Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [127]
“What does it matter?” Joram snapped impatiently, staring moodily into the small fire they had built to dry their clothes. The group had found shelter for the night in a huge cave they’d discovered in the hillside near the river. Since it was rare to find a cave in the Outland unoccupied, Blachloch had entered it cautiously, keeping his catalyst with him. Upon investigation, it proved empty, however, and the warlock decided it was a safe place in which to stay. The only drawback was an atrocious smell coming from a pile of refuse in a dark corner; refuse no one wanted to examine too closely. Though they had burned it, the smell lingered on. Blachloch said the cave had probably been inhabited by trolls.
“Of course it doesn’t matter to you about the catalyst,” Mosiah said bitterly, starting to get to his feet. “Nothing ever matters to you ….”
Reaching out, Joram gripped his friend’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said in a tight voice, the words coming with difficulty. “I thank you … for the warning.” The half-smile twisted his lips. “I don’t consider one middle-aged catalyst much of a threat, but I’ll be on my guard. As for Simkin”—he shrugged—“ask him how he found out.”
“But you can’t believe that fool!” Mosiah said in exasperation, sitting back down.
“Fool? Did I hear someone taking my name in vain?” came a dulcet-toned voice from the darkness.
Sighing in disgust, Mosiah winced and shaded his eyes as the gaudily clad figure stepped into the firelight.
“What, dear boy, don’t you like this?” Simkin inquired, raising his arms to show off his new robes to their most garish advantage. “I was so bored, wearing that drab ranger garb, that I decided a change was in order, as the Duchess D’Longeville said when she married her fourth husband. Or was it her fifth? Not that it matters. He’ll be dead like the others before long. Never take tea with the Duchess D’Longeville. Or, if you do, make certain she doesn’t serve you from the same pot that she serves her husband. Don’t you like this shade of red? I call it Smashed Vermilion. What’s the matter, Mosiah? You look in a worse humor than our friend the Dark One today.”
“Nothing,” Mosiah mumbled, twisting to his feet to peer into a crude iron pot perched precariously in a bed of hot coals.
“Smells like it’s burning on the bottom,” said Simkin, bending down and sniffing. “I say, why don’t you ask that jolly old catalyst for some Life? Use our magic, like everyone else now that he’s here. Am I invited for dinner?”
“No.” Lifting a stick, and ignoring the suggestion about the catalyst, Mosiah began to stir the bubbling contents of the pot.
“Ah,” said Simkin sitting down, “thanks. Now, what are we in such a pet over? I know! You rode with Father Skinhead today. He have anything interesting to say?”
“Shhh,” Mosiah cautioned, gesturing to where Saryon was seated alone, trying without much success to build a fire. “Why ask? You probably know more about what we discussed than either of us.”
“Probably I do,” Simkin said gaily. “Look at the poor chap, he’s freezing to death. Old fellow like that shouldn’t be roaming about in the wilderness. I’ll invite him over to share our stew.” The young man looked around at his friends. “Shall I? I believe I will. Don’t scowl, Joram. You really should meet him. After all, he’s here to apprehend you. I say, Catalyst!”
Simkin’s voice echoed in the cave. Saryon started and turned, as did nearly everyone else in the cavern.
Mosiah reached out and tugged at Simkin’s sleeve. “Stop it, you fool!”
But Simkin was calling out once again and waving, his red robes flaming in the firelight. “Over here, Catalyst. Look, we’ve got this nice squirrel stew …”
Many of the men were glancing at them, snickering and making muttered comments. Even Blachloch raised his hooded head from the game of cards he was playing with some of his men, regarding the group with a cold, impassionate stare. Slowly, Saryon rose to his feet, his face