Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [127]
“Something’s happened to him!” Joram muttered. “There was all that talk about Simkin at dinner. Some illusion he performed. You don’t suppose Mosiah was with him?”
Saryon sighed. “Who knows. No one in the house saw Mosiah leave. No one’s seen Simkin for days.” He was silent a moment, then he said, “You should leave, Joram. Leave now. If something did happen to him —”
“No!” Joram said sharply, coming to a halt in his pacing and glaring at the catalyst. “I’m too close! Tomorrow night —”
“He’s right, I’m afraid, Joram,” said a voice.
“Mosiah!” Joram said in grim relief, watching as the Corridor opened and his friend stepped out. “Where have you —” his voice died in astonishment as another Mosiah materialized right behind him, this one wearing a bit of orange silk tied around his neck.
“Helps me to tell us apart,” the orange-silk Mosiah said by way of explanation. “I was getting slightly muddled. ’Pon my honor,” he continued languidly, “I’m beginning to find this life of a fugitive from justice quite entertaining.”
“What is this?” Joram demanded, staring at the two in amazement.
“It’s a long story. I’m sorry. I’ve put us all in terrible danger,” Mosiah — the real Mosiah — looked at his friend earnestly. Once in the light, it was easy to tell him from Simkin, even without the orange silk around the neck. His face was pale and strained with fear; there were smudgy shadows beneath his eyes. “They haven’t been here, have they?” he asked, glancing about. “Simkin said they wouldn’t, not while they thought I was in fashion.”
“Who hasn’t been here?” Joram asked, exasperated. “What are you talking about — in fashion?”
“The Duuk-tsarith,” Mosiah answered, barely above a whisper.
“You better tell us what happened, my son,” Saryon said, his voice breaking, fear catching him in the throat.
Hurriedly and somewhat incoherently, his eyes darting around the room, Mosiah told them what had occurred in the Grove of Merlyn. “And there are copies of me everywhere,” he said in conclusion, spreading his hands as though to encompass the world. “Even when Simkin’s illusion began to fade, people started conjuring up the image on their own! I don’t know what the Duuk-tsarith must be doing or thinking …”
“They may be confused for a while,” Saryon said gravely, “but it won’t take them long to recover. Of course, they will have connected you with Simkin. They will go to the Palace first, make discreet inquiries …” He shook his head. “It will be only a matter of time before they find out where you’ve been staying. He is right, Joram, you must leave!”
Seeing Joram’s rebellious face, the catalyst raised a feeble hand. “Hear me out. I’m not saying you should leave the city, though that is what I would most strongly advise. If you are determined to attend the Emperor’s party tomorrow —”
“I am.”
“Then, stay in Merilon. But at least leave this house tonight. It would be a pity,” Saryon added, asking the god he no longer believed in to forgive him his lie, “to come so close to gaining your inheritance, then to lose it through lack of caution. I think —”
“Very well! Perhaps you are right,” Joram broke in impatiently. “But where could I hide? And what about you?”
“You could hide where we’ve been hiding all day — the Grove of Merlyn,” said Simkin. “Bored to tears, too, I might add.”
“I’ll be all right here,” Saryon said. “As Father Dunstable, I am the safest of any of you. My leaving, in fact, would look extremely suspicious. As it is, perhaps I can throw them off the trail.”
“I don’t know why you’re all worried about our bald friend here,” Simkin remarked, his very mustache drooping with gloom. “It’s me who should be depressed! I’ve started a new fashion trend that I find personally disgusting! Everyone in court is dressed like he planned to go out wallowing with pigs or mucking about in the beans.”
“We should be going,” Mosiah said, fidgeting nervously. “I have the feeling I’m being watched by eyes I can’t see, touched by hands I can’t feel! It’s getting on my nerves.