Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [136]
“I say, old bean, do you mind not wiggling? I fear it is irritating our birdish transport. I’ve seen him looking back at me with a distinct glint of anger in the beady black eye. I don’t know about you, of course, but being pecked to death by one’s hired carriage is not my idea of an impressive — or even interesting — and entertaining end.”
Nonchalantly, Simkin turned his head, gazing out at other carriages that were spiraling upward toward the Palace. “Nor is tumbling into the clouds,” he said, keeping a firm grasp upon Joram’s arm. “It might almost be worth it, to see the expression on the faces of the Duuk-tsarith as you went sailing gracefully by them, but that fleeting bit of pleasure wouldn’t last long, I fancy.”
Joram drew a deep breath and Simkin released him, the two happening almost simultaneously, so that Joram wasn’t certain, even then, if Simkin had been aware of his intention or was just indulging in nonsense. Whatever the case, Simkin’s words — as usual — brought a half smile to Joram’s tight lips and allowed him to wrench control of himself back from the monster that lurked within his soul, ready to claim him in a moments weakness.
Settling himself more comfortably among the feathers — risking another irritated glance from the swan — Joram viewed the Palace with growing equanimity. He could see it in more detail now and, as he beheld the walls and towers, turrets and minarets, he lost his awe of it. Seen from a distance, it was beautiful, mysterious, beyond the reach of his thought or hand. But now, close up, he saw it was a structure, shaped by the skills of men different from himself only in that they had Life, whereas he had none.
With that thought, his hand reached behind him to touch the Darksword, reassuring himself of its reality, as the carriage swept up with a flurry of black wings and deposited the young men on the crystal steps of the Palace of the Emperor of Merilon.
2
The Nine Levels of Life
“You said you were going to walk!” Joram said. Reaching up, he caught hold of Simkin by the sleeve of the long white robes just as the young man was sailing off into the air like a tall, thin feather.
“Oh, beg pardon. Forgot in the excitement of the moment,” Simkin said, drifting back down on the crystal stairs of the Palace to walk beside his friend. Turning, he regarded Joram with an aggrieved expression. “Look, dear boy, I could give you enough magic to enable you to ride the wings of magic, as the poets put it —”
“No,” said Joram. “No magic. I mean to be myself. They’ll have to get used to seeing me walking around here,” he added in grim tones.
“I suppose.” Simkin appeared dubious, then he cheered up. “Undoubtedly they’ll think it a new fad of mine. Speaking of which” — he grasped Joram’s green-robed arm as they entered the golden front doors — “look there.”
“Mosiah!” Joram gasped, stopping in alarm and scowling. “The idiot! I thought he agreed to stay behind in the Grove….”
“He did! Don’t have an apoplectic fit!” Simkin said, laughing. “That’s one of the ones I created yesterday — a leftover. Chap must have extraordinary abilities, to hold onto my illusion for so long. Perhaps he copied it! The cad! How dare he? I’ve a good notion to go over and turn him into a cow. Then we’d see how he likes it down on the farm —”
“Forget it,” Joram caught hold of his friend once more. “We’re here for more important things.”
Together, they strolled past several powdered and jewel-encrusted footmen, who glared at Joram suspiciously until they saw Simkin. Laughing, one of the footmen winked, and waved them through with a gesture of a gloved hand. Entering the doors, Joram came to a halt, trying to look as if he belonged, trying to keep from staring.
“Where are we, and where do we go from here?” he asked Simkin in an undertone.
With a visible effort, Simkin wrenched an indignant glare