Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [148]
And what was the result of the effort and tears spent on the gown, tears spent with only Joram in mind? It was, unfortunately, largely wasted. Joram had only a confused impression of golden hair crowned with tiny white flowers known as baby’s breath, and white neck and white shoulders, and only the most tantalizing hint of soft, white breast curving into something as blue and frothy as sea foam. Her beauty tonight enchanted him, but it was her beauty, not the gown’s. Gwendolyn could have been wearing sackcloth and her enraptured admirer would never have noticed.
“My lady.” Joram took the small, white hand in his own, holding it for just a moment longer than was considered proper before he kissed it lingeringly and then reluctantly released it.
“I — That is we —” Gwendolyn amended, blushing, “were afraid that you might not be able to come. How is Father Dunstable? We have all been terribly concerned.”
“Father Dunstable?” Joram stared at Gwen, mystified. “What do you mean? Isn’t he —”
“Forgive him, sweet child,” Simkin interrupted smoothly, interposing himself between Joram and Gwen. Turning his back on Joram, he captured Gwen’s hand in his own. He seemed about to kiss it, then apparently decided the effort was too great and lethargically held onto it instead. “Your beauty has completely overthrown his mind. I’ve seen more intelligent expressions on a catalyst. Not often, but occasionally. Speaking of catalysts, it would appear from your inquiry that our bald friend is none too well. Zounds, this astounds me.”
“But, didn’t Joram tell you?” Gwendolyn attempted to look at Joram, who had been cut off by Simkin on one side and the fountain on the other.
“Egad, m’dear,” said Simkin loudly, blocking the couple’s view of each other once more. “Champagne? No? Well, I’ll drink yours then, if you don’t mind.” Two glasses floated over. “What were we discussing? I can’t recall — Ah, Father Dunstable. Yes, you see, I’ve been cooped up in this stifling palace all day, listening to The DKarn-Duuk yammering about the war with Somebody-or-Other and the Emperor yammering about taxes and I’ve been quite bored out of my skull. Then I found Joram here and, well, my pet, you can hardly blame me if the last thing I wanted to discuss was the health of a priest?”
“No, I suppose not …” began Gwen, her face rosy with embarrassment and confusion. Simkin’s conversation was attracting a crowd; people gathered near to hear what scandalous thing he might say next, and the young girl was acutely conscious of the many eyes focused on herself and her companion.
Endeavoring to get near Gwen, Joram found himself elbowed out of the way and, remembering just in time that he must not call attention to himself, was forced to take a step or two backward. Simkin, meanwhile, was the center of attention.
“Well, what did happen to our Bald Friend?” he asked languidly. “Egad!” A look of horror caused the young man’s eyebrows to ascend into his hair. “Bishop Vanya didn’t mistake him for a pew cushion, did he?” Smothered laughter from the audience and much nudging. “That happened once to a catalyst known before the accident as Sister Suzzane. Quite flattened the poor thing. Now known as Brother Fred …”
The laughter grew louder.
“No, really!” Gwendolyn tried to withdraw her hand from Simkin’s grasp.
But he smoothly held her fast, though without appearing to do so, regarding her with a bored expectancy that sent the audience into muffled giggles.
Gwendolyn had to say