Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [121]
“Beg pardon, old chap. Was that your foot? Mistook it for a cauliflower. You should really have the Theldara do something about those toes…. Just passing through, don’t mind us. Do you like this ensemble? I call it Rotting Plum. Yes, I know it’s not up to my usual standards, but my friend and I are supposed to be traveling incognito. Pray take no notice of us. Duke Richlow! Sink me! In town for the gala? Did I do that? Frightfully sorry, old boy. Must’ve jostled your elbow. Actually that wine stain rather helps your somewhat drab robe, if you don’t mind my saying — Well … if you’ve no imagination, allow me.” Simkin snatched the orange silk out of the air. “I’ll have you as spotless, old chap, as your wife’s reputation. Ah, is it my fault you drink this cheap brand that won’t wash out? Try a lemon rinse. It does wonders for the Duchess’s hair, doesn’t it? Ah, Contessa! Charmed. And your privileged escort? I don’t believe we’ve met. Simkin, at your service. Any relation to the Contessa? Cousin? Yes, of course, I should have known. You’re about the eighth cousin I’ve met. Kissing cousin, too, I’ll wager. I envy the Contessa her large family … and you are unaccountably large, aren’t you, dear boy? I was just thinking, Contessa, it’s such a coincidence that all your cousins are male, six feet tall, with such perfect teeth …”
Heads turned. People laughed and pointed, some floating higher or lower to get a better view, many moving nearer to hear the irreverent young man’s barbed comments. Floundering along in Simkin’s wake, Mosiah felt his skin alternately burn with embarrassment or go cold with fear. In vain he tugged on Simkin’s sleeve — which once came off in his hand to the delight of two Earls and a Marchioness — in vain he reminded him in a low voice that they were supposed to be “mingling with the throng.” This only goaded Simkin to perpetrate greater outrages — such as changing his clothes five times in as many minutes “to throw off pursuit.”
Glancing about uneasily Mosiah expected any moment to see the black-robed figures of the Duuk-tsarith appear. But no black hoods shot up from among the flowered and plumed and bejeweled heads, no correctly folded hands cast a pall over the laughter and merriment. Gradually, Mosiah began to relax and even to enjoy himself, figuring that the dread watchers must not find much to watch in this gay throng.
Simkin could have told Mosiah — had the innocent Field Magus asked — that the Duuk-tsarith were here as they were everywhere, watching and listening, discreet and unobserved. Let the tiniest ripple mar the glittering surface of the festivities and they were present in an eyeblink to smooth it out. Three university students — having imbibed too much champagne — began singing songs considered to be in poor taste. A dark shadow appeared, like a cloud passing over the sun, and the students were gone, to sleep off their inebriation.
A troupe of players, presenting what they thought was a harmless little satire on the Emperor, were whisked away at intermission with such skill and dispatch that the audience never noticed and left, thinking the play had ended. A cutpurse was apprehended, punished, and released so swiftly and silently that the wretched fellow had the feeling it had all been some sort of horrible nightdream except that his hands — now magically deformed so that they were five times larger than normal — were a monstrous reality.
Mosiah knew nothing of this, he saw nothing. He was not intended to see or know. The pleasure of the crowd must not be disturbed. And so he forgot