Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [142]
The priest, flushing even redder, shoved the young man’s hand out of his way and, muttering something most unpriestlike, staggered across the floor to collapse in a nearby chair.
Placing his hands together in a prayerful attitude, Simkin bowed. “My blessing on you as well, Father.” There was a flurry of orange silk and, suddenly, the catalyst disappeared.
Joram was staring at the empty chair where the man had been sitting when he felt a tug on the sleeve of his robe.
“And now, dear boy,” Simkin said, “attend to me, please.”
The voice was playful as usual but, turning, Joram saw an unusually hard glint in the pale blue eyes, a certain grimness in the negligent smile that caught his attention.
Simkin nodded slightly. “Yes, now the fun begins. You remember the cards said that you would be King, and I offered to be your fool? Well, up until now, you have been King, dear boy. We’ve followed your lead without question and without complaint though it has nearly got me arrested, the poor catalyst struck down by a curse from the Almin, and Mosiah on the run for his life.” Simkin’s voice was soft; it died away almost to a whisper at this point; his eyes studied Joram intently.
“Go on,” Joram said. His tone was cool and even, but the expression on his face grew darker, and a faint flush beneath the skin seemed to indicate that somewhere, deep within, the arrow’s barb had lodged.
Simkin’s smile twisted sardonically. “And now, my king,” he said, moving closer and speaking very softly, his eyes going to the crowd around them, “you must follow the lead of your fool. Because, in the hands of your fool rests your life and the lives of those who follow you. You must obey my instructions without question. Is that agreed upon, Your Majesty?”
“What do I have to do?” Joram’s voice grated.
Moving closer still, Simkin placed his lips next to Joram’s ear. His beard tickled against Joram’s flesh; the heady fragrance of gardenia from Simkin’s hair and the fumes of the champagne on his breath made Joram queasy. Involuntarily, he tried to pull back, but Simkin held him fast, whispering insistently, “When you are presented to their Majesties, do not — I repeat — do not stare at the Empress.”
Standing back, Simkin smoothed his beard and glanced around at the crowd. Joram’s frown relaxed to a half smile.
“You are a fool!” he muttered, twitching his green robes back into place. “You had me really scared there for a moment.”
“Dear boy!” Simkin looked at him with such stern intensity that Joram was taken aback. “I meant every word.” He placed his hand on Joram’s chest, over his heart. “Bow to her, speak to her — something flattering, inane. But keep your eyes down. Avert your gaze. Look at His Royal Boringness. Anything. Remember, you cannot see the Duuk-tsarith, but they are here, they are watching…. And now,” Simkin said with a languid wave of the orange silk, “we really must take our places in line.”
Drawing Joram’s arm through his, he led him forward. “Fortunately for you, my earthbound friend, everyone is required to walk on foot when formally introduced into their Majesties’ presence. Proper humility, show of respect and all that, plus it is devilishly hard to bow in midair. The Duchess of Blatherskill bowed from the waist, couldn’t stop. Kept going. Head over heels. No undergarments. Quite shocking. Empress took to her bed for three weeks. Since then — we walk….”
Moving across the crystal floor, joining other magi who were falling down around them like sparkling rain, Simkin and Joram walked toward the front of the hall. Joram glanced at Simkin, puzzled and disturbed at his words and his instructions. But the young man appeared not to notice his friend’s discomfiture, prattling on about the unfortunate Duchess. Shaking his head, Joram passed the empty chair where the fat catalyst had been sitting. Joram saw Simkin looking at it with a most wicked grin.
“By the way,” said Joram,