Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [110]
To their delight, Simkin readily complied. “The Empress said to me, ‘What do you call that shade of green, Simkin, my treasure?’ To which I replied, ‘I don’t call it at all, Your Majesty. It simply comes when I whistle!’ Ha, ha, what? Drat, what did you say, my dear? I can’t hear a thing above the infernal banging!” He cast a scathing glance toward the forge. “Health? The Empress? Abysmal, simply abysmal. But she insists upon holding court every night. No, I’m not lying. In frightfully poor taste, if you ask me. ‘You don’t suppose she has anything catching?’ I said to old Duke Mardoc. Poor man. I didn’t mean to upset him. Grabbed his catalyst, he did, and disappeared in the wink of an eye. Wouldn’t have supposed the old boy had it in him. What did you say? Yes, this is the absolute latest in fashion. Chafes my legs, though …. And now I must be getting along. I am running errands for our Noble Leader. Have you seen the catalyst?”
Yes, the ladies had seen him. He and Andon had been visting the forge. The two had returned to Andon’s home, however, the catalyst having been taken suddenly ill.
“I don’t doubt it,” Simkin murmured into his beard. Doffing his cap and bowing deeply to the ladies, he proceeded on his way, eventually arriving at one of the larger and older homes in the settlement. Knocking at the door, he twirled his cap in his hands and waited patiently, whistling a dance air.
“Enter, Simkin, and welcome,” said an old woman pleasantly as she opened the door.
“Thank you, Marta,” Simkin said, pausing to kiss the wrinkled cheek as he passed. “The Empress sends her best wishes and thanks for your inquiry about her health.”
“Get along with you!” Marta scolded, waving her hand to dispel the strong wave of gardenia fragrance that enveloped her as Simkin walked past. “Empress indeed! You’re either a liar or a fool, young man.”
“Ah, Marta,” said Simkin, leaning near her to whisper in confidence. “The Emperor himself posed that very question, ‘Simkin,’ he said, ‘are you a liar or a fool?’”
“And what was your answer?” Marta asked, her lips twitching, though she tried to sound severe.
“I said, ‘If I say I am neither, Your Majesty, then I am one. If I say I am one, then I am the other.’ Do you follow me so far, Marta?”
“And if you say you’re both?” Marta tilted her head, putting her hands beneath the apron of her dress.
“Precisely what His Majesty inquired. My reply: “Then I am either, aren’t I?’” Simkin bowed. “Think about it, Marta. It kept His Majesty occupied for at least an hour.”
“So, you’ve been to court again, have you, Simkin?” asked Andon, coming over to greet the young man. “Which one?”
“Merilon. Zith-el. It doesn’t matter,” returned Simkin with a gaping yawn. “Let me assure you, sir, they’re all alike, ’specially this time of year. Preparing for Harvest Revels and all that. Quite boring. ’Pon my honor, I’d be more than happy to stay and chat. Especially”—he sniffed hungrily—“since dinner smells positively heavenly as the centaur said of the catalyst he was stewing, but—What was I saying? Oh, catalyst—Yes, that’s the very reason I’ve come. Is he about?”
“He is resting,” said Andon gravely.
“Not taken ill, I suppose?” Simkin asked nonchalantly, his gaze wandering about the room and just happening to fix on the figure stretched out upon a cot in a shadowy corner.
“No. We walked rather farther this morning than he was up to, I am afraid.”
“A pity. Old Blachloch’s sent for him,” said Simkin coolly, twirling his cap in his hand.
Andon’s face darkened. “If it could wait—”
“‘Fraid not,” Simkin replied with another yawn. “Urgent and all that. You know Blachloch.”
Moving to stand near her husband, a worried look on her face, Marta put her hand on his