Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [129]
To Saryon’s amazement, Joram’s dark eyes flashed, but it was not with anger. It was with fear. Puzzled, his words forgotten, the catalyst stared at him. The look was gone in an instant, covered by the hard, stone facade. But it had been there, Saryon was certain.
Taking a dish from Simkin, Joram sat down upon the stone floor and began to eat, using the tool to shovel food into his mouth, never raising his eyes from his dish. Accepting his dish, Mosiah did the same, manipulating the unfamiliar spoon awkwardly. Simkin offered a dish to the catalyst, who took it and a spoon. But Saryon did not eat, he was still looking at Joram.
“I have been thinking,” he said to the scowling young man. “Since no records exist of your Testing, it is possible that Father Tolban might have, in the excitement of the moment, made a mistake in your case. Return with me of your own accord and let the case be examined. There were extenuating circumstances involved in the murder, I’ve heard. “Your mother—”
“Do not speak of my mother. Let us talk of my father, instead. Did you know him, Catalyst?” Joram asked coldly. “Were you there, watching, when they turned his body to stone?”
Saryon had picked up his bowl, but now he set it down with shaking hands.
“I say, Mosiah,” remarked Simkin, chewing vigorously, “this squirrel didn’t happen to stagger in here and die of old age in your arms, did it, dear boy? If so, you should have given it a decent burial. I’ve been chewing on this piece for ten minutes—”
“No, no … I wasn’t present during your father’s execution,” replied Saryon in a low voice, his eyes on the stone floor. “I was a Deacon, then. Only the higher-ranking of my Order—”
“Got to see the show?” Joram sneered.
“Water! I need water!” Simkin gestured, and a water-skin, hanging in a cool part of the cavern, floated over to them. “I must have something to wash down this elderly party.” Taking a drink, he wiped his mouth with the bit of orange silk, then gave a prodigious yawn. “I say, I’m frightfully bored with this conversation. Let’s play tarok.” Reaching into the air, he produced a pack of colorful, gilt-edged cards.
“Where did you get a deck?” Mosiah demanded, thankful for the interruption. “Wait a minute, those aren’t Blachloch’s, are they?”
“Of course not.” Simkin looked hurt. “He’s playing over in the corner, didn’t you notice? As for this”—he spread the cards out on the ground with an expert flick of his hand—“I picked it up at court. This is the newest deck. The artisans did a superb job. The court cards are drawn to look like everyone in the Royal House of Merilon. It was quite the rage, I assure you. Overly flattering to the Empress, of course. She doesn’t look nearly this good now, especially up close. But the artisans have no choice in the matter, I suppose. Notice the lovely azure color to the sky around the Sun card? Crushed lapis lazuli. No, truly, I assure you. And see the Kings? Each suit is a different Emperor of one of the realms. King of Swords—Emperor of Merilon. King of Staves is Zith-el. King of Cups is the notorious lover, Emperor of Balzab. A perfect likeness, and the King of Coins is that money-grubber Sharakan—”
“We’ll play, won’t we, Joram?” Mosiah interrupted hurriedly, seeing Simkin about to proceed to the Queens. “What about you, Father? Or is playing tarok against your vows or something?”
“Only three players,” Simkin said, shuffling the deck. “The catalyst will have to wait his turn.”
“Thank you,” said Saryon. Gathering his robes around him, he started to rise, leaving his untouched stew on the floor. “We are permitted to play but I would not break up your game. Perhaps another time …”
“Go ahead, Catalyst.” Shoving his plate away, Joram stood up, his face dark and sullen, a wild, strange look in his eyes. “I don’t want to play. You can have my place.”
“Don’t, Joram!” Mosiah said in low tones. A note of anxiety in his voice, he caught hold of Joram’s muscular arm.
“See here,