Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [66]
Almost as if he knew they were talking of him, Simkin raised his voice, and each of them sitting in the tent turned to look. He and the catalyst stood near the fire, Simkin having volunteered to devise a disguise for the catalyst that would get him into Merilon without being recognized. Now he was working magic with Father Saryon, essentially making the poor man’s life miserable.
“I’ve got it!” Simkin cried shrilly. “Come and go entirely unnoticed, plus you’ll be useful in carrying our luggage.” He waved his hand and spoke a word. The air shivered around the catalyst. Saryon’s form changed. Standing near the fire, in place of the unfortunate catalyst, was a large, gray, despondent-looking donkey.
“That fool!” Mosiah said, jumping to his feet. “Why doesn’t he leave that poor man alone. I’ll go —”
Garald laid a hand on Mosiah’s arm, shaking his head. “I’ll handle it,” he said.
Reluctantly resuming his seat, Mosiah saw the Prince make a sign with his hand to Cardinal Radisovik, who stood nearby, watching.
“What was that you said, Father?” Simkin asked.
The donkey brayed.
“You’re not pleased? After all the trouble I’ve gone to! Egad, man!” He lifted one of the donkey’s gray floppy ears. “You’ve got marvelous hearing! I’ll wager you can hear a bundle of hay fall at fifty paces. To say nothing of the fact that now you can roll one eye forward and one backward at the same time. See where you’re going and where you’ve been simultaneously.”
The donkey brayed again, showing its teeth.
“And the children would love you so,” said Simkin coaxingly. “You could give the little darlings rides. Well, if you’re going to be such an old fuddy-duddy … There.”
The donkey disappeared and Saryon returned, though in an awkward position, being down on all fours, kneeling on his hands and knees.
“I’ll just have to think of something else,” Simkin said, sulking. “I have it!” He snapped his fingers. “A goat! We’d never want for milk….”
At this moment, Cardinal Radisovik intervened. Mentioning something about discussing ecclesiastical matters with Saryon, he helped the catalyst to his feet and drew him into his tent. Unfortunately, Simkin followed.
“Plus you’d never worry about finding food,” he was heard to say persuasively, his voice trailing off. “You could eat anything …”
“You know something about Simkin, don’t you, Your Grace?” Mosiah said, turning to the Prince. “You know his game. What he’s up to?”
“His game …” the Prince repeated thoughtfully, intrigued by the question. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “I think I do know Simkin’s game.”
“Then, tell us!” Mosiah said eagerly.
“No, I don’t believe I will,” Garald said, his gaze fixed on Joram. “You wouldn’t understand, and it might lessen your watchfulness.”
“But you must! I — I mean, you should … Your Grace,” Mosiah amended lamely, realizing he had just issued an order to a prince. “If Simkin’s dangerous —”
“Bah!” Joram frowned in disgust.
“Oh, he’s dangerous, all right,” Garald said smoothly. “Just remember that.” The Prince rose to his feet. “And now, if you will excuse me, I had better go rescue poor Saryon, before our friend has him sprouting horns and nibbling on the Cardinal’s tent.”
The matter of the catalyst’s disguise was soon settled — and without turning him into a goat. At the Princes suggestion, Father Saryon became Father Dunstable, a minor house catalyst who, according to Simkin, had left Merilon over ten years ago.
“A meek mouse of a man,” Simkin recalled. “A man no one remembered five seconds after having been introduced to him, much less ten years later.”
“And if anyone does remember him after ten year’s absence, they would expect him to have changed some,” Garald added soothingly, seeing that Saryon was not at all pleased at this idea. “You won’t have to act any differently, Father. Your face and body will be different, that’s all. Inside, you will be the same.”
“But I will have to present myself at the Cathedral, Your Grace,” Saryon argued stubbornly, his obvious reluctance at opposing the Prince outweighed by his