Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [97]
“Soon,” murmured Simkin.
Saryon dared not pursue the matter further, for the quarrel or joke or whatever it had been was quieting down. Trying to keep hold of himself, all the while feeling as if he was about to scream and fling himself into the center of the table, Saryon decided that a sip of wine might be beneficial.
Lifting the goblet to his lips, trying to keep his hand from shaking, he stared about him with the dazed look of a sleepwalker. He had attended revels in court. He had attended what were considered wild revels in court—All Fools’ Day, for example, when supposedly all propriety is cast to the wind. But staring at the madness and mayhem going on before him, his senses were literally so overwhelmed that he could not comprehend it completely, but saw it in blurs of color and bursts of noise and flares of light.
Every conceivable activity was going on around him, from pitched battle being fought in the center of the table to shameless lovemaking on couches. Bears danced in the aisles, acrobats juggled flaming brands, children sang bawdy songs, food splattered on the walls and floors and ceilings. Looking over here, he was horrified; looking over there, he was embarrassed; looking somewhere else, he was nauseated.
“Are you thinking of me?” whispered a sweet voice in Saryon’s ear.
The catalyst started. “Of course,” he answered hastily, turning to face Elspeth, who smiled and, inserting her hand up the sleeve of his robes, softly caressed his arm. And as he looked at her, the catalyst noticed something. Though all might be chaos around her, she herself was a haven of peace, of restfulness. He felt drawn to her to escape the madness.
“And now,” she said, slightly pouting. “You will tell me why you have never been with a woman. You enjoy my touch, I can tell,” she added, feeling Saryon’s muscles tense involuntarily.
“It—it is not the … custom … of my people,” stammered Saryon, licking his dry lips and breaking free of her grasp to reach for his wine goblet again. “Such … mating … is done by animals, but not by civilized … men and—uh—women.”
“I had heard something of this,” said Elspeth, her silver eyes gleaming with laughter and amazement, “but I did not believe it.” She shrugged, her breasts, decked with lilies-of-the-valley, rising and falling with her soft breath. “How, then, do you have children?”
“When the will of the Almin was made known to the people regarding this matter,” Saryon said, his voice shaking, “we catalysts, together with the Theldari, the shamans skilled in such medicines, were given the knowledge to perform this rite. The granting of a life, after all, is a sacred gift and should be entered into only in the most … most reverent frame of mind.” Oh, how silly this sounded, so close to her soft body …
“A truly beaut—beaut—bu’ful speech,” blubbered Simkin, causing his wine goblet to fill again. “You’re going to make a wonderful father. Just like mine!” Breaking down, he laid his head on Saryon’s arm and wept.
“Simkin!” hissed Saryon, shaking him, aware of Elspeth’s glittering-eyed gaze upon them. “Stop this! Sit up!”
Simkin sat up, but only to wrap one arm around Saryon’s neck and drag him down with him, causing the catalyst to bang his head smartly on the table.
“What are you doing?” Saryon demanded, trying to free himself and nearly choking from the wine fumes exhaling from Simkin’s mouth.
“Thish … shignal,” Simkin said in a loud whisper, wrapping his other arm around the catalyst’s neck and smiling up at him drunkenly. “Time to”—he belched—“shcape.”
“What?” demanded Saryon, still trying to break Simkin’s hold. But every time he loosened one of the young man’s hands, the other entwined itself around him again. Simkin was hanging onto his neck, then—falling forward—around his waist, then—leaning his head on his chest—lolling around his shoulders.
“Shcape,” whispered Simkin, frowning solemnly. “Now.”
“How?” Saryon muttered, dimly aware that there was singing going on in the background. To his dismay, he saw moonlight filtering down onto the table through