Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [103]
But there was the sound again. Saryon peered uncertainly into the shadows of the small room.
“Hello?” he wheezed.
There was no reply. Puzzled, he lay back down again. He could have sworn he heard voices. Or had that been a dream? He’d had so many dreams lately, terrible dreams. Faeries and the most beautiful woman and a dreadful tree—
With another sneeze, he sat up in bed, groping about for something to wipe his streaming nose.
“I say, O Bruised and Battered Father, will this do?”
A bit of orange silk materialized out of the air, fluttering to lie on the blanket near Saryon’s hand. The catalyst drew back from it as though it had been a snake.
“Tis I. In the flesh, so to speak.”
Looking behind him, toward the sound of the voice, Saryon saw Simkin standing at the head of the bed. At least the catalyst supposed it was the young man who had “rescued” him in the Outland. Gone were the plain brown robes of a woods ranger, gone were the leaves of the faerie. A brocade coat of the most startling blue, combined with a paler blue waistcoat, covered a red silken blouse that glowed brighter than the watery sun. Green skintight breeches were buckled with red jewels at the knees, his legs were wrapped in red silken hose, while green frothy lace peeped out from everywhere—wrists, throat, waistcoat. His brown hair was sleek and shiny, his beard combed smooth.
“Admiring my ensemble?” asked Simkin, smoothing his curls. “I call it Corpse Blue. ‘Dreadful name, Simkin,’ said the Countess Dupere. ‘I am aware of that,’ I replied with feeling, ‘but it was the first impression that came into my mind and things so rarely come into my mind at all that I thought I’d better latch hold of it, so to speak, and make it feel welcome.’”
Simkin sauntered over to stand beside Saryon as he talked. Gracefully lifting the orange silk scarf from the blanket, he handed it to the astounded catalyst with a flourish. “I know. The breeches. Never seen anything like them, I suppose? Latest fad at court. Quite the rage. I must say I’m fond of them. Chafe my legs, though …”
Another sneeze and a fit of coughing from the catalyst interrupted Simkin who, motioning a chair to come to his side, sat down upon it, crossing his legs so that he might better admire his hose.
“Feeling a bit rotten? Nasty cold you’ve caught. Must have been from when we tumbled into the river.”
“Where am I?” croaked Saryon. “What is this place?”
“I say, you’re positively froglike. And as for where you are, it’s where you wanted to be, of course. I was your guide, after all.” Simkin lowered his voice. “You’re among the Technologists. I’ve brought you to their Coven.”
“How did I get here? What happened? What river?”
“Don’t you remember?” Simkin sounded hurt. “After I risked my life, changing into a tree and then leaping over the precipice, holding you in my branches—er, arms—as tenderly as a mum holds her child.”
“That was real?” Saryon peered blearily at Simkin through watery eyes. “Not … a nightdream?”
“I am cut to the quick!” Simkin sniffed, looking deeply wounded. “After everything I’ve done for you and you don’t remember. Why, you’re like a father to me …”
Shivering, Saryon pulled the blankets up around his neck. Closing his eyes, he blotted out everything, Simkin, Corpse Blue coats, the abysmal room, the voices he’d heard or dreamed. The young man prattled on, but Saryon ignored him, too sick to care. He almost dozed, but a horrifying feeling of falling came over him and, with a catch in his breath, he started awake again. Then he became aware of a sound in the distance, a sound that had seemed a thumping, rhythmic undercurrent to his nightdevils.
“What’s that?” he asked, coughing.
“What’s what?”
“That … noise … That banging ….”
The iron forge …
The iron forge. Saryon’s soul shrank within him. Vanya had been right. The Sorcerers of the Coven had relearned the ancient, banished art—the art of darkness that had nearly caused the destruction of the world. What kind of people