Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [78]
The warlock did not stop in his figuring, but continued to add up the long columns of numbers. By the time he had reached the end of a column, the knock sounded again. He did not answer immediately, but coolly and unhurriedly finished his work. Then, wiping the tip of his quill pen with a clean, white cloth, he laid it down next to the ledger, turning it so that the feather faced outward to his right. Then he made a motion with his hand and the door swung silently open.
“I’ve brought him. He’s with me—” The henchman stepped inside, saw Blachloch’s eyebrows raise slightly and whipped around. No one was with him.
“Damn!” the guard muttered. “He was right behind—”
Darting out the door in search of his charge, the guard almost collided with a young man stepping inside, whose entry into Blachloch’s cold and colorless dwelling might be likened to an explosion of flowers.
“Egad, you lout,” cried the young man, stepping hastily out of the henchman’s way and wrapping his cape around him protectively, “are you going in or out? Hah! A rhyme. I’ll make another. Lout, out! There, charming, isn’t it? Go bathe or butcher small children or whatever you do best. Come to think of it, bathing isn’t in that category. You offend the snout, lout.”
Drawing a bit of orange silk from the air, the young man held it to his nose, glancing about the room with the air of one who has just arrived at a dull party and can’t decide whether to stay or leave. The henchman made it clear, however, that he was staying by laying a hand on the young man’s purple sleeve and starting to shove him inside. Almost instantly, however, the guard snatched his hand back, yelping in pain.
“Ah, how sad. My fault entirely,” said the young man, peering at the henchman’s hand in mock dismay. “I do apologize. I call this color Grape Rose. I only thought it up this morning and I haven’t had time to work on it. I fancy I’ve left a bit too much Rose in the Grape.” Reaching out, he plucked something from the man’s hand. “I thought so. A thorn. Suck on it, there’s a good fellow. I don’t believe it’s poisonous.”
Wafting past the angry henchman, a heady smell of exotic perfumes clinging to him like his own, personal suffocating cloud, the young man came to stand in front of the expressionless Blachloch.
“Do you like this ensemble?” the young man asked, turning this way and that, perfectly undaunted by the silent black-robed figure who sat unmoving, absorbing all around him into his dark void. “It’s all the rage at court. ‘Breeches’ these are called. Damned uncomfortable. Chafe my legs. But everyone’s wearing them, even the women. Why, the Empress said to me—What was that? Did you mutter, O Mute Master? Thank you for the invitation, though it could have been phrased a bit more eloquently. I think I will be seated.”
Dropping gracefully into a chair opposite Blachloch’s desk, the young man lounged back in it comfortably, arranging himself to show off his outfit to the best advantage. It was hard to guess the young man’s age, it might have been anything from eighteen to twenty-five. He was tall and well-formed. His hair fell in long chestnut curls upon slender shoulders. A soft, short beard the same chestnut color hid the weak lines of his chin. A soft mustache adorned his upper lip, apparently for the sole purpose of giving him something to play with when bored, which was generally, and he was dressed in an absolute bouquet of riotous color. His silken stockings were green, his breeches yellow, his waistcoat purple, his lacy blouse was green—to match the stockings—and a mauve cape hung from his shoulders to the floor, trailing behind him majestically.
As the young man sat there, twisting the ends of his mustache, the henchman moved over to stand behind the chair, but, at his approach, the young man promptly put the orange silk to his nose and gagged.
“Oh, I say, I can’t stand this. I’m feeling nauseous …”
With a look, Blachloch told his man to back off. Grumbling,