Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [125]
Mosiah stared around, bewildered. Making incoherent replies, he was backing away when a firm hand gripped his arm.
“Simkin!” cried Mosiah thankfully. “I never thought I’d be grateful to see you, but —”
“Flattered, I’m sure, old chap, but you’ve put yourself in rather a bad situation and this is no time to share hugs and kisses,” Simkin said in an urgent whisper.
Mosiah looked around in alarm.
“Over there.” Simkin nodded his head. “No, don’t turn! Two black-robed observers have decided they’re art critics.”
“Name of the Almin!” Mosiah swallowed. “Duuk-tsarith.”
“Yes, and I believe they got a great deal more out of your little exhibition than the tea-and-crumpet set here. They know reality when they see it, and you’ve just proclaimed yourself a Field Magus as blatantly as if you’d sprouted corn out your ears. In fact, that might have been less damaging. I can’t think what put it into your head to do something so inane!” Simkin raised his voice. “I’ll take that under advisement, Countess Darymple. Dinner party a week from Tuesday? I’ll have to look at his schedule. I’m his manager, you see. Now, if you’ll just excuse us a moment — No, Baron, I really can’t say where he conjures up these crude clothes. If you want some like them, try the stables….”
“You were the one who got me into this!” Mosiah reminded him. “Not that it matters now. What are we going to do?” He glanced fearfully at the black hoods hovering on the outskirts of the crowd.
“They’re waiting for the excitement to die down,” Simkin muttered, pretending to fuss with Mosiah’s shirt, yet all the while keeping his gaze fixed on the warlocks. “Then they’ll move in. Do you have any magic left?”
“None.” Mosiah shook his head. “I’m exhausted. I couldn’t melt butter.”
“We may be the ones melting,” Simkin predicted grimly. “What was that, Duke? The dead baby? No, I don’t agree. Shock value. Audible gasps. Women fainting….”
“Simkin, look!” Mosiah felt faint himself with relief. “They’ve gone! Perhaps they weren’t watching!”
“Gone!” Simkin glanced about in increased agitation. “Dear boy, I hate to burst your bubble — it’s so frightfully messy — but that means that they are no doubt standing next to you, hands outstretched —”
“My god!” Mosiah clutched at Simkin’s multicolored sleeve. “Do something!”
“I am,” said Simkin coolly. “I’m going to give them what they want.” He pointed. “You.”
Mosiah’s mouth dropped open. “You bastard,” he began angrily, and stopped in amazement. It was his own sleeve he was hanging onto in a state of panic. It was his own arm beneath that sleeve, the arm was attached to his body. In fact, his own face looked back at him, grinning.
A hubbub of voices started all around him, laughing, exclaiming, crying out in wonder. Dazed, Mosiah turned and saw himself. He saw himself drifting in the air above himself. Everywhere Mosiah looked, in fact, he saw Mosiahs as far as the eye could see.
“Oh, Simkin, this is your best yet!” cried a Mosiah in a distinctly feminine voice. “Look, Geraldine — that is you, isn’t it, Geraldine? We’re dressed in these simply wonderful primitive clothes, and look at these trousers!”
“Play along!” said the Mosiah who Mosiah was holding, giving him a swift poke in the ribs. “This spell won’t last long and it won’t fool them forever! We’ve got to get out of here! I say, Duke! Absolutely brilliant of old Simkin this, what?” said Mosiah in a loud voice. “Play along!” he ordered in an undertone.
“Uh, right, B-baron,” Mosiah stammered in a deep bass, hanging onto what used to be Simkin as his last link with reality.
“Start moving!” Simkin/Mosiah hissed at him, drawing him along toward the exit. “I must go and show this to the Emperor!” he called out. “His Highness simply will not believe what Simkin, that genius, that sheer master of magic, that king of comedy —”
“Don’t overdo it!” Mosiah growled, shoving his way through the throngs of