Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [158]
Flushing, Joram started to remove his arm from the shoulders of what was now a virile, handsome young man. But the virile, handsome young man was in truth a frightened young girl. It was Gwen who had been strong at the outset, guiding the despairing Joram away from the room where her father stood, a helpless statue of flesh. It was she who had found this hiding place, she who had laid Joram’s head upon her breast, comforting and holding him until he could fight back the darkness that was always there, ready to enslave him.
But now her strength was ebbing. The image of the Duuk-tsarith, those nightdream figures who laid chill, unseen hands upon their victims, dragging them to unknown places, had unnerved her. Now she found herself in a strange body. The virile young man began to weep uncontrollably, shoulders heaving, his face hidden in his hands.
“Damn it, Simkin!” Joram muttered, putting his arms awkwardly around Mosiah’s broad shoulders, having the strangest feeling that he was comforting his friend.
“I say, this won’t do,” Simkin said sternly, glaring at Mosiah. “Pull yourself together, old chap!” he ordered, clapping the young man on the back soundly.
“Simkin!” Joram began angrily, then stopped.
“He’s right,” said Mosiah with a gulp, pulling himself away from Joram. There was even a hint of laughter in the blue eyes, shining through the tears. “I’m fine. Really I am.”
“Thatta boy!” said Simkin approvingly. “Now, my Dark and Gloomy Friend, we must do the same for you — Oops, can’t.” The silk fluttered in the air in momentary confusion. “That confounded sword, you know. Put it away.”
Reluctantly, frowning, Joram did as he was told, placing the sword in the sheath on his back, then drawing his robes around it. “What are you going to do?” he asked Simkin grimly. “You can’t change me into Mosiah, not while I’m wearing the sword. And I won’t take it off,” he added, seeing Simkin’s eyes brighten.
“Oh, well.” Simkin appeared crestfallen for a moment, then he shrugged. “We’ll do the best we can then, I suppose, dear boy. Change of clothing will have to suffice. No, don’t argue.”
With a flutter of orange silk, Joram was dressed in a pallbearer’s costume identical to Simkin’s — white robes and white hood.
“Keep the hood drawn over your face,” said Simkin crisply, following his own instructions. “And do relax, both of you. You’re attending a party at the Royal Palace of Merilon. You’re supposed to look bored out of your skulls, not fightened out of your wits. Yes, that’s better,” he remarked, watching critically as Mosiah patted at his face with the orange silk, removing all traces of tears, and Joram unclenched his fists.
“If all goes well,” Simkin continued coolly, “there’ll be only one really bad moment — that’s going out the front door —”
“The front!” Joram scowled. “But surely there are back ways …”
“My poor naïve boy.” Simkin sighed. “What would you do without your fool? Everyone will be expecting you to go sneaking out the back, don’t you see? Duuk-tsarith will be sprouting up around the back exits like fungus after a rain. On the other hand, there’ll probably only be a couple dozen or so at the front. And we’re not going to sneak! No, we are going to stagger out proudly! Three drunks, heading for a night on the town.”
Seeing Mosiahs pale face, Simkin added cheerfully, “Don’t worry. We’ll make it! They’ll never suspect a thing. After all, they’re looking for a lovely young woman and a gloomy young man — not two pallbearers and a peasant.”
Mosiah managed a wan smile; Joram shook his head. He didn’t like this, any of it, but he supposed there was no help for it. He couldn’t think of anything better, his brain was moving sluggishly; he had to goad it to take a step. Reality was rapidly slipping from him and he was suddenly quite content to let it go.
“I say,” said Simkin after a moment, looking over at Joram. “I suppose this means the Barony fell through?”
“Yes,” answered Joram briefly. The sharp pain of his discovery had subsided into a dull, throbbing ache