Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [21]
“I believe you should seal this chamber, Your Grace,” said Radisovik.
Looking somewhat surprised and also annoyed at the waste of time, Garald ordered the two Duuk-tsarith who accompanied him everywhere to perform the task. When the room was secure—both from intrusion and from curious ears and prying eyes—he turned to the Cardinal.
“Very well, Radisovik. What is on your mind?”
Cardinal Radisovik gestured to Mosiah to speak.
Unaccustomed to commanding the complete attention of both Prince and Cardinal, and having to deal with Simkin’s intermittent and irrelevant insertions—“Underwear wrapped around my neck! … I assure you those pictures are art of the highest form!”—Mosiah haltingly told what he had seen and experienced on the Borderlands.
Prince Garald’s face grew increasingly solemn as the tale unfolded. When Mosiah told of finding Saryon’s statue smashed and desecrated, the Prince flushed in anger.
“I presume you know what this means?” he demanded of Radisovik, interrupting Mosiah’s description of the storm raging on the beach.
“I’m not certain that I do, Your Grace,” Radisovik said gently reprovingly. “I think you should hear the young man out.”
“Mosiah understands that I am not being rude,” the Prince answered impatiently. “He knows the seriousness of this information—”
“But the storm—”
“Storms! There are always storms!” Pacing about the room, the Prince brushed aside the matter with a wave of his hand.
“Not on the Borderlands,” Radisovik said quietly.
“That isn’t important!” Garald cried, his fist clenching. His voice had risen almost to a shout and the Cardinal was regarding him with a worried look. Drawing a deep breath, the Prince mastered himself. “Don’t you understand, Radisovik! This means he has it!”
“Who has what?” Simkin asked with a yawn. “I say, you all can march up and down if you like, but I’ve had an exhausting day. Beastly tired. Mind if I sit down?”
Making a fluttering motion with the orange silk, the bearded young man caused a fainting-couch to appear in the room and languidly stretched himself full length upon it, blissfully ignoring the Cardinal’s glare of stern disapproval, for no one sat in the presence of the Prince unless given permission.
Glancing at Mosiah, Garald said in low tones, “Thank you, my friend I am deeply indebted to you for this information Now, if you will excuse us, I would like to discuss this privately with the Cardinal—”
“No, keep them here, Your Grace,” Radisovik said unexpectedly, moving closer to the Prince “They know as much about this as we do, Garald. Or more,” he added in an undertone.
The Prince regarded Radisovik dubiously a moment, then glanced at Mosiah who, aware of the scrutiny and perhaps aware of what the Cardinal had whispered, shifted uncomfortably beneath the penetrating gaze Garald’s eyes went next to the languishing Simkin. The Prince frowned.
“Very well, Radisovik,” he said in low tones. “What I am about to say must not leave this room, young men!”
Mosiah muttered something unintelligible, aware now of the unseen eyes of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith upon him.
“You may trust me implicitly, Your Grace,” said Simkin, with a flutter of orange silk. “Cross my heart and hope to die, though not quite as suddenly as the Duchess of Malborough, who toppled over on the spot. She always took things so literally.
Garald cast an irritated glance at Simkin, who immediately snapped his mouth shut. “Mosiah, did you see the sword—Joram’s sword—anywhere in the sand near Saryon?”
Mosiah shook his head “No—”
“You see!” Garald interrupted, speaking to Radisovik.
“—but there was so much sand flying around, it could have easily been buried, Your Grace,” Mosiah continued.
“Yes,” struck in Simkin cheerfully. “The catalyst’s poor old bald head had been covered up to the eyebrows Had to dig for it. Beastly task. Felt a bit like a grave robber.”
Mosiah made a strangled, choking sound, covering his face with his hand.
“I am truly sorry, Mosiah,” Garald