Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [87]
“Who—who are you?” Saryon stammered, endeavoring, not very successfully, to stand up. Confused thoughts of the Field Magi having sent someone after him came into his half-asleep brain. “You’re not from the settlement?”
“Let me give you a hand,” the young man said, coming over and helping the catalyst rise stiffly to his feet. “Rather an elderly chap to be out wandering about in the woods, aren’t you?”
Saryon jerked his arm out of the young man’s solicitous grip. “I repeat, who are you?” he asked sternly.
“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” the young man inquired, looking at Saryon anxiously. “Fortyish?”
“I demand—”
“Early forties,” said the young man, studying the catalyst. “Right?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Saryon said, shivering in his damp robes. “Either answer my question or be on your way and let me go on mine …”
The young man’s face grew solemn. “Ah there, that’s just it. I’m afraid your age is a bit of concern to me, you know, because your way is my way. I’m your guide.”
Saryon stared, too startled to reply. Then he recalled Jacobias’s words: There are some people who’ve been making inquiries about you. They’re in need of a catalyst, so likely they’ll be takin’ an interest in you above the ordinary.
“My name’s Simkin,” said the young man, reaching out his hand in a friendly manner. Weak with relief, Saryon returned the handshake, grimacing as he moved and bitterly regretting his night spent under the tree.
“If you feel up to traveling,” Simkin continued placidly, “we really should be moving along. Centaurs caught two of Blachloch’s men here a month ago. Ripped them into small pieces not fifty feet from where we’re standing. Ghastly sight, I assure you.”
The catalyst blenched. “Centaurs?” he repeated nervously. “Here? But we’re not across the river ….”
“Pon my honor,” said Simkin, regarding Saryon with amazement, “you are a babe in the woods, aren’t you? Here I thought you were incredibly brave and it turns out you’re just incredibly stupid. This is a centaur hunting trail you’ve been sleeping on! And now, we’ve really wasted enough time. They hunt by day, you know. Well, I guess you don’t know, but you’ll learn. Let’s be off.” He stood looking at Saryon expectantly.
“What are you staring at me for?” Saryon asked shakily, the phrase ripped them into small pieces having made him go cold all over. “You’re the guide!”
“But you’re the catalyst,” Simkin said ingenuously. “Open a Corridor for us.”
“A C-corridor?” Saryon put his hand to his head, rubbing it in perplexity. “I can’t do that! We’d be discovered. I—I’m desperate”—falling back on his script—“I’m a renegade …”
“Oh, come,” Simkin said with a shade of coolness in his voice, “the farmers may believe that but I know better, and if you think I’m going to travel months through this godforsaken forest when you could get us where we’re going in moments, then you are sadly mistaken.”
“But the Enforcers …”
“They know when to look away,” Simkin said, eyeing Saryon shrewdly. “I’m certain Bishop Vanya’s given them their orders.”
Vanya! Saryon’s suspicions, doubts, and questions—momentarily forgotten in his predicament—flooded back. How did this young man know about Vanya? Unless he was the spy ….
“I—I have no idea what you are talking about,” Saryon stammered, with an attempt at a perplexed frown. “I’m a renegade. A court of the catalysts sent me to this wretched village for my punishment. I’ve never spoken to Bishop Vanya—”
“Oh, this is such a complete waste of time,” Simkin interrupted, stroking his brown curls with his hand and staring moodily down the trail. “You’ve talked to Bishop Vanya. I’ve talked to Bishop Vanya—”
“You’ve … talked … to Bishop Vanya?” Feeling his knees start to give way, Saryon grabbed hold of a tree branch to keep from falling.
“Look at you,” Simkin said scornfully. “Weak as a cat. And this is the man you sent alone into the