Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [108]
A figure started up out of a chair.
“Mosiah!” said Lord Samuels in astonishment.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mosiah stammered, flushing.
“We missed you at dinner, young man,” Lord Samuels said coldly This was a polite fiction. In the prevailing gloom of the dining room, no one had noticed the young man’s absence at all.
“I guess I forgot about the time. I was so involved in reading —” Mosiah held up a book.
“Go ask the servants to get you something to eat,” Lord Samuels cut him off, opening the door wide in a gesture of dismissal.
“Tha — thank you, my lord,” stuttered Mosiah, his eyes going from the lord’s grim face to Joram’s worried one. He looked to Saryon for an explanation, but the catalyst only shook his head. Bowing, Mosiah left the room and Lord Samuels motioned to the servant to pour the brandy.
The library was a cozy chamber. Obviously designed by and for the man of the house, it was filled with numerous pieces of finely shaped wood — a large oaken desk, several comfortable chairs, and a great many lovingly shaped bookcases. The books and scrolls contained therein were suitable to Lord Samuels’s rank and position in society. He was an educated man, as was necessary to rise to the rank of Guildmaster, but he was not too educated. That would have been viewed as an attempt to rise above his station, and Lord Samuels — like his wife — was careful to keep a respectful distance between himself and his betters. For this, he was widely admired, particularly by his betters, who were frequently heard to observe that Lord Samuels “knew” his place.
Joram glanced at the books as he entered. Drawn to knowledge as a starving man to food, he was already familiar with every title in the library. When he was forced — of necessity — to be parted from Gwen, he spent most of his time in here with Mosiah. True to his promise, Joram had taught his friend to read. Mosiah was an apt pupil, quick and intelligent. The lessons went well, and now, in his enforced confinement, Mosiah found the library a blessing.
He had begun his studies in earnest, working his way painstakingly through the texts, often without help; Joram being somewhat preoccupied. In particular, Mosiah was entranced by the books on the theories and uses of magic, having never been exposed to anything like this before. Joram considered these books boring and useless, but Mosiah devoted most of his leisure hours — and there were many — to the study of his magic.
Saryon, in his turn, did not notice the books at all. The catalyst barely noticed anything in the room, including the chair which milord drew up for him with a gesture and then had to reposition quickly as the catalyst — absorbed in his thoughts — started to sit down in midair.
“I beg your pardon, Father Dunstable,” Lord Samuels apologized as the catalyst literally collapsed into the chair that scooted up beneath him.
“My fault, my lord,” Saryon mumbled. “I wasn’t watching …” His voice died.
“Perhaps you should get out more, Father,” Lord Samuels suggested as the servant was causing the brandy to flow from a crystal decanter into fragile goblets of glass. “You and that young man, Mosiah. I can understand why this young man prefers my garden to the fabulous gardens of City Below” — he gave Joram a meaningful look, a slight frown marring his forehead — “but I do think you and Mosiah should see the wonders of our beautiful city before you leave.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the words.
Alarmed, Joram glanced at Saryon, but the catalyst could only return his look with a shrug of the shoulders. There was nothing either could do or say; Lord Samuels was obviously keeping the conversation carefully innocuous until the servant had been dismissed. Joram stiffened, his hands curled over the arms of his chair.
“I understand that you once lived here, Father Dunstable?” continued Lord Samuels.
Saryon could trust himself only to nod.
“You are familiar with