Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [37]
“What do you think he is, then?” I had asked. Saryon had smiled and shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea.” My master was about to pick up the scrip. “I’m warning you!” Simkin told us. “Carburetor! I have no notion what one is or what it does, but the name attracts me. I will become Carburetor if you so much as lay a finger—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to throw you out,” Saryon said mildly. “On the contrary, I’m going to carry you safely—where I would normally carry my scrip. Around my waist. Beneath my robes. Next to my skin.”
The scrip vanished so suddenly that I found myself doubting my senses, wondering if I had actually seen (and heard) it. In its place, in the backseat of the air car, was the pale and ephemeral-looking image of a young man.
He was not ghostlike. Ghosts, from what I’ve read about them, are more substantial. It is difficult to describe, but imagine someone taking watercolors, painting the figure of Simkin, then pouring water over it. Ethereal, transparent, he faded into the background and would not have been noticed if you weren’t already looking for him. The only bright spot of color anywhere about him was a wisp of defiant orange.
“You see what I’ve become!” Simkin was doleful. “A mere shadow of my former self. And who is your silent friend here, Father? Cat got his tongue? I recall the Earl of Marchbank. Cat got his tongue, once. Earl ate tuna for lunch. Fell asleep, mouth open. Cat enters room, smells tuna. Ghastly sight.”
“Reuven is mu—” Saryon began.
“Let him speak for himself, Father,” Simkin interrupted.
“Mute,” Saryon resumed. “He is mute. He can’t speak.”
“Saves his breath to cool his porridge, eh? Must eat a considerable amount of cold porridge. This finger-wiggling. Means something, I presume?”
“It is sign language. That is how he communicates. One way,” Saryon amended.
“How jolly,” said Simkin, with a yawn. “I say! Could we get a move on? Nice to see you again and all that, Father, but you were always a bit of a bore. I’m quite looking forward to talking to Joram again. Been ages. Simply ages.”
“You haven’t seen Joram? All this time?” Saryon was skeptical.
“Well, there’s ‘seen’ and then there’s ‘seen,’ “ Simkin said evasively. “ ‘Seen’ from a distance, ‘seen’ to one’s best advantage, ‘seen’ to the task at hand, ‘seen’ off on a long ocean voyage. I suppose you might say that I have, in fact, ‘seen’ Joram. On the other hand, I haven’t ‘seen’ him, if you take my meaning.
“To put it another way,” he added, having seen that we were both lost, “Joram doesn’t know I’m alive. Quite literally.”
“You propose to go with us, to have us take you to Joram,” said Saryon.
“Jolly reunion!” Simkin was enthusiastic. “In your ecclesiastical company, Padre, our dark and temperamental friend might be willing to overlook that harmless little joke I played on him there toward the end.”
“When you betrayed him? Plotted to murder him?” Saryon said grimly.
“It all turned out right in the end!” Simkin protested. “And it wouldn’t have, you know, if it hadn’t been for me.”
Saryon and I looked at each other. We really had no choice in the matter, as Simkin well knew. It was either take him with us or throw him out, and although his magic might be weakened, he was, as he had so cleverly proved, still adept at altering his form.
“Very well,” Saryon said testily. “You may come with us. But you are on your own. What Joram chooses to do with you or to you is up to him.”
“What Joram chooses . . .” Simkin repeated softly. “It seems to me, from what I’ve heard—Merlyn is such a gossipy old busybody—Joram is running out of choices. I say, you don’t mind if I change back to the scrip, do you? Very fatiguing in this form— breathing and all that. You must promise, though, Father, that you won’t put me next to your skin!” Simkin shivered. “No offense, Father, but you’ve gone all wrinkly and prunelike.”
“What do you mean about Joram running out of choices?” Saryon demanded, alarmed. “Simkin! What—the Almin take him!”
The watercolor image was gone. The leather scrip was