Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [19]
“Very well, Catalyst,” Joram said coolly. “I think it’s a good idea you come with me anyway. I don’t trust you out of my sight. You know too much about the darkstone. Now go back to the cell. Leave me alone. I’ve got to get this finished.”
Saryon sighed. Yes, he’d said the right thing. But how empty it felt. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the small piece of darkstone. “One thing more. Can you set this in a mounting for me?” the catalyst asked Joram. “And fasten it to a chain so that I can wear it?”
Surprised, Joram took the stone, looking from it to Saryon. The dark eyes were suddenly suspicious. “Why?”
“I believe it will enable me to escape the Bishop’s attempt to contact me. It will absorb the magic.”
Shrugging, Joram took it. “I’ll bring it to you when I return this afternoon.”
“It must be soon!” Saryon said nervously. “Before this evening —”
“Do not worry, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted. “By this evening, we will be long gone from this place. By the way,” he added casually, once again turning to his work, “did you find Mosiah?”
“Yes, he is waiting at the prison, with Simkin.”
“So, he didn’t leave….” Joram murmured to himself.
“What?”
“We’ll take him with us. And Simkin. Go tell them and start making ready.”
“No! Not Simkin!” Saryon protested. “Mosiah, perhaps, but not —”
“We’ll need magic-users like Simkin and Mosiah, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted coldly. “With you to give them Life, and my power with the Darksword, we might live through this yet.” He glanced up, dark eyes cold. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
Without a word, Saryon turned from Joram and walked back to the front of the forge, carefully avoiding as he did so the place on the floor where the warlock had died. Was that blood there? He fancied he could see a pool of it beneath a bucket, and quickly looked away.
He would not be sorry to leave this place. Though he had come to like the people and understand their way of life, he could never overcome in his soul the repugnance he felt for the Dark Arts of Technology, the repugnance that had been bred in him over a lifetime. He knew of the perils of the Outland — or assumed he did — and thought naively that life among nature would be preferable to a life where man engineered nature.
Where will we go? He didn’t know. Sharakan, perhaps — although they might be walking into the midst of a war. It didn’t matter. Anywhere would do — as long as it wasn’t Merilon.
Yes, he would be glad to go, willing to face the perils of the Outland. But blessed Almin, Saryon thought glumly as he walked back to the prison house.
Why Simkin?
5
Lying in a Manger
“I was there. I saw the whole thing, and sink me,” said Simkin in hushed, awful tones, “if our Dark and Gloomy Friend didn’t plunge his shining sword straight into the warlock’s writhing body.”
“Good for Joram,” Mosiah said grimly.
“Well, actually not ‘shining sword,’” Simkin amended, producing an ornate, silver-framed looking glass from the air with a gesture of his hand. Holding it up, he examined his face, meticulously smoothing his soft brown beard with his fingers and deftly twirling the ends of his mustache. “Actually, that swords the ugliest thing I’ve seen, not counting the Marchioness of Black-borough’s fourth child. Of course, the Marchioness herself is no prize. Everyone who knows her knows that the nose she wears at night is not the same nose that she starts out with in the morning.”
“What –”
“It’s never the same nose twice, you see. She’s not very skilled in magic. It’s been rumored that she’s Dead, but that could never be proved, and then her husband is such a frightfully good friend of the Emperors. And if she would just take a bit of time, who knows? She might get the nose right.
“Simkin, I —”
“Still, I don’t understand why she persists in having children, particularly