Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [111]
The figure on the bed roused itself. “Do not worry, Andon,” said Saryon, getting to his feet. “I am feeling much more myself. I think it must have been the fumes or the smoke, it made me feel light-headed—”
“Father! You’ve no idea,” cried Simkin in a choked voice, leaping forward and throwing his arms around the startled catalyst, “how perfectly wonderful it is to see you up and about. I was so worried! So frightfully worried—”
“There, there,” Saryon said, flushing in embarrassment and trying to disengage the young man, who was sobbing on his shoulder.
“I’m all right,” Simkin said bravely, stepping backward. “Sorry. Forgot myself. Well …” He rubbed his hands together, smiling. “All ready? If you’re tired, we could take a cart …”
“A what?”
“Cart,” said Simkin patiently. “You know. Moves over the ground. Drawn by a horse. Thing with wheels—”
“Uh, no. I’d really prefer walking,” Saryon said hastily.
“Well, up to you.” Simkin shrugged. “Now, must be off.” Herding the catalyst along in front of him, the young man practically pushed him out the door. “Good-bye, Marta, Andon. Hopefully we’ll be back in time for dinner. If not, don’t wait up.”
Before he quite knew what was happening, Saryon found himself standing in the street, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d napped almost all afternoon, he realized, seeing the sun starting to set behind the trees that lined the riverbank. But he didn’t feel any better, and he wished he hadn’t fallen asleep. Now his head ached; he felt incapable of thinking clearly.
Of all times to see Blachloch—the man everyone from Andon to the devil-may-care Simkin seemed to hold in quiet terror. I wonder what Joram thinks of him? Saryon wondered. Then he shook his head angrily. What a stupid thought. As if it mattered. Hopefully, the walk will wake me, he told himself, falling into step with Simkin, who was prodding him along.
“What can you tell me about this Blachloch?” Saryon asked Simkin in a low voice as they moved among the lengthening shadows cast by the buildings in the slowly gathering gloom of twilight.
“Nothing I haven’t already. Nothing you won’t find out soon enough,” Simkin replied nonchalantly.
“I hear you spend a good deal of time with him,” Saryon commented, glancing at Simkin sharply. But the young man returned the glance with a cool and sardonic smile.
“They’ll be saying the same of you shortly,” he remarked.
Shivering, Saryon drew his robes around him. The thoughts of what this warlock, this Enforcer turned outlaw, might ask him to do alarmed him. Why had he never considered this before?
Because I never expected to live long enough to get here before, Saryon answered himself bitterly. Now I am here, and I have no idea what to do! Maybe, he said to himself hopefully, it won’t be any more than giving these people sufficient Life so that they can go about their work easier. The thought of the new mathematical calculations he’d made occurred to him. Surely that would be all they could expect of him …
“Tell me,” Saryon said to Simkin abruptly, glad to change the subject and take his mind off one worry by investigating another, “how do you manage to work that … that magic you do? …”
“Oh, you’ve been admiring my hat?” Simkin inquired with a pleased air, twirling the cap’s feather. “Actually, the difficult part comes not with conjuring up the article but in deciding upon just the right shade of pink. Too much, and it makes my eyes look swollen—so the Duchess of Fenwick told me, and I rather fancy she’s right—”
“I don’t mean the hat,” Saryon snapped irritably. “I meant the … the tree. Turning yourself into a tree! It’s quite Impossible,” he added. “Mathematically speaking. I’ve been over and over the formula …”
“Oh, I don’t know a thing about math,” Simkin said with a shrug. “I just know it works. I’ve been able to do it since I was a small tyke. Mosiah says it must be like lizards changing their skin color to match rocks and jolly things like that. I’ll tell you how it came about, if you like. We’ve got