Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [143]
“Sent him back down to the bottom of the stairs,” said Simkin languidly, dabbing at his nose with the orange silk.
Joram and Simkin joined the line of the wealthy and the beautiful of Merilon, all waiting to pay their respects to the royal couple before dispersing to the more interesting business of revelry and making merry. Some might think revelry would be difficult, considering the sorrowful nature of the anniversary they celebrated. And, indeed, those standing in the line that stretched across the crystal floor like a silk-clad bejeweled snake, were considerably more solemn and serious than they had been when first entering the Palace. Gone was the gay laughter, the lighthearted banter between friends, the gossip and the gushing over clothes or hair or daughters. Their eyes were downcast, their gown and robe colors subdued to a proper shade of Sorrowful Mien, as Simkin said in an undertone.
Conversations were carried on in low voices between couples now, instead of groups. Consequently, a hush settled over this part of the hall, broken only by the melodious voice of the heralds, announcing the names of those ushered into the Royal Presence.
So long was the line that Joram could not see the Emperor or Empress yet, but only the crystal alcove in which they sat. Gathered in a semicircle around that alcove stood those of the court who had already been presented and who were now watching to see what illustrious or amusing personages stood in line. The murmur of voices from the watching crowd was low, since they were in the Presence, but there was an almost continual flow of movement — heads turning, people pointing discreetly or not as the subject warranted. Joram, still searching for Lord Samuels and his family, saw many nods and smiles at Simkin. Arrayed in his white robes, the young man stood out against the myriad colors around him like an iceberg in a jungle, coolly affecting to take no notice of the attention.
Joram’s eyes scanned the brilliant throng, stopping always at the glimpse of a blond head or even a tonsured one, hoping to find Saryon here as well. But there were so many people, and most of them were dressed so nearly alike (except for those few trend-setters who had come dressed as Field Magi, much to Simkin’s amusement), that he deemed it nearly impossible to find those he sought.
“She is watching for me,” he told himself, fondly picturing in his mind Gwendolyn standing on tiptoe, peeping up over the broad shoulders of her father, waiting with fast-beating heart for the announcement of each name and drooping in disappointment when it was not the name she longed to hear. The thought made him impatient and even fearful. Suppose they left! Suppose Lord Samuels grew tired of waiting. Suppose … Joram looked at the long line ahead of him impatiently, bitterly resenting each elderly Duke whose faltering steps had to be aided by his catalyst or the two gossiping dowagers who kept forgetting to move forward and had to be prodded by their neighbors. The line actually moved quite rapidly, all things considered, but it would have had to flash through the room like a thunderbolt to satisfy Joram.
“Quit fidgeting,” muttered Simkin, treading on Joram’s foot.
“I can’t help it. Talk about something.”
“Willingly. What?”
“I don’t give a damn! Anything!” Joram snapped. “You said I’m supposed to say a few words to the Emperor. What? Nice night. Wonderful weather. I understand it’s been spring for two years, any chance of summer showing up?”
“Shhh,” hissed Simkin behind the orange silk. “Egads! I’m beginning to wish I’d brought Mosiah after all. This is an anniversary commemorating the Dead Prince. You offer your condolences, of course.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting,” Joram said moodily, his gaze flicking about the hall for the hundredth time. “All right. I’ll offer my condolences. What did the kid die from, anyway?”
“My dear boy!” said Simkin in a scandalized whisper. “Even if you were raised in a pumpkin, you don’t have to exhibit