Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [89]
The catalyst moved forward silently and unobtrusively to stand beside Gwendolyn. “My child,” he said softly, “have you considered the Ariels?”
Gwen blinked — the tears had been just on the verge of falling; she knew her mother’s intention as well as the catalyst — and then her face brightened, color came and went in her cheeks. “Of course,” she said. “Mama, Father Dunstable has an idea. We can send for the Ariels. They can carry a message to the Emperor!”
“That’s true,” said Lady Rosamund hesitantly.
Saryon stepped backward, fading into the background as Gwen surged forward to plead with her mother.
“What have you done?” Mosiah asked, aghast, as Saryon returned to stand next to him.
“I’m not really certain,” the catalyst admitted reluctantly, folding his hands in his robes.
“You don’t think the fool actually meant any of that nonsense about the Emperor, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Saryon snapped, beginning to have misgivings himself. “He knew Prince Garald …”
“A Prince close to his own age who admits he loves a bit of partying now and then is a lot different than the Emperor of Merilon,” said Mosiah grimly. “Look at him!” He gestured at Simkin.
The young man was greeting the idea with his usual aplomb — “Ariels? Capital idea. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it first. Extend my sincere thanks to the bald party in the corner, will you?”
Simkin appeared pleased but Saryon thought he detected a distinctly hollow ring in the dulcet tones.
“Well, you’ve made one person happy, at least,” Mosiah said sourly.
Joram was looking at the catalyst with undisguised admiration. He even went so far as to nod his head slightly, and there was a flicker of light in the dark eyes, a grudging thanks, that warmed Saryon’s heart even as it increased his misgivings.
“What does this do for us, besides further the course of true love?” Mosiah asked bitterly, beneath his breath.
“Buys us time, if nothing else,” Saryon returned. “It will be days before the Emperor can possibly be expected to answer.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Mosiah gloomily. “But Simkin’s certain to do something worse in the meantime.”
“We have to leave Merilon before then,” Saryon said. “I have an idea, but in order to act upon it I must get to the Cathedral, and it’s too late now. They will be going to Evening Prayers.”
“I’ll leave with you, and gladly, Father,” Mosiah said earnestly. “I was a fool to come. I don’t belong here. But what about him?” Nodding, he turned a serious, concerned gaze on his friend, Joram, who was watching Gwen. Mosiah’s voice softened. “How will we get him to leave? He’s just found what he has hungered for all his life.”
Prince Garald, what have you done? the catalyst said to himself. You taught him to be polite, you taught him to act as a nobleman. But it is an act still — the silken glove concealing the tiger’s paw. His claws are sheathed now, but someday, when he is starving or threatened, they will tear apart the fragile fabric. And the silk will be stained with blood. I must get him out! I must!
You will, he reminded himself, growing more calm. Your plan is a good one. You can have everything arranged by tomorrow or the next day. By then, we will probably have been turned out of this fine establishment. As for the Emperor….
Simkin was dictating a letter to Marie.
“‘Dear Bunkie — ’” Simkin began. “His nickname,” he added, seeing Lady Rosamund turn pale.
Saryon smiled grimly. It didn’t appear as if the Emperor was going to be much of a problem.
“You realize that if they had a barn, we’d be sleeping in it?” Mosiah said bitterly.
“What can you expect for a man on the run!” Simkin replied tragically, hurling himself upon the bed.
The young men were spending the night in what was obviously meant to be a carriage house when Lord Samuels could afford such luxury. The servants had conjured up beds and clean linens, but the small house — located in back of the main dwelling — was devoid of decoration or any other sort of amenities.
Lord Samuels, as it turned out,