Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [87]
“You poor thing!” said Lady Rosamund, marshalling servants around her with a look. In a cool and calm voice, milady issued orders and directed troop movements with the skill of a warlock. All the while, she exhibited the most tender concern for Simkin, who looked more wilted in human form than he had in tulip. Calling upon the strongest of house magi, milady ordered them to assist Simkin indoors to the best front parlor. A gesture of her own hand brought a fainting couch hurrying to Simkin’s side. He collapsed on it, affecting a tragic pose.
“Marie,” Lady Rosamund ordered, “conjure the herbal restoratives….”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Simkin weakly, his nose wrinkling at the smell of the tea, “but only brandy can bring me out of this shock. Ah, madam!” — Gazing up piteously at Lady Rosamund — “if you only knew what a terrible ordeal I’ve been through! Oh, I say!” he called after the servant. “Bring the Year of the Frost Grape, will you, my dear? Duke d’Montaigne’s vineyard? What, nothing but domestic? Well, I suppose it will have to do.”
The servant reappeared with the brandy decanter. Leaning his head back upon the silken cushions of the couch, Simkin suffered Marie to hold a glass to his lips, and took a sip. “Ah, that helps.” Marie removed the glass.
“Just a touch more, my dear …”
Taking the glass, Simkin sat up, drained it at a gulp, then fell back, exhausted, among the cushions. “Might I have just one more, my dear?” he asked in a voice that — from its weakness — might have been instructing Marie to draw up his last will and testament.
The catalyst brought another brandy as Lady Rosamund gestured for a chair. At her command, one floated through the air, coming to rest near the couch where the young man lay. “Whatever do you mean, Simkin? What terrible ordeal have you been through?”
Simkin grasped hold of her hand. “My dear madam,” he said, “today” — dramatic pause — “sink me, but I was arrested!” He cast the orange silk scarf over his face.
“Merciful Al — Heavens,” Lady Rosamund stammered in astonishment.
Simkin plucked the silk from his face again. “A most dreadful mistake! I have never been so humiliated. And now I am on the run, a common criminal!” His head lolled back, weak with despair.
“Common criminal?” Lady Rosamund repeated in a voice suddenly grown cool, her gaze going to the plainly dressed Mosiah and Joram and even flicking, for an instant, over the untrimmed robes of the catalyst. “Alfred,” she said to one of the servants in the hurried undertone, “go to the Three Sisters and tell Lord Samuels to return home at once….”
“Quite kind of you, madam, I assure you,” Simkin said, pushing himself up on unsteady arms, “but I doubt seriously if there is anything His Lordship could do. He is, after all, a mere Guildmaster.”
Lady Rosamund’s face became exceedingly icelike. “My lord,” she began, “is —”
“— going to be of no help to me, I’m afraid, ’m’dear,” said Simkin with a sigh. Lying back once more, he folded the orange silk and laid it carefully across his forehead. “No, Lady Rosamund,” he continued before she could speak, “if Alfred is going out, please send him to the Emperor. I’m certain this can all be cleared up.”
“To … to the Emperor!”
“Yes, of course,” Simkin said, somewhat irritably. “I suppose Alfred has been granted entry into the Royal Palace?”
Lady Rosamund’s ice melted in the fever of embarrassment. “Well, to be frank — It’s just that we have never — I mean, there was the knighting ceremony, but that was —”
“What? No access to the Palace? Sink me!” Simkin murmured, his eyes closing in the most desperate despair.
During this interchange, Mosiah and Saryon stood in extreme discomfort in a corner, feeling forgotten and very much out of place. Mosiah, in particular, was overawed at what he had seen of the enchanted city and its people, who seemed so far above him in appearance, culture, and education that they might have been heavenly angels. He didn’t