Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [152]
“Cut off his hands,” said Simkin, divesting himself of the fool’s clothing with a gesture. Dressed once more in his habitual garish costume, he conjured up the fur cape and draped it gracefully around his shoulders. “It’s what they used to do to them in the old days, I understand,” he continued with an apologetic glance at Saryon. “Doesn’t affect their usefulness, you see.”
Scowling, Mosiah kept his eyes on Joram. “And what happens if he catches us now?”
“He won’t.”
Mosiah turned away. “Come on,” he said to Simkin. “We’ve been here long enough. The guard will get suspicious.”
“Yes, we must be running along,” Simkin said, following. “I think I feel a definite stuffiness in my nose. I—Ah-choo! There, what did I tell you! The catalyst has given me his cold! I’m—Ah-choo! quite put out!” The orange bit of silk fluttered in the air. Applying it to his nose, Simkin sniffed gloomily. “And such a strenuous evening ahead of me, too. Blachloch cheats, you know.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s too good. You cheat,” said Joram dryly.
“Because he always wins! Even when I cheat, I never seem to manage that. I suppose I should keep my mind on the game. See you in a bit, dear boy. Must go pick the pretty flowers and mix up the potion.” Simkin winked. “Be ready. You’ll hear my voice …” Nodding toward the guard, who could be seen watching from the doorway of a house across the street, Simkin sauntered out of the prison.
“What about you?” Joram asked, stopping Mosiah in the doorway.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Mosiah answered without looking at him. “Maybe I’ll leave by myself, before you all get caught.”
“Well … good luck, then,” Joram said coldly.
“Thanks.” Mosiah gave him a hurt, bitter glance. “Thanks very much. Good luck to you, too.”
Slamming the door shut behind him, he left abruptly.
Looking out the window, Saryon could see him walking away, his head bowed.
“He cares a lot for you,” the catalyst said quietly turning from the window to Joram, who was mixing a bowl of gruel over the coals of the fire.
The young man did not reply, he might not have even heard.
Crossing their small, cold prison, Saryon lay down on the hard bed. How long had it been since he’d slept? Truly peaceful sleep? Would he ever be able to sleep again? Or would he always see that young Deacon, the look of fear as he saw death in the warlocks eyes?
“Do you trust Simkin?” Saryon asked, staring up at the rotting beams of the ceiling.
“As much as I trust you, Catalyst,” Joram replied.
7
The Storm
“C’mon, old hag, be brisk there. Take any longer and supper’ll be breakfast!”
The old woman to whom this was addressed made no reply, nor did she appear to move faster. Shuffling back and forth between table and fireplace, carrying vegetables in her apron, she tossed them into a pot hanging by a hook over the fire. Slumped in a chair by a table he had dragged over near the window, the guard watched these proceedings with a growl, his attention divided between the old woman, the pot bubbling over the fire—from which came a strong smell of onions—and the prison across the street.
The very faintest light shone in the window of the prison, the light of a feeble fire. Occasionally the guard could see shadowy figures cross back and forth in front of the window. There was no one on the streets this night; no one came to visit the prisoners. The prisoners had made no move to leave, for which the guard was grateful. This was no night to be out. A cold slanting rain drove into the mud street like spears, arrowtips of sleet rattled against the windows of the houses, while the wind leading this onslaught shrieked and howled like a demon horde.
“It’s stupid, keepin’ a man here this night,” muttered the guard. “Not even the Prince of Devils would be out in a storm the likes of this. A’nt that ready yet, you old bitty?” Half-turning in his chair, he raised his hand as if to cuff the woman. Being slightly deaf and dim of vision,