Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [10]
“I’m fine,” Joram responded tiredly, sinking down in a chair.
“But …” Saryon laid a hand upon the slumped shoulder. “You look dreadful —”
“I said I’m fine!” Joram snarled, jerking away from Saryon’s sympathetic touch. He glanced at the catalyst through a tangle of glossy, black hair. “We’ve all seen better days, if it comes to that….”
“I resent that remark!” Simkin said, drawing a bit of orange silk from the air with a flourish and dabbing at his nose. “Please don’t lump me in amongst you rabble.”
Indeed, Simkin appeared to have just come from an evening with the Emperor. The only change noticeable in the foppish young man was the somewhat startling fact that his usually colorful clothes were now completely black — even to the lace that covered his wrists.
Sighing, Saryon drew away from Joram. Rubbing his cold hands, he wrapped them in the sleeves of his shabby robe in a futile endeavor to warm them.
“Did you have any trouble getting back here last night?” Joram asked the catalyst.
“No. The guards knew I was with … Blachloch.” Saryon coughed, choking over the name. “I told them he had finished with me and … sent me back. They shut me up in here without question. But you?” The catalyst stared at Joram, then Simkin, in wonder. “How did you get here? And where have you been? Did anyone see you?” He glanced involuntarily out the window at the house across the street where Blachloch’s guards lived, keeping watch on the prisoners.
“See us! Gad, how insulting!” Simkin sniffed. “As if I would appear in public in this garb!” He raised a black sleeve contemptuously. “I’m wearing this now only because it seems suited to the occasion.”
“But how did you get here?” Saryon persisted.
“The Corridors, of course.” Simkin shrugged.
“But … that’s impossible!” Saryon gasped, almost incoherent in his amazement. “The Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters! They would have stopped — You had no catalyst to grant you sufficient Life or … or open them —”
“Technicalities.” Simkin waved a black lace-covered hand. He took a turn about the room, admiring his black shoes and continuing to talk. “I was speaking of something when we came in, and between you and the appearance of that loutish face in the window, which has, by the way, completely taken away my appetite for breakfast, it’s been quite driven from my mind. What was it?”
“Joram,” Saryon began, trying to ignore Simkin. “Where were —”
“Oh, yes. I recall.” Simkin frowned, hand to his head. “Burying the baron by mistake. He took it all quite well. Thought it a capital joke, in fact. He did have a small problem crawling out from beneath the marble slab and then there were a few tense moments when we mistook him for a vampire and attempted to drive a stake through his heart. Discovered he was flesh and blood, however, and sent for the Theldara at once. Patched up the hole in his chest. Never better. Understandable mistake. But the grieving widow, a different story.” Simkin heaved a sigh. “Never forgave him for ruining the funeral.”
“Joram! Where have you been? What happened?” Saryon asked insistently when Simkin paused for breath.
“Where’s the Darksword?” Joram demanded abruptly.
“Where you keep it hidden. I brought it back, as I promised. It is safe,” Saryon added, seeing Joram’s dark eyes rest on him with sudden suspicion. “As you said, I could not destroy what I had helped create.”
Joram stood up. “Simkin, watch the window,” he ordered.
“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,