Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [124]
“The court can talk of nothing else. Such a thing has never been done before. Imagine, marble! It looks quite … ponderous …” Simkin was saying.
“The catalyst. What’s his name? I feel sorry for him,” Mosiah said.
“Saryon?” Simkin appeared slightly confused. “Pardon me, dear boy, but what has he to do with rose-colored marble?”
“Nothing,” returned Mosiah. “I was just watching the expression on Joram’s face. He seems to be enjoying the poor mans misery.”
“He’s a catalyst,” Joram replied shortly. “And you’re wrong. I don’t care enough to think about him one way or the other.”
“Mmmm,” Mosiah muttered, seeing Joram’s dark eyes grow darker as they stared at the man’s green-robed back.
“He’s from your village, you know,” Simkin commented, leaning over his horse’s neck to talk confidentially in a loud voice that could be heard by nearly everyone in line.
“Keep your voice down! He’ll hear us. What do you mean, he’s from our village?” Mosiah asked, astonished. “Why didn’t you say anything before? Maybe he knows my parents!”
“I’m certain I said something,” Simkin protested with an aggrieved air, “when I told you about his coming for Joram—”
“Shh!” Mosiah hissed. “That nonsense!” Biting his lip, the young man stared at the catalyst with a wistful air. “I wonder how my parents are? It’s been so long …”
“Oh, go ahead! Talk to him!” snapped Joram, his black eyebrows drawing a straight, hard line across his face.
“Yes, go have a chat with the old boy,” Simkin said languidly. “He’s not a bad sort, really, as catalysts go. And I’ve got no more cause to love them than you, O Dark and Gloomy Friend. I told you they stole away my baby brother, didn’t I? Little Nat. Poor tyke. Failed the Testing. We had him hidden away until he was five. But they found out about him—one of the neighbors snitched. Grudge against my mother. I was Nat’s favorite, you know. The little fellow clung to me, when they were dragging him off.”
Two tears rolled down Simkin’s face into his beard. Mosiah heaved an exasperated sigh.
“That’s it!” said Simkin, sniffing. “Mock my affliction. Make light of my sorrow. If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, more tears streaming down his face, mingling with the rainwater, “I will indulge my grief in private. You two go on. No, it’s no use trying to comfort me. Not in the slightest …” Mumbling incoherently, Simkin suddenly wheeled his horse around and left the trail, galloping back toward the rear of the line.
“Mock his affliction! How many brothers is that who’ve met some appalling fate?” Snorting in disgust, Mosiah glanced back at Simkin, who was wiping tears from his face and calling out a rude remark to one of Blachloch’s henchmen at the same time. “To say nothing of assorted sisters held captive by nobles or hauled off by centaurs, not counting the one who ran away from home because she was enamored of a giant. Then there’s the aunt, who drowned in a public fountain because she thought she was a swan, and his mother, who has died five times of five different rare diseases and once of a broken heart because the Duuk-tsarith arrested his father for conjuring up offensive illusions of the Emperor. All of this happening to an orphan who was discovered floating in a basket of rose petals down the Merilon sewer system. He’s a monumental liar! I don’t see how can you put up with him!”
“Because he’s an amusing liar,” Joram replied, shrugging. “And that makes him different.”
“Different?”
“From all the rest of you,” Joram said, glancing at Mosiah from beneath his heavy, dark brows. “Why don’t you go talk to your catalyst,” he suggested coolly, seeing Mosiah’s face flush in anger. “If what I hear is true, he’s in for a lot worse punishment than saddle sores.”
Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, Joram galloped ahead, riding past the catalyst without a glance, his horse flinging up mud from its hooves. Mosiah saw the catalyst raise his head and stare after the young man, whose long black hair, whipped free from its bindings, glistened in the rain like the plumage of a wet bird.
“Why do I put