Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [58]
Joram isn’t — but the Prince of Merilon certainly would be, Saryon thought. He would have to guard his secret that much more closely.
The Prince retired to his tent, and Saryon returned to sit by the warm pools of the spring, noticing that Radisovik, at a gesture from Garald, followed the Prince. The remaining Duuk-tsarith stood silently, staring at nothing and everything from beneath his black hood. Lounging on the grass beside the steaming waters, Simkin was teasing the raven, trying to make it talk in exchange for a piece of sausage.
“Come on, you wretched bird,” Simkin said. “Repeat after me: ‘The Prince is a fool. The Prince is a fool.’ Say that for Simkin, and Simkin will give you this nice bit of meat.”
The bird regarded Simkin gravely, its head cocked to one side, but refused to utter a croak.
“Hush, you idiot!” Mosiah whispered, referring to Simkin, not the bird. He motioned toward the silken tent. “Aren’t warn enough trouble?”
“What? Oh, Garald? Bah!” Simkin grinned, smoothing his beard. “He’ll think it loads of fun. Quite the joker himself. He once brought a live bear to a costume bail at court. Introduced him as Captain Noseblower, of the Royal Navy of Zith-el. You should have seen the King, keeping up polite conversation with the supposed captain and endeavoring to look perfectly unconscious of the fact that the bear was munching on his cravat. Bear lost the prize for best costume, though. Now, you red-eyed fiend from hell” — Simkin fixed the raven with a stern gaze — “say, ‘The Prince is a fool! The Prince is a fool!’” He spoke in a high-pitched, birdlike squawk.
The bird raised a yellow foot and scratched its beak in what might have been taken for a rude gesture.
“Stupid bird!” Simkin remarked testily.
“Simkin’s a fool! Simkin’s a fool!” cried the raven. With a flutter of wings, it bounced up from the ground, snatched the meat from the young man’s hand, and carried off the prize to a nearby tree.
Simkin laughed heartily, but Mosiah’s worried expression only grew deeper. Moving near Saryon, he glanced apprehensively at the Duuk-tsarith, then said quietly, “What do you think is going to happen? What does the Prince intend to do with us?”
“I don’t know,” Saryon answered gravely. “A lot depends on Joram.”
“Gad! We’ll all hang then,” Simkin interjected cheerfully, scooting across the ground to sit next to the catalyst. “The two of them got into a frightful row this morning. The Prince stripped the flesh from our poor friends bones and hung him out to dry, while the ever-tactful Joram called His Royal Highness an —” Simkin didn’t say the word, but pointed to the part of the body to which it referred.
“Name of the Almin!” gasped Mosiah, turning pale.
“Pray all you like, but I doubt it will help,” said Simkin languidly. He dabbled his hand in the hot water. “We should just count ourselves fortunate that he merely called His Grace an — you know — and didn’t turn him into one, as happened to the unfortunate Count d’Chambray. It occurred during a quarrel with Baron Roethke. The Count shouted, ‘You’re an — !’ The Baron cried, ‘You’re another!’ Grabbed his catalyst, cast a spell, and there the Count was, turned into one, right in front of the ladies and everything. Repulsive sight.”
“Do you suppose that’s true?” Mosiah asked worriedly.
“I swear it on my mothers grave!” vowed Simkin with a yawn.
“No, I don’t mean the Count,” Mosiah snapped. “I mean about Joram.”
The catalyst’s gaze went to the woods. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said glumly.
“Hanging isn’t a bad way to die,” remarked Simkin, lying full length upon the grass, his eyes on the massing clouds above. “Of course, are there good ways? That’s the question.”
“They don’t hang people anymore,