Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [91]
“Take your hands off me! Lout! You’ve crushed the velvet. I’ll have fingermarks on my sleeve for a week! I—”
Simkin, dressed in bright green hose, an orange hat, and a green velvet doublet tumbled out of the Corridor, landing in a heap on the floor. He was followed by Mosiah, still dressed in the uniform of an archer of Sharakan, and by two, black-robed and hooded Duuk-tsarith.
Apparently nonplussed at his less than graceful entrance, Simkin rose to his feet, bowed to the assembled gentlemen, and said grandly, with a flutter of orange silk and a graceful wave of his hand, “Your Grace, congratulate me I have found them?”
Ignoring Simkin, who was preening himself on his latest triumph, Mosiah turned to the Prince. “Your Grace, we found him. He was in the enemy’s camp. Acting on your orders, the Thon-li, the Corridor Masters, caught him and brought him to me. With their help”—he indicated the warlocks—“I managed to drag him here.”
“Which is precisely where I was coming!” said Simkin with a pained expression. “Or I would have been if I’d known where here was. I’ve been searching everywhere, quite pining away for a glimpse of your handsome face, O Prince. You see, I have the most frightfully important information—”
“According to the Thon-li, he was on his way to the Cathedral,” interrupted Mosiah caustically.
Simkin sniffed. “I presumed Your Grace was there, of course. Everyone who is anyone is at the Cathedral. The peasants are giving the most jolly riot—”
“Riot?” Prince Garald looked at the Duuk-tsarith for confirmation.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the black-robed warlock, hands folded before him. “We were coming to report this to you when Mosiah requested our assistance. The Field Magi have broken out of the Grove and are storming the Cathedral, demanding to see the Bishop.” The black hood lowered slightly, one of the hands making a deprecating movement. “We could not stop them, Your Grace. Though they have few catalysts, they are still strong in magic, and our forces are weakened.”
“I understand,” Prince Garald said gravely, exchanging alarmed glances with Lord Samuels. Saryon saw both of them look toward Joram, who refused to meet their eyes, but stood with his back turned, staring into the garden that could now barely be seen through the gloom. “What is the Bishop doing?”
“He refuses to see them, Your Grace. He has ordered the doors to the Cathedral magically sealed. Those members of our Order with strength enough to cast spells are guarding it.”
“So the Cathedral is safe for the time being?”
“Yes–”
“They won’t attack it, Your Grace!” Mosiah cried. “They don’t want to hurt anyone! They’re frightened and they want answers.”
“Is your father among them, Mosiah?” Prince Garald asked quietly.
“Yes, my lord,” Mosiah said. His face flushed. “My father is their leader. He knows what really happened in the battle yesterday. I told him. Maybe it was wrong of me,” he added with half-proud, half-shamed defiance, “but they have a right to know the truth!”
“They do indeed,” Prince Garald said, “and hopefully we will be able to impart it to them.” He glanced at Joram, who continued to stare into the night, his face stern and impassive. Shoving aside the maps, Prince Garald stood up and began pacing the room, his hands behind him. “So, Simkin,” he said abruptly, turning to the green velvet clad young man, “you’ve been to see the enemy.”
“E’gad! Of course!” said Simkin. With a wave of his hand, he conjured up a fainting-couch. “You will excuse me, I hope?” he asked languidly, stretching out on the couch that sat squarely in the center of the study, making it impossible for the Prince to continue pacing without running into it. “And do you mind if I change clothes? I’ve been wearing this same color of green for hours and I fear it does nothing for my complexion. Makes me look quite