Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [134]
A black swan, mutated by the Kan-Hanar to gigantic proportions, was finally — after much thoughtful scrutiny on Simkin’s part and much impatient fuming on Joram’s — pronounced suitable.
“We’ll have it,” Simkin announced majestically to the driver.
“Where are you going?” asked the driver, a young woman clothed in white swan’s down, her eyes magically touched to resemble the eyes of the bird.
“To the Palace, of course,” said Simkin languidly, taking his place with calm aplomb on the swan’s back. Nestling down amidst the shining black feathers, he sighed in contentment and motioned for Joram to join him. As Joram climbed up beside his friend, the driver scrutinized both young men and her black-rimmed eyes narrowed.
“I need to see the official invitation to get through the Border clouds,” she said crisply, her gaze of disfavor going in particular to Joram, who had refused to allow Simkin to dress him up for the occasion.
“My dear boy,” Simkin had said to Joram mournfully, “you’d be a sensation if you’d only put yourself in my hands! What I could do with you! With that beautiful hair and those muscular arms! Women would be dropping at your feet like poisoned pigeons!”
Joram had pointed out that this might be somewhat of an inconvenience, but Simkin was not to be so easily deterred.
“I have just the color for you — I call it Coals of Fire! A burnt orange, don’t you know. I can make it hot to the touch, small flames licking about your ankles. Of course, you’d have to be careful who you danced with. The Emperor had a party once where a guest went up in flames. Heartburn got out of hand …”
Joram had refused the Coals, choosing instead to wear an almost exact copy of the style of clothes Prince Garald wore — a long, flowing robe devoid of decoration with a simple collar (“No neck ruff?” Simkin had cried in agony).
Joram had chosen green velvet for the robe’s fabric, in memory of the green dress Anja had worn until the day she died. That tattered green dress was the only remnant of her happy life in Merilon, and it seemed most fitting that her son should wear this color the night he went to reclaim the place in his family. Joram felt very close to Anja tonight, running his hand over the smooth velvet. Perhaps this was because he had seen her standing before him last night in a dream, and he knew that her restless, wandering spirit would not find peace until her wrongs had been redressed. At least that is what he assumed the dream meant. She had been reaching out to him, her hands folded in supplication, begging …
“Well, if you’re going to go to the Palace the walking personification of a wet blanket, then I’ll do likewise,” Simkin had announced gloomily, changing his flamboyant regalia that had included, among other things, a six-foot-high rooster’s tail. With a wave of his hand, he had then clothed himself in a long robe of pure white.
“Name of the Almin!” Mosiah had said, staring at Simkin in disgust. “Change back! That last combination was ghastly but it was better than this! You look just like a pallbearer.”
“Do I?” Simkin had appeared pleased, the notion taking his fancy. “Why, then, it’s suitable to the occasion, don’t you see? Anniversary of the Dead Prince and all that. I’m quite glad I thought it up.”
Nothing they had said could talk him out of it after that, and it was only after long argument that Simkin had foregone adding a white hood to cover his head in the manner of those who escort the crystal coffins of the dead to their final resting place.
“I want my fee in advance, too,” the driver continued. “It’s a strange thing, people hiring carriages to take them to the Palace. Most of those who are invited” — she laid emphasis on the word — “own their own carriages and have no need to hire mine.”
“Egad, m’dear! But I’m Simkin,” the young man replied as if that quite settled the matter. Gathering