Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [146]
The toyshaper’s …
Joram turned to Simkin, puzzled, but the bearded young man, playing with the orange silk in his hand, regarded his friend with a slight smile.
“Patience rewarded,” he said. “We’re next.”
And then Joram did not have time to think about anything.
He heard, as if from a great distance, the herald strike the floor with his staff and call out in his melodious voice, “Presenting Simkin, guest of Lord Samuels …”
The rest of the introduction was lost in a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Simkin was performing some nonsense or other; Joram was too dazed and confused to be consciously aware of what. He saw Simkin move forward, white robes shining in the same bright light that spread a halo around the Emperor and the Empress.
The Empress. Joram felt his gaze drawn to her again, then the herald was saying, “Joram, guest of Lord Samuels and family.”
Hearing his name, Joram knew he must take a step, but he was suddenly assailed with the consciousness of being the object of hundreds of pairs of eyes. Vividly, the memory of his mother’s death rose to the surface of his mind. He could see the people, all staring at him. He wanted only to be alone. Why, why were they looking at him?
The Emperor and Simkin were talking, Joram saw, but he had no idea what was being said. He couldn’t hear. There was a roaring in his ears like the rush of a storm wind. He wanted most desperately to flee, yet he couldn’t move. He might have stood there forever except that the herald — always conscious of the necessity of keeping the line moving and accustomed to those who experienced this sublime awe in the presence of His Majesty — gave Joram a gentle prod. Stumbling, the young man lurched forward to stand before the Emperor.
Joram had just enough presence of mind to bow deeply, copying Simkin, and started to mumble something without any idea what he was saying. The Emperor cut in smoothly, recalling having met him at Lord Samuels’s. Hoped his visit to Merilon was a pleasant one, and then the royal hand waved and Joram moved across the crystal floor to stand before the Empress. He was dimly aware of Simkin watching him and — if it would not be too unbelievable — Joram thought the young man’s bearded lips were parted in a grin.
Joram bowed before the Empress self-consciously, wondering desperately what to say, longing to raise his gaze and look at this woman and yet feeling in another part of him the strongest urge to hurry away, his eyes averted as he had seen so many do before him.
Standing before her, he became conscious of a faint, cloying odor.
The most beautiful woman in the world — so it was told. He would see for himself.
Joram lifted his head …
… and stared into the lifeless eyes of a corpse.
4
The Champagne Fountain
“Name of the Almin!” Joram murmured, shivering, cold sweat drying on his body. “Dead!”
“My dear boy, if you value your life and mine, do keep your voice low!” Simkin said in soft tones, a disarming smile on his face as he nodded to several acquaintances across the room. The two stood near the champagne fountain, this being the place Simkin said Gwen or Saryon would certainly come to meet them. This area — opposite from the alcove where the Emperor still held court — was becoming increasingly crowded as people drifted here in search of friends and merriment. The champagne fountain was, as Simkin said, a natural meeting place; shouts of greeting and boisterous laughter burst constantly around them.
Magically operated by a team of Pron-alban disguised as footmen, the champagne fountain stood over twenty feet tall. It was made entirely of ice — to keep the wine cool — and was done in fish motif. Champagne flowed from the mouths of icy seahorses perched upon frozen waves. Wine shot from the pursed lips of glassy-eyed blowfish; frost-rimed sea nymphs offered guests sips of wine cupped in frigid fingers. Crystal goblets stood in rank upon rank in the air around the fountain, filling themselves at the beck and call of the revelers and hurrying