)
Joram turned from his work to face the catalyst. The dark eyes were cool and dispa.s.sionate, but Saryon saw a brief flicker of disappointment, a tiny flame of longing to hear something else that was quickly and coldly quenched. The look startled the catalyst, and he wished he'd said the words that had been in his heart. But the moment pa.s.sed.
”Very well, Catalyst,” Joram said coolly. ”I think it's a good idea you come with me anyway. I don't trust you out of my sight. You know too much about the darkstone. Now go back to the cell. Leave me alone. I've got to get this finished.”
Saryon sighed. Yes, he'd said the right thing. But how empty it felt. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the small piece of darkstone. ”One thing more. Can you set this in a mounting for me?” the catalyst asked Joram. ”And fasten it to a chain so that I can wear it?”
Surprised, Joram took the stone, looking from it to Saryon. The dark eyes were suddenly suspicious. ”Why?”
”I believe it will enable me to escape the Bishop's attempt to contact me. It will absorb the magic.”
Shrugging, Joram took it. ”I'll bring it to you when I return this afternoon.”
”It must be soon!” Saryon said nervously. ”Before this evening -”
”Do not worry, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted. ”By this evening, we will be long gone from this place. By the way,” he added casually, once again turning to his work, ”did you find Mosiah?”
”Yes, he is waiting at the prison, with Simkin.”
”So, he didn't leave....” Joram murmured to himself.
”What?”
”We'll take him with us. And Simkin. Go tell them and start making ready.”
”No! Not Simkin!” Saryon protested. ”Mosiah, perhaps, but not -”
”We'll need magic-users like Simkin and Mosiah, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted coldly. ”With you to give them Life, and my power with the Darksword, we might live through this yet.” He glanced up, dark eyes cold. ”I hope that doesn't disappoint you.”
Without a word, Saryon turned from Joram and walked back to the front of the forge, carefully avoiding as he did so the place on the floor where the warlock had died. Was that blood there? He fancied he could see a pool of it beneath a bucket, and quickly looked away.
He would not be sorry to leave this place. Though he had come to like the people and understand their way of life, he could never overcome in his soul the repugnance he felt for the Dark Arts of Technology, the repugnance that had been bred in him over a lifetime. He knew of the perils of the Outland - or a.s.sumed he did - and thought naively that life among nature would be preferable to a life where man engineered nature.
Where will we go? He didn't know. Sharakan, perhaps - although they might be walking into the midst of a war. It didn't matter. Anywhere would do - as long as it wasn't Merilon.
Yes, he would be glad to go, willing to face the perils of the Outland. But blessed Almin, Saryon thought glumly as he walked back to the prison house.
Why Simkin?
5.
Lying in a Manger ”I was there. I saw the whole thing, and sink me,” said Simkin in hushed, awful tones, ”if our Dark and Gloomy Friend didn't plunge his s.h.i.+ning sword straight into the warlock's writhing body.” was there. I saw the whole thing, and sink me,” said Simkin in hushed, awful tones, ”if our Dark and Gloomy Friend didn't plunge his s.h.i.+ning sword straight into the warlock's writhing body.”
”Good for Joram,” Mosiah said grimly.
”Well, actually not 's.h.i.+ning sword,'” Simkin amended, producing an ornate, silver-framed looking gla.s.s from the air with a gesture of his hand. Holding it up, he examined his face, meticulously smoothing his soft brown beard with his fingers and deftly twirling the ends of his mustache. ”Actually, that swords the ugliest thing I've seen, not counting the Marchioness of Black-borough's fourth child. Of course, the Marchioness herself is no prize. Everyone who knows her knows that the nose she wears at night is not not the same nose that she starts out with in the morning.” the same nose that she starts out with in the morning.”
”What ”
”It's never the same nose twice, you see. She's not very skilled in magic. It's been rumored that she's Dead, but that could never be proved, and then her husband is such a frightfully frightfully good friend of the Emperors. And if she would just take a bit of time, who knows? She might get the nose right. good friend of the Emperors. And if she would just take a bit of time, who knows? She might get the nose right.
”Simkin, I -”
”Still, I don't understand why she persists in having children, particularly ugly children. 'There ought to be a law against it,' I suggested to the Empress, who quite agreed with me.”
”What does the sword look like?” Mosiah managed to insert the sentence as Simkin paused for breath.
