Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [128]
“Damn!” groaned Mosiah, leaning close to Joram. “Let’s go. I’m not hungry anymore.
“No, wait. I want to meet him,” Joram said softly, his dark eyes on the catalyst.
“I’ll escort you, Father,” Simkin cried, leaping to his feet and running over to the catalyst. Bowing gracefully, he grabbed the embarrassed man by the hand and led him to the fire, performing a quadrille on the way. “Shall we dance, Father? One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, hop …”
There was laughter. Everyone in the cave was watching now, grateful for the diversion. The exception was Blachloch, who returned to his card game.
“Not a dancer, Father? Probably frowned upon, isn’t it.”
Saryon was trying, unsuccessfully, to shake Simkin loose.
But Simkin was having far too good a time. “Undoubtedly His Tubbiness just prohibits it because he’s jealous. I mean, with him, ‘one, two, three, hop’ would be closer to ‘one, two, three, bouncey, bouncey, bouncey.’” Puffing his cheeks and throwing out his stomach, Simkin did a credible impression of the Bishop that brought roars of laughter and scattered applause.
“Thank you, thank you.” Placing his hand over his heart, Simkin bowed. Then, with a flourish of orange silk, he led the red-faced catalyst to the fire. “Here you are, Father,” he said, bustling about and dragging over a rotted log. “Wait! Don’t sit down yet. I’ll bet you suffer from piles. Curse of the middle-aged. My grandfather died of them, you know. Yes,” he continued mournfully as he tapped the log once with his hand and transformed it into a velvet cushion, “poor old gentleman went for nine years without sitting down. Then he tried it once, and bam—keeled right over. Blood rushed to his—”
“Please, Father, won’t you be seated?” Mosiah interrupted hurriedly. “I—I don’t believe you have met Joram. Joram, this is F-father—”
Mosiah stammered himself into confused silence as Joram gazed steadily at the catalyst without speaking.
Sitting down awkwardly on the cushion, Saryon tried to give some polite greeting to the young man, but the look of cool disdain in Joram’s brown eyes sucked the air out of his body and the words from his mind. Only Simkin was at ease. Hunching down on a rock, he rested his arms on his bent knees, leaned his bearded chin on his hands, and smiled on all three mischievously.
“I’ll bet the squirrel’s cooked by now,” he said, reaching out suddenly to give the catalyst a playful shove with his hand. “Wouldn’t you say so, Father? Or maybe it’s your goose we’ve cooked?”
His face flushing so that it appeared fevered, Saryon looked as though he could cheerfully sink through the floor. Casting Simkin a vicious glance, Mosiah moved hastily over to the iron pot. He started to lift it by the handle, when Joram caught hold of his arm.
“It will be hot,” he said. A stick materialized in Joram’s hand. Sliding it through the handle, he lifted the pot from the blaze. “The heat from the flame heats not only the pot but the handle itself.”
“You and your damn technology,” muttered Mosiah, sitting back down.
“I will be happy to open a conduit to you and provide you with Life—” Saryon began, then his eyes met Joram’s.
“That wouldn’t be of much use to me now, would it, Father?” Joram said evenly, his heavy brows slashing a dark line across his forehead. “I’m Dead. Or didn’t you know?”
“I knew,” said Saryon quietly. The flush was gone from his face, leaving it pale and composed. No one was watching them now. The rest of the men in the cavern, seeing that the show was apparently over, had gone back to their own concerns. “I will not lie to you. I was sent to bring you to justice. You are a murderer—”
“And one of the walking Dead,” Joram snapped bitterly, setting the stewpot down on the ground with a thud.
“I say, careful there,” Simkin remonstrated, leaning over hastily to rescue the pot. Lifting the spoon, he began to ladle out portions of the grayish, lumpish mixture into rough-hewn wooden bowls. “Forgive the use of the tools, Father, but-”
“Are you?” asked Saryon, gazing