Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [164]
“You mean Blachioch knows about this?”
“If he doesn’t now, I should say he will in a matter of moments.”
“Damn you!” Jumping up, Mosiah leaped at Simkin, catching hold of him by his lace-covered lapels and hurling him back against the wall. “Damn you for a fool! What do we do now?”
“Well, to me it would seem advantageous to wake up the slumbering bald party there,” replied Simkin, smoothing out his crumpled lace with injured dignity. “Though how he can sleep through your screaming is beyond me. Then we have to rouse our dark friend from his fit of sulks ….”
“I’m all right. Wake up Saryon,” said Joram. Seeing Mosiah take another step toward Simkin, he stood up. “Stop it! Both of you, calm down. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“We haven’t?” Simkin appeared dubious.
“No. Go on, Mosiah! Wake up the catalyst. We’ve got to get our stories straight ….”
Shaking his head, Mosiah hurried over to the bed where the catalyst was sleeping fitfully. “Father!” Bending over him, he shook him by the shoulder. “Father!”
“Now,” said Joram coolly, “The catalyst and I—”
His voice died.
Turning around, his hand still on the catalyst’s shoulder, Mosiah saw the black-cloaked warlock materialize in the center of the room, his hands clasped before him as was customary, his eyes hidden by the overhanging black cowl.
“You and the catalyst what, young man?” said the expressionless voice.
“—have been in all night,” Joram continued coolly. “You could ask your guard, but that might be difficult now unless you are a Necromancer.”
“Yes, I figured Simkin would tell you of the guard’s death,” Blachloch said, glancing at the bearded young man.
“Frightful shock to me, I assure you,” remarked Simkin. Snatching the orange silk from the air, he dabbed delicately at his forehead. “I’m quite unstrung, as the Baron of Esock said when he mistakenly transformed himself into a mandolin. What do you suppose he died of?” Simkin asked casually. “The guard, that is. The Baron died in a rather freak accident. The Baroness, a largish sort of woman, sat on his case. Smashed him to splinters, but he went out with a song. As to your guard, he was his usual loutish self when I left him last night. Perhaps he suffocated.” Simkin held the orange silk to his nose. “I know he had that effect on me.”
“He was poisoned,” said Blachloch, ignoring Simkin, his hooded head turned to Joram. His eyes might well have been fingers, probing the young man’s brain. “So, you were here all night? What were you doing, playing in the firepit?”
Glancing down at his soot-blackened clothes and skin, Joram shrugged. “I didn’t bother to wash when I got home from the forge yesterday.”
Without a word, his hands still folded before him, Blachloch turned and walked over to where Mosiah had finally succeeded in rousing the catalyst.
“You were in all night, too, Father?” the warlock said.
“Y-yes.” Saryon peered up at the black-robed Enforcer, blinking dazedly. Though half-asleep and completely unable to figure out what was going on, he could feel danger crackling in the air. Trying desperately to shake off his drowsiness, he sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Blachloch reached down and snatched the blanket from Saryon’s body. “The hem of your robe is wet, Catalyst. And covered with soot and mud as well.”
“The chimney leaks,” said Mosiah sullenly.
Blachloch smiled. “Grant me Life, Catalyst,” he said softly.
Saryon shuddered. “I cannot,” he replied in a low voice, staring at the floor. “I have no energy. I … spent a bad night …” Realizing the irony of his words, and having the terrible feeling that the warlock was aware of it too, Saryon paled, waiting in uncaring exhaustion for whatever might come next.
Nothing came. Turning away from the catalyst, Blachloch cast a final glance at them all and, without saying another word, vanished.
The four stared at each other in silence for long moments, afraid to talk, afraid