Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [93]
“Joram—” Garald began sternly.
“What do they plan to do?” Joram