Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [79]
“If they are bandits, shouldn’t we tell someone?” Lilian whispered, staring dutifully at the Gate.
“Oh, Gwen!” said Majorie, squeezing her hand. “The dark one’s staring at you!”
“Hush! Take no notice!” Gwendolyn murmured, flushing and burying her face in her bouquet of flowers. She had risked a quick glimpse at the dark young man and had, quite inadvertently, met his gaze. It wasn’t like meeting the eyes of other young men, with their arch, teasing stares. This young man looked at her seriously, intently, the dark eyes penetrating her youthful gaiety to touch something deep within her, something that hurt with a swift, sharp pain, both pleasurable and frightening.
“No, we mustn’t tell anyone. We mustn’t think about them anymore,” Gwen said nervously, her face burning so that she thought she might be feverish. “Let’s go….”
“No, wait!” Lilian said, catching hold of her cousin as Gwen was about to walk away. “They’re going to talk to the Kan-Hanar! Let’s stay and find out who they are!”
“I don’t care who they are!” Gwen said loftily, firmly resolved not to look at the dark young man. But though there were a thousand objects of wonder and beauty and enchantment around her, they all blurred into a swirling mass of confused colors. She kept finding herself drawn back to the dark eyes of the dark young man. When he finally turned away — his attention called to the approaching Kan-Hanar by the catalyst — Gwen felt as though she had been released from one of the spells she had heard the Duuk-tsarith used to keep prisoners in bondage.
“State your names and your business in the city of Merilon, Father,” said the archmagus formally, with a slight — very slight — bow to the sodden catalyst, who returned it humbly. The catalyst was dressed in the red robes of a House Catalyst, but they were untrimmed, which meant he did not serve nobility.
“I am Father Sar — Dun … dunstable,” stammered the catalyst, the blood rising up from his thin neck until it reached his bald crown. “And we —”
“Sardunstable,” interrupted the Kan-Hanar, frowning in puzzlement. “That is a name with which I am not familiar, Father. Where are you from?” The Kan-Hanar, with their well-trained and phenomenal memories, carry directories of those who live in and visit their cities in their heads.
“I beg your pardon.” The catalyst flushed even more deeply. “You misunderstand me. My fault, I am certain. I — I speak with a stammer. The name is Dunstable. Father Dunstable.”
“Mmmm,” the Kan-Hanar said, eyeing the catalyst closely. “There was a Dunstable lived here, but that was ten years ago. He was House Catalyst to the — the Duke of Manchua, I believe?” He glanced for confirmation at his companion, who nodded. The Kan-Hanar turned his shrewd stare back to the catalyst. “But the family left, as I said. Moved abroad. Why have you —”
“Egad! This grows boring!” With this statement, the tall young man with the beard left the wall and strolled forward. He waved his hand, there was a sudden flurry of orange silk, and the brown cloak and travel-stained clothes he wore vanished.
Gasps of astonishment from several bystanders caused many more in the crowd to turn and look. The young man was now clad in long, flowing purple silken pantaloons. Gathered tightly about his ankles, they billowed out around his legs, fluttering in the spring breeze. A bright-red sash encircled his slender waist, matched by a bright-red vest trimmed in gold. A purple silk blouse — with long flowing sleeves that completely engulfed his hands when he lowered his arms — matched the pantaloons. All this was topped by a most remarkable hat that resembled a gigantic purple puff pastry, adorned by a red, curling ostrich feather.
Ripples of laughter and murmurs ran through the growing crowd.
“Is it?”
“Why, yes! I’d know him anywhere!”
“That garb! My dear, I’d give anything to wear those trousers to the Emperor’s ball next week. Where does he find those colors?”
There was a scattering of