Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [154]
“Why indeed,” murmured Simkin in bored tones, his eyes on the guard, who was pulling the cork on the aleskin. “Well, back into the night, as they say. You take care, Grammie,” the young man whispered. “Get to bed early, and when you do, be certain to put out the light.”
Simkin emphasized this last with a wink and a nod toward the guard, who was sniffing at the ale and licking his lips. Looking at him with eyes suddenly shrewd and penetrating, the old woman smiled and bobbed her white cap, then shuffled back to dish up the stew, her ears deaf to all but whispers, it would seem.
Cheered by the sight of the guard putting the neck of the aleskin to his lips, Simkin hurried out the door into, the teeth of the storm and dashed across the street. Blinded by darkness, rain, sleet, and his huge fur hat, he promptly collided with someone.
“Simkin! Watch where you’re going!” snarled a voice in irritated relief.
“I say, Mosiah! So you didn’t venture into the wilderness, after all. No, not the door, the lout’s still watching. Come over here in the shadows. Wait …”
“For what? I’m freezing! Didn’t you—”
“Ah, there’s the signal.” The light in the guard’s house blinked out, leaving it dark except for the reflected gleam of the fire. Darting out from behind the corner of the prison, Simkin tapped upon the door, which opened at his knock.
Darting inside, Simkin dragged Mosiah with him, and Joram slammed the door shut behind them. “A fine night you’ve picked for this,” Simkin said through clicking teeth.
“I know,” remarked Joram coolly from the depths of the shadows in the chill room. “With the fog and the rain, the light from the forge won’t be seen.”
“It won’t matter if it is,” muttered Mosiah, standing hunch-shouldered and shivering near the door. “I talked to the smith. He’s let the word out among Blachloch’s men that some of his people might be working tonight—make up for the time lost because of the raid. Don’t worry,” Mosiah returned in answer to Joram’s frown, “I didn’t tell him anything and he didn’t ask. His sons were with us when the village burned. They’ve taken the vow. You—Well, never mind.” Mosiah stopped.
“You what?” said Joram.
“Nothing,” Mosiah mumbled. You can trust him had been on Mosiah’s lips, but, looking at Joram’s dark, cold expression, he shook his head.
The half-smile lit the brown eyes like the light from the dying embers. Joram knew what his friend had intended to say and why he hadn’t said it.
“What about the guard?”
“The lout is out on his snout,” reported Simkin, highly pleased with his rhyme that he had been composing all evening. “I—Oh, good evening, Father. I didn’t see you, lurking about the shadows. Getting in practice? I say, you don’t look at all well. Cold still bothering you? I got over mine, fortunately. Blachloch and a cold in the head would simply be too much to deal with ….”
Saryon said nothing. He hadn’t even heard Simkin. He couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the wind, prowling about the prison like a beast of prey yearning for the blood it smelled inside.
Once, long ago, Saryon had heard the wind talk. Only then it had whispered, “The Prince is Dead …. The Prince is Dead ….” and its tone had been sad and sorrowful. Now it shrieked and yammered, “Dead, Dead, Dead!” in a kind of mad triumph, delighting to torment him in his downfall. Saryon …
The wind spoke to him, calling him by name, summoning him—
“Saryon!”
Blinking, he started.
“I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was … just … Is it time?”
“Yes.” Joram’s voice was cool and toneless. The wind seemed more alive. “Simkin’s gone. We should delay no longer.”
“Here, Father, you’ll need more wraps than that,” said Mosiah, struggling out of his own wet