Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [163]
The words were on Mosiah’s lips to ask what it was, but, recognizing the symptoms of the impending melancholia on Joram’s grim face, he thought better of it. He wasn’t certain he wanted to see it anyway.
“Everything was quiet here,” he answered instead. “No one even walked down the street that I saw. The storm was fierce. It didn’t end until early this morning. I—I must have dozed off when the wind quit howling …”
Mosiah quit talking when it became apparent Joram wasn’t listening. Casting himself on the bed, the young man stared at nothing with unseeing eyes. Saryon had already fallen into a restless sleep. His body twitched and jerked. Once he moaned and muttered something incoherent. Feeling alone and disquieted, a strange, unreasoning fear growing within him, Mosiah was walking softly across the room when a whispering voice from outside made every nerve tingle.
“I say, open the door!”
A cold, shivering sensation flashed down Mosiah’s spine at the sound of an unusual tenseness in the usually carefree voice. Glancing swiftly at Joram, Mosiah flung the door open and Simkin darted inside.
“Shut it quickly there’s a good boy. I trust I wasn’t seen.” Slipping to the window, keeping in the shadows, Simkin peered outside. The foolish, negligent look was gone, the skin beneath the beard was pale, the lips white.
“All quiet,” he murmured. “Well, that won’t last long.”
“What’s the matter? What’s gone wrong?”
“Rather bad news, I’m afraid,” Simkin said, turning to Mosiah with a strained imitation of his playful smile. “I’ve just been to check on the guard—see if he spent a restful night. He did. Very restful, if you take my meaning.”
“Well, I don’t,” Mosiah said irritably. “What’s the matter?”
“You see,” began Simkin, biting his lip. “It’s like this. The great lout has actually been inconsiderate enough to go and die on us.”
“Die!” Mosiah’s mouth sagged open. For an instant he was struck dumb, and could do nothing but stare at Simkin. Then, he stumbled across the room. “Joram!” he whispered urgently, shaking him. “Joram! Please! It’s urgent, I—we need you! Joram!”
Slowly Joram tore his gaze from the ceiling. Mosiah could almost see him struggling to the surface of the blackness that washed over him. “What?”
“The guard, Simkin’s killed him!”
Joram’s brown eyes opened wide. Sitting up, he stared coldly at Simkin. “You were supposed to just drug him.”
“That’s precisely what I did,” said Simkin, hurt.
“What did you give him?”
“Henbane,” Simkin muttered.
“Henbane?” repeated Mosiah in horror. “But that’s nightshade! It’s poisonous.”
“To chickens,” Simkin remarked with a sniff. “I had no idea it would affect louts, though he was a foul sort of fellow now that I think of it.”
Mosiah sat down at the end of Joram’s bed, trying to think. “Are you sure he’s uh—uh—dead? Maybe he’s just a heavy sleeper …”
“Not unless he goes cold and limp as a mackerel and sleeps with his eyes wide open. No, no, he’s quite dead, I assure you. The skin of ale was still full, lying beside him. Probably keeled over after the first mouthful. I wonder, come to think of it, if I didn’t get that potion mixed up with one from the Duchess de Longeville? As I recall, they found her second husband in much the same state—”
“Shut up!” Moisah cried tersely. “What can we do? Joram? We’ve got to think.” He wiped chill sweat from his face. “I know! Well hide the body. Take it into the woods …”
Joram said nothing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head sank into his hand, the black shadows gathering about him.
“That’s an excellent plan, dear boy,” said Simkin, looking at Mosiah with admiration. “Truly. I’m quite impressed. But”—he raised a hand as Mosiah leaped to his feet—“it won’t work. I wasn’t … um … alone, you see, when I made my little discovery. One of Blachioch’s henchmen, Drumlor by name, was keeping me company along with this skin of remarkably