Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [150]
“I need your help,” Joram said, sitting down near the young men.
“Oh, I say, a conspiracy! How frightfully fearful sounding. I am all ears. I could be all ears, you know,” Simkin added in sudden inspiration. “If it would help.”
“All mouth is nearer the mark. Shut up,” muttered Mosiah.
“I won’t say another word.” Muffled to the eyes in fur, Simkin obligingly snapped his lips shut and gazed at Joram with grave intensity that was, however, rather spoiled by a gaping yawn. “Beg pardon,” he said.
Huddled, shivering, in a corner as close to the feeble fire as he could get, Saryon snorted in disgust. Joram glanced at him irritably, making a motion as if to reassure him. Then he turned back to his friends.
“The catalyst and I have to get out of here tonight …”
“You’re escaping?” Mosiah asked eagerly. “I’ll come with you—”
“No, listen!” Joram said in exasperation. “I can’t tell you what we’re doing. It’s better you don’t know, anyway. In case anything goes wrong. We have to get out of here and back in without the guard knowing and, more important, we have to be free to do … what we have to do without being interrupted,”
“That should be easy.” Mosiah appeared disappointed. “You went to Andon’s last night—”
“And the guard escorted us there and back, just like he escorts me to the forge every day,” Joram finished grimly.
“In other words,” said Simkin coolly, “you want the guard to be in the land of Bidey-Bye whilst you two perform dark and treacherous acts. In the morning you want him to find you slumbering peacefully in your little beds when he himself awakes.”
Glancing at Simkin, Saryon stirred uneasily. The young man was near the mark with his playful guessing. Too near. The catalyst hadn’t wanted to involve these two at all—Mosiah because it was dangerous and Simkin because he was Simkin.
“In addition,” the fur-covered young man was continuing languidly, “you do not want interruptions by one person in particular—our Blond and Baleful Leader. My dear boy”—Simkin snuggled comfortably into his cape—“nothing simpler. Leave everything to me.”
“What do you intend to do?” Saryon asked, his voice rasping.
“I say, old fellow. You’re not taking cold, are you?” Simkin asked anxiously, twisting around to look over at the catalyst. “A bit dangerous for one of your advanced years. Carried off the Earl of Mooria in a matter of days, and he was your age to the year. Sneezed his head off. Quite literally. It landed—splat—in the baked custard. Oh, Duke Zebulon said it was just his little joke—a sort of after-dinner entertainment for the amusement of his guests—and that he never meant his catalyst to take him seriously and grant him such an excessive amount of magic. But we all wondered. He and the Earl had quarreled over Swan’s Doom just the day prior. Something about cheating. At any rate, the guests were highly diverted. Nothing else was talked of for weeks. It’s quite the thing, now, to land a dinner invitation from the Duke—”
“I am not taking cold!” Saryon snapped when he could get a word in edgewise.
“Delighted to hear it,” Simkin said earnestly, leaning over to pat the catalyst’s hand.
“Let’s get on with this,” Joram said impatiently. “The guard and Blachloch?”
“Ah, yes. I knew we were talking about something else. The guard. I’ll handle him,” said Simkin.
“How?” asked Mosiah suspiciously, glancing at the catalyst. It was obvious he and Saryon shared the same opinion of the bearded young man.
“A mild sedative—recipe known only to myself and the Marchioness of Lonnoni, who had fourteen children. So much for the guard. Now, as to Blachloch. I am engaged to play tarok with him this evening anyhow. He will not disturb you. ’Pon my honor.”
“Honor!” Mosiah sneered. “I’m coming with you.”
“Oh, no. Quite impossible,” Simkin said with another yawn. Stretching his feet out toward the fire, he lounged back in the chair at a seemingly impossible angle, shifting around until he got himself completely comfortable. “Not to sound unfeeling, but you are a bit of a bumpkin, dear boy. I mean, I don’t dare take you