Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [98]
“Tell … tell them I’m shick,” said Simkin, belching again. “Hor—hor—hor’ble illness. Plague.”
“But you’re drunk!” Saryon snarled furiously.
Suddenly Simkin lurched forward, his dead weight dragging Saryon to the floor. The faeries laughed and cheered. Elspeth was shouting something. Completely tangled up in Simkin, his robes, and the chair, Saryon lay on his back on the floor, Simkin on top of him, as feet of every shape and description danced and darted about him.
Lifting his head from where it rested on Saryon’s chest, Simkin looked at the catalyst with round, solemn, unfocused eyes. “You shee …” he breathed in a grape-laden whisper, “faeries never get drunk. Physh … ically im-possible. They’ll b’lieve I’m shick. Shcape. Shee?”
Saryon stared at the young man hopefully. “Then, you’re only pretending to be drunk?”
“Oh, no!” said Simkin solemnly. “N’ver do anythin’ halfway. Jush … help me to my … feet. All … four of ’em.”
At that moment, several of the stronger male faeries grasped hold of Simkin and dragged him off the catalyst. Several more helped Saryon to his feet, the catalyst stalling as long as possible to try to think what to say and do, wondering if he might not be able to get out on his own.
Simkin, meanwhile, was being held upright by the combined forces of four faeries, two holding his feet and two more flying over his head, gripping him firmly by the hair. Looking at the young man’s rolling eyes, crazed grin, and wobbly legs, Saryon suddenly went calm with despair. Leave without Simkin? Impossible. Saryon had no idea where he was and he guessed, from what little he had seen, that the Faerie Kingdom was a vast catacomb of twisting, winding tunnels and caverns. He would be lost by himself. Besides, if he did make it back into the wilderness, his life was worth nothing anyway.
Stay here … with Elspeth … He would go mad, soon. But what sweet madness ….
Sighing softly, Saryon turned to the Faerie Queen. “Send for your Healer,” he commanded in his sternest voice.
“What?” She appeared astonished and, raising her hand, instantly quieted the clamor and commotion of the faeries. Darkness descended suddenly on the great hall except for a light that gleamed from her golden hair. “A Healer? We have no Healer.”
“What, none?” Saryon was shocked. “No Mannanish at least?”
“What for? “Elspeth responded scornfully. “We are never sick. Why do you think we avoid human contamina—”
Pausing, she looked at Simkin more intently, her eyes narrowing.
“Until now,” Saryon said grimly, pointing to Simkin, who was looking worse all the time. His face had turned an unbecoming green beneath the beard, his eyes were rolling in his head. The faeries supporting the weak and reeling young man stared at their Queen in alarm.
“Here,” offered Saryon, stepping over and putting his arm firmly around Simkin’s sagging body, “I’ll take him to his chambers—”
“I’ll take care of him!” said Elspeth calmly. “At once!”
Saryon’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw her preparing to cast a magic spell that would probably have sent Simkin to the bottom of the river.
“No! Wait!” the catalyst cried, hanging onto the foolishly grinning Simkin. Peacefully swaying from side to side, he was humming a little ditty. “No, you mustn’t send him away. We—we need to know what he’s got!” Saryon finished in a burst of inspiration. “To see if it’s … catching.”
“Fatal,” said Simkin mournfully, and was promptly sick all over the floor. The faeries who had been attending him screeched and jabbered in fear and anger, backing up until there was a clear circle around the catalyst and his guide.
“Are humans subject to such frailties?” Elspeth asked, frowning.
“Yes, oh yes!” Saryon said breathlessly, seeing a ray of hope drift down among the moonbeams. “It happens to me constantly!”
Looking at him, Elspeth smiled. “Then it is well that we mingle the blood of your child with mine. In time, perhaps we will wipe out this weak, human