Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [129]
“Simkin,” said Joram, turning to the young man who had pulled the bit of orange silk from the air and was now blowing his nose loudly, “will the Grove be a safe place to hide?”
Simkin gave a wrenching sob, weeping into the silk.
“What’s the matter?” Joram asked with a touch of impatience, though a smile played around his lips.
“This reminds me of the time my dear brother, Little Nat — you’ve heard me mention Little Nat — or was it Nate? Anyway, Little Nat lay dying, having consumed a quantity of stolen strawberry pies. He denied it, of course, but he was caught red-handed, or -lipped, as the case may be. Though we rather suspected it wasn’t the pies killed him so much as the carriage that ran over him as he was floating home. His last words to me were, ‘Simkin, the crust was underdone.’ There’s a moral there, somewhere,” he said, applying the silk to his red-rimmed eyes. “But it eludes me.”
“Simkin —” Joram’s voice tightened.
“I’ve got it! Half-baked! This plan is half-baked. Still,” he said after reflection, “we should be able to continue hiding in the Grove. There won’t be a soul there tomorrow. Everyone will be watching the festivities at the palace. The Duuk-tsarith will be kept busy handling the crowd. Mosiah can remain when we leave for the Palace tomorrow night….”
“Won’t you be staying with me?” Mosiah asked in some anxiety.
“And miss the party?” Simkin appeared shocked. He waved his hand. “Our Dark and Uncouth Friend here isn’t noted for his charm or his court manners. I must be at his side to guide him through the maze of civilities, the treacherous tangle of hand-kissing and ass-licking —”
“I’ll be with him, you know,” the catalyst said acerbically.
“And no one is more pleased about that than I,” said Simkin solemnly. “Between ourselves, it will undoubtedly take both of us to carry this off,” he predicted airily. “Besides, in case any of you have forgotten, it was because of me you received the invitation.”
“You’ll be all right while we’re gone. And tomorrow night, after the party, we’ll meet you in the Grove,” Joram said to Mosiah. “We’ll bring you back here to help celebrate my Barony and my engagement,” he said firmly.
Tomorrow night, we’ll meet Mosiah in the Grove and escape from there, said Saryon to himself. Perhaps this will work out after all.
“I’ll wait for you,” Mosiah agreed, though there was a trace of reluctance in his voice.
Joram smiled, actually a full smile. The dark eyes brightened with a rare warmth. “You’ll see,” he promised. “Everything will be fine. I’ll —”
“Well, best be off.” Simkin interrupted, springing into the air so suddenly that his foot caught in the harpstrings, causing a most ungodly twanging. After a violent struggle, he managed to free it. “Come, come.” Bustling about Mosiah and Joram, he herded them along to the door like sheep. “Can’t use the Corridor with our Dead friend, here. The streets should be safe enough, though I imagine Mosiahs are on the decrease.”
“Wait! What will you tell Gwen — I mean, Lord Samuels,” Joram asked the catalyst.
“He’ll tell them that I’ve taken you to court to rehearse for our play tomorrow night,” said Simkin easily, tugging at Joram’s shirtsleeve. “I say, do come along, dear boy! Nights shadows are creeping through the streets and some of them are flesh and blood!”
“I’ll talk to Gwen,” Saryon said with a wan smile, understanding Joram’s true concern.
To Saryon’s astonishment, Joram came over to the bedside. Reaching down, he took the catalyst’s wasted hand in his.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said firmly. “We’ll celebrate.”
“As the Duchess d’Longeville said on the occasion of her wedding to her sixth husband,” Simkin remarked, drawing Joram out the door.
Saryon heard them walking softly down the hallway, then Simkin’s voice came drifting back