Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [151]
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Joram, placing his hand on Mosiah’s clenched fist restrainingly. “What would he have to do?”
“Nothing much,” said Simkin, shrugging his fur-cloaked shoulders like a dainty bear. “Build up the fire. Move back and forth in front of the window now and then so that his shadow is visible. I say, Mosiah,” he added with a yawn so wide his jaws cracked, “I could even conjure your hair to look like Joram’s. Just a little help from our Life-giving friend here and your tresses would be the envy of every woman in the settlement. Long, thick, luxuriant …”
Mosiah turned to Joram. “He’s a buffoon,” the young man said quietly. “You’re staking your life on a fool!”
The bored expression on Simkin’s bearded face changed suddenly to a look so shrewd and penetrating that Saryon could have sworn, for an instant, that a stranger sat there. Mosiah had his back turned to the young man; Joram was scowling at Mosiah. No one saw the look but the catalyst, and before he could realize it or absorb it, the look was gone, replaced by the playful, negligent smile.
The fur cape vanished, as did the silken breeches and waistcoat. There was a blur of color and, in an instant, Simkin was dressed from head to toe in motley. Rainbow colors wildly clashing, his ribbons fluttering, and bells tinkling, Simkin slithered out of his chair and crawled on hands and knees across the floor to Joram. Sitting cross-legged before him, he shook the bells on his cap.
“A fool, yes, I am a fool,” cried Simkin gaily, waving his arms in a grand flourish, the ribbons floating about him like a swirling, multicolored fog. “I am Joram’s fool. Remember the tarok reading? The king of Swords was your card! You will be Emperor someday and you will need a fool, won’t you, Joram?” Leaning forward, Simkin put his hands together in a mockery of prayer. “Let me be your fool, sire. You need one, I assure you.”
“Why, idiot?” asked Joram, the half-smile in his dark eyes.
“Because only a fool dares tell you the truth,” Simkin said softly.
Joram stared at Simkin in silence for as long as it took to draw a breath, then—seeing the bearded face split into a grin—he lifted his booted foot and placed it firmly on the young man’s chest, shoving him backward. Tumbling head over heels, laughing wildly, Simkin performed a graceful somersault and came up on his feet.
Ignoring Simkin, who was dancing about the room, Mosiah put his hand on Joram’s shoulder, almost shaking him in his earnestness. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Forget this! Forget the cards, forget whatever idea you have of challenging Blachloch. Oh, come on, Joram! I know you! I’ve heard you talk. I’d be a fool myself not to figure it out. Let’s take this chance to escape! Let Simkin use his potion on the guard, and we’ll try our luck in the Outland. We can make it. We’re young and strong, plus we’ll have the catalyst along to give us Life. You’ll come, won’t you, Father?”
Saryon could do nothing but nod. The idea of losing himself in the wilderness was suddenly so appealing that he would have rushed out the door then and there if but one person had led the way.
Joram did not immediately answer, and Mosiah, seeing the thoughtful expression on his friend’s dark face and mistaking it for interest, hurried on. “We could go north, to Sharakan. There’ll be work for us there. No one knows us. It’s dangerous, but not as dangerous as staying around here, not as dangerous as fighting Blach—”
“No,” said Joram quietly.
“Joram, think—”
“You think!” Joram said. Flame flickered in the brown eyes as he shook Mosiah’s hand from his shoulder. “Do you believe for one instant that Blachloch would just let his catalyst escape without doing everything in his power to bring him back? And his power is pretty damn extensive. What are the Duuk-tsarith trained for—hunting, tracking people down! He knows the Outland!