Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [95]
“Oh, Your Majesty!” Gwen whispered, clasping her hands together, so overwhelmed with pleasure at the idea that she completely forgot to curtsy.
“That’s all right, my lady,” the Emperor said kindly, when Lady Rosamund rebuked her daughter for her lack of manners. “We remember what it was to be young.” Again, the wistfulness, tinged with regret.
The Emperor was standing inside the door and Saryon was congratulating himself on having survived this latest crisis without incident when he saw Simkin glance about mischievously. Saryon’s heart jolted. He knew what the young man had in mind and, catching Simkin’s eye, he shook his head emphatically, trying desperately to lose himself in the woodwork.
But Simkin, with an ingenuous smile, said casually, “Egad, the shock of this frightful incident has unnerved me. I’ve neglected to present my friends to Your Highness. Your Majesty, this is Father Dungstable …”
“Dunstable,” murmured the wretched catalyst, bowing low.
“Father,” said the Emperor with a graceful gesture and a slight dip of the perfumed and powdered head.
“And two friends of mine — actors,” said Simkin easily. “Stage names, Mosiah and Joram. We could present a charade at the ball …”
Saryon didn’t hear what else Simkin said — and neither did the Emperor.
The man, with an air of amused and patronizing tolerance, extended his hand to Mosiah, who kissed it, his face nearly as red as the rubies on the Emperor’s fingers. Joram came forward to do the same.
The young man had been standing somewhat behind Saryon, in the shadow of an alcove, when he was introduced. Moving forward, he touched the hand and bowed over it — though he did not kiss it — then straightened. As he did so, he stepped into a pool of sunlight, shining through a window directly opposite. The sun brought out the finely shaped lines of Joram’s face, the high cheekbones, the strong, proud chin. It glistened in Joram’s hair; his mother’s hair; hair renowned in story and song for its beauty; hair that, like the hair of a corpse, seemed possessed of its own life …
The Emperor stopped in his empty, meaningless gesture and stared. The blood drained from the man’s face, the eyes widened, the lips moved soundlessly.
Saryon caught his breath. He knows! The Almin help us! He knows.
What will he do? the catalyst wondered, panic-stricken. Call the Duuk-tsarith Surely not! Surely he couldn’t betray his own son….
Saryon looked around wildly. Surely everyone must notice! But no one was watching seemingly, no one but him.
Hurriedly, he looked back and blinked in astonishment.
The Emperor’s face was calm. The shock of recognition had been as a ripple on the surface of placid water, nothing more. He gave the young man a smile in exactly the same empty manner that he had given him his hand. Joram stepped back into the shadow — he had noticed nothing, his eyes dazzled from staring directly into the sun. The Emperor turned away negligently, resuming conversation with Simkin as though nothing had happened.
“Consummate actors, my friends,” Simkin was saying, dabbing at his lips with the orange silk. “They’re included in the invitation to the Palace, of course, Highness.”
“Friends?” The Emperor appeared to have forgotten them already. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said magnanimously.
“Odd time of year for a holiday, isn’t it, Your High and Mightyship?” continued the irrepressible Simkin, accompanying the Emperor out the door amidst a flurry of bows and flutterings by the household of Lord Samuels. The Emperors carriage floated above the street. Made entirely of faceted crystal, it had been shaped to catch and reflect the sunlight, and it accomplished this so well that few could look at it without being blinded by the glare. “I can’t recall, offhand, what it is we’re celebrating?”
The Emperors reply to this question was lost, the entire neighborhood having turned out to cheer and wave. Lord Samuels’s reputation and status