”Sword?” Simkin looked at him vaguely. ”Oh, yes. Joram's sword, the 'Darksword,' as he calls it. Quite aptly, too, I might add. What does it look like?” The young man pondered, first sending the looking gla.s.s away with a snap of his fingers. ”Let me think. By the way, do you like my ensemble? I prefer it to the black. I call it Blood and Gore Blood and Gore in honor of the dear departed.” in honor of the dear departed.”
Mosiah glanced at the blood-red breeches, purple coat, and red satin vest in disgust and nodded.
Adjusting the lace at his wrist - lace that was splotched with red spots, for ”that splatter effect” -- Simkin sat down upon the cot in the prison house, crossing his well-shaped legs to show off his purple hose to their best advantage.
”The sword,” he continued, ”looks like a man.”
”No!” Mosiah scoffed.
”Yes, Almin's truth,” Simkin averred, offended. ”A man of iron. A skinny man of iron, mind you, but a man nonetheless. Like so ...” Rising to his feet, Simkin stood stiffly upright, his ankles together, his arms thrown straight out to either side. ”My neck is the handle,” he said, stretching his scrawny throat to its utmost. ”It has a k.n.o.b o. top for a head.”
”You're the one with a k.n.o.b for a head!” Mosiah snorted.
”Take a look at it, if you don't believe me,” Simkin said, collapsing suddenly upon the cot. He yawned. ”It's under the mattress, wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes.”
Mosiah's gaze went to the bed, his hands twitched. ”No, I couldn't,” he said after a moment.
”Suit yourself.” Simkin shrugged. ”I wonder if they've discovered the body yet. And do you think this is too gaudy for the funeral?”
”What powers did you say the Darksword had?” Mosiah asked, his eyes fixed in fascination upon the bed. Slowly he rose to his feet, crossed the room, and came to stand beside the cot, though he did not venture to touch the mattress. ”What did it do to Blachloch?”
”Let me recall,” Simkin said languidly, lying down on the cot and putting his arms underneath his head. Staring at his shoes, he frowned and experimentally changed their color from red to purple. ”You must realize it was a bit difficult for me to see, situated as I was, hanging from the wall by one wretched nail. I thought about becoming a bucket, they have such better vision than tongs, you know. When I'm tongs, one eye generally gets located on each side. It gives a wide range, but I can't see a thing in the middle. Buckets, on the other hand -”
”Oh, just get on with it!” Mosiah snapped impatiently.
Simkin sniffed and changed his shoes back to red again. ”Our Hated and Ruthless Leader was casting a Green Venom spell upon our friend - Ever see that spell in action, by the way?” Simkin asked casually. ”Does nasty things to your nervous system. Paralyzes, causes excruciating pain -”
”Poor Joram,” said Mosiah softly.
”Yes, poor Joram,” Simkin repeated slowly. ”He was about done for, Mosiah.” The bantering voice was suddenly serious. ”I really thought it was all over. Then I noticed the strangest thing. The green venomous light that the spell casts over one's body glowed around Joram everywhere except his hands, where he was holding the Darksword. And, slowly, the glow began to fade from his arms, and was fading from the rest of his body, as well, when our jolly old friend, the catalyst, stepped in and sucked the Life from the warlock. Good thing, too. Most timely. Even though the Darksword was having some sort of reversing effect on Blachloch's spell, it obviously wasn't going to act fast enough to save Joram from being turned into a quivering ma.s.s of green pudding.”
”So it somehow nullifies the magic,” Mosiah said wonderingly. He stared at the bed in longing, irresolute. Glancing out the barred window, he s.h.i.+vered in the chill air. Though it was midafternoon, it had grown no warmer. The weak sun had disappeared completely beneath sullen, gray clouds. It looked and felt as if the clouds had dropped down and were lying on top of the town, slowly smothering the life from it. The streets were empty. There were no guards, no townspeople. Even the noise of the forge had ceased.
Making up his mind, the young man walked swiftly to the cot. Kneeling beside it, he inserted his hands beneath the mattress. Gently, almost reverently, he pulled out the bundle of rags.
Leaning back upon his heels, Mosiah unwrapped the sword and stared at it. The young man's face - the open, honest face of a Field Magus - twisted in repugnance.
”What did I tell you?” Simkin said, rolling over on the cot and propping himself up on one elbow so that he could see. ”Beastly looking piece of work, isn't it? I personally wouldn't be caught dead carrying it, though I don't suppose that bothers Joram. Get it,” he persisted playfully when Mosiah did not laugh. ”Caught Dead?”
<script>