Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [112]
“I was abandoned as a babe in Merilon,” Simkin was saying in a subdued voice. “Dumped in a doorway. Left on my own. I never knew my parents. I probably wasn’t supposed to have happened, if you know what I mean.” Shrugging, he gave a short, forced laugh. “I was taken in by an old woman. Not out of charity, I assure you. By the age of five I was working, picking through refuse for anything valuable that she could sell. She beat me regularly, for good measure, and finally, I ran away. I grew up in the streets of Lower City, the part you don’t see from the Crystal Spires. Do you have any idea what the Duuk-tsarith do with abandoned children?”
Saryon was staring at him in amazement. “Abandoned children? But—”
“Me either,” Simkin continued with his tight, little laugh. “They just … disappear … I saw it happen. Friends of mine. Vanished. Never seen nor heard from again. One day, the Enforcers suddenly materialized in the street right before me. I couldn’t escape. I can still hear”—Simkin’s eyes grew dreamy—“the rustle of their black robes, so near me, so near … I was terrified. You can’t imagine … My one thought was that they mustn’t see me and I concentrated on that thought with my whole being.” He smiled suddenly. “And, you know what? They didn’t see me. The Duuk-tsarith walked right past me … as they would have walked past any other water pail on the street.”
Saryon rubbed his head. “You’re saying that out of sheer terror, you were able to—”
“Perform a remarkable transformation? Yes,” Simkin replied with a touch of modest pride. “Later, I learned to control it. Thus, I survived many, many years.”
Saryon was silent a moment, then he said grimly, “What about your sister?”
“Sister?” Simkin glanced at him in bemusement. “What sister? I’m an orphan.”
“The sister the Coven is holding captive, remember? And then there’s your father? The one the Enforcers dragged off. The one I remind you of ….”
“I say, old fellow”—Simkin looked at him in deep concern—“you must have received a smart blow to the head when we jumped off the cliff. Whatever are you talking about?”
“We didn’t jump,” Saryon said through clenched teeth. “We fell because you were rotten—”
“Rotting!” Simkin stopped dead in the street, his face stricken. “I am wounded, wounded deeply. Here, take my dagger”—one materialized in his hand—“and stab me in the heart!” Yanking aside his brocade coat, he revealed a broad expanse of green shirt. “I can live no longer with the stain of this dishonor!”
“Oh, come on!” Saryon said, aware that everyone in the vicinity was staring at them.
“Not until you have apologized!” Simkin said dramatically.
“Very well, I apologize!” Saryon muttered, staring at the young man in confusion so vast he couldn’t even begin to frame questions.
“I accept,” Saryon said graciously, and the dagger disappeared, replaced by a flutter of orange silk.
Looking into Joram’s eyes, Saryon had seen a soul—tormented, dark, burning with anger—but a soul nonetheless, its very passions giving it life. Looking into the eyes of the warlock, Saryon saw nothing. Flat, opaque, the eyes regarded him fixedly for several moments, then, with a flicker of the thin lids, Blachloch bade him be seated.
Saryon obeyed, his will drained from him by those eyes quite as effectively as by any spell.
Duuk-tsarith. A privileged class. Their black-robed presence in Thimhallan granted security and peace. This did not come cheaply, but the people, remembering the old days, were willing to pay the price.
Though vastly different, in many ways the warlock class mirrored that of their opposites, the catalysts. As powerful in magic as the catalysts are weak, the children born to the Mystery of Fire are a rarity in the world. They, too, are taken from their homes at an early age and placed in a school whose very location is secret. Here the powerful magic skills of the young witches and warlocks are developed