Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [132]
“Tell me, Father”—Mosiah’s voice carried clearly over the thudding of the horses’ hooves and the dripping of the water from the trees beneath which they rode—“when Simkin talks about the court at Merilon … You know, when he mentions those Dukes and Duchesses and Earls and all that, is he … well … making these people up? Or do they really exist?”
“Is he lying?” Joram muttered to himself as he rode behind them, that strange inner smile lighting his eyes. “Of course he’s lying. Still trying to catch the wily Simkin, are you, Mosiah? Well, give up. Better people than you have tried, my friend.”
“I really can’t say,” Joram heard the catalyst reply in a perplexed tone. “You see, I wasn’t at court much myself and … I’m terrible at names. Some of them he mentions do sound familiar, yet I can’t ever seem to call them to mind. I suppose it’s entirely possible …”
“See there?” Joram said to Mosiah’s back. He often made such comments during the course of the conversation. But they were always made to himself, always unheard by the principals involved. For Joram never joined them, and if either glanced back, he always feigned looking at his surroundings to the exclusion of all else.
But he was listening, listening carefully and with intense interest. A change had come over Joram in the months he had spent living among the Sorcerers of Technology. Sick and exhausted upon his arrival, it had been easy for the young man to fall into his old, accustomed ways of leaving people severely alone and expecting them to leave him alone. But he discovered after long weeks of this that being left alone was … lonely. Worse than that, he realized that if his self-imposed solitude continued, he would soon end up as insane as poor Anja.
Fortunately, Simkin had returned at this time from one of his frequent and mysterious disappearances. Acting some say upon a suggestion of Blachloch’s, Simkin appeared on Joram’s doorstep, introduced himself, and moved in before the morose young man could utter a word. Joram, intrigued and amused by the older youth’s conversation, allowed Simkin to stay. Simkin, in turn, introduced Joram to the world.
“You have a gift, dear boy,” said Simkin banteringly to Joram one night. “Don’t scowl. Your face will freeze like that someday and you’ll spend all of your life frightening dogs and small children. Now, about this gift, I’m serious. I’ve seen it at court. Your mother was Albanara, right? They’re born with this ability, charisma, charm, whatever you want to call it. Now, of course, you have all the charm of a pile of rocks, but stay with me and you’ll learn. Why should you bother? you ask. The best reason in the world. Because, dear boy, you can make people do anything you want ….”
Venturing out into his small world, Joram found, to his surprise and pleasure, that what Simkin said was true. Perhaps it was the “noble blood,” the hereditary abilities of the Albanara that ran in his veins, perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that he was educated. Whatever the reason, Joram discovered the ability to manipulate people, to use them and still keep them at a comfortable distance from himself.
The one person this failed to work upon was Mosiah. Although he had been extremely glad to see his longtime friend when the young man came into camp, Joram resented Mosiah’s continued attempts to break apart the carefully crafted stone exterior of his being. Simkin entertained Joram. Mosiah demanded something in return for his friendship.
Back off, Joram often thought in exasperation. Back off and let me breathe!
Despite this, Joram was more truly content among these people than he had once thought possible. Although he still had to keep up the pretext of possessing a certain amount of magic, he was able to do this easily with his sleight-of-hand illusions. There were others in this camp who had failed the Testing, and he wasn’t made to feel like a freak or an outcast.
Through hard, physical labor, he had grown strong and muscular. Some of the bitterness and anger that scarred his face was eased, though the slashing black brows