Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [12]
“Don’t worry, Catalyst,” Joram snapped irritably. “No one will suspect a thing.” Taking his shirt 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 shirt. “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 shell, 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 nightshirt. 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 shirt 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 washing away the black soot of the forge, he dried himself with his shirtsleeve and brushed back his tangled, wet hair with his fingers. Then, shivering in the dank cell, he began to resolutely scrub his hands, using chunks of ice to scrape 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 mass 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 shifted constantly among each other, people in the street, and Blachloch’s house upon