Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [116]
“What?” Pacing worriedly around the room, Mosiah was only half listening.
“All babies look like the Emperor’s mother.” Simkin nodded profoundly. “Large round head that she can’t hold up, puffy cheeks, squinty eyes and this kind of befuddled expression —”
“Oh, will you get serious?” Mosiah said in exasperation. “Joram’s got some kind of scars on him from when he was born. You know, you’ve seen them. Those little white marks on his chest?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever taken much interest in his chest,” remarked Simkin, “except to note a distinct lack of hair. I suppose, though, it all went to his head.”
“There used to be talk in our village about those scars,” said Mosiah reflectively, ignoring Simkin. “I remembered Old Marm Hudspeth saying they were a curse; that Anja sank her teeth into him and sucked his blood. I never heard him say how he really got them. ’Course, it isn’t the type of question one asks Joram, after all. Maybe I was afraid to ask.” Mosiah gave a nervous laugh. “Maybe I was afraid he’d tell me….”
“So now the curse becomes the blessing, just like in the House Magi’s tale,” said Simkin, a smile playing about his lips. He smoothed his mustache with one finger. “Our frog becomes a Prince….”
“Not Prince,” said Mosiah, exasperated. “Baron.”
“Sorry, dear boy,” said Simkin. “Forgot you grew up in the wilderness, illiterate and all that. Say,” he continued hurriedly, seeing Mosiah growing angry again, “I came back to get you all to come with me. Merriment and jollification taking place in the Grove of Merlyn, down below. Artists practicing the performances they’re going to present for His Boringness tomorrow night. Quite entertaining, really. One’s allowed to throw things if they botch the job. Starts any minute, near noon. Where’s Joram?”
“He won’t come,” said Mosiah. “Lord Samuels told him he couldn’t see Gwendolyn anymore, not until this all was settled. But then Samuels left for the Guild, and Joram hopes to meet her anyhow. He’s been out in the garden since breakfast. Saryon’s too weak to go anywhere.”
“Then it’s you and me, dear boy,” said Simkin, clapping Mosiah on the back. “I’ll bet you’ve been entombed in this place for days, haven’t you?”
“Well …” Mosiah glanced outside longingly.
“Relax! No need to worry about getting caught. You’ll be with me,” Simkin said easily. “I’ve the Emperor’s protection. No one dares touch me. Besides, there’ll be the most tremendous crowd. We’ll lose ourselves amidst the throng.”
“Hah!” Mosiah snorted, giving Simkin’s glaring green finery a scathing glance. “I’d like to see you lose yourself …”
“What? Don’t you like this?” the young man asked, wounded. “I call it Shocking Green Grape. Still, you are right. It does stand out a bit. I’ll tell you what. Come with me and I’ll tone it down. There” — he waved his hand — “how’s this? I’ll call it … let’s see … Rotting Plum. Now I’m as drab as you. I say, old fellow, do come.” Simkin yawned again, dabbing gloomily at his nose with the orange silk. “I’ve spent I don’t know how many hours at court simply bored to pieces. That happened to the Earl of Montbank, you know. During one of the Emperor’s stories. Most of us simply went to sleep, but when we awoke we found the Earl, scattered all about the parlor…. Anyway, I’ve had Dukes and Earls up to here! I thirst for the common touch.”
“I’d like to give you a common touch!” Mosiah muttered, flexing his hands as Simkin wandered over to study the titles on Lord Samuels’s bookshelves.
“What did you say, dear boy?” Simkin asked, half turning.
“I’m thinking,” said Mosiah.
Secretly, the young man was longing to see the Grove of Merlyn, said to be one of the wonders of Thimhallan. Touring these fabulously beautiful gardens, plus the chance to view the artistic delights of the illusionists, seemed a dream come true to the Field Magus. But he knew that Saryon wouldn’t want him to go outside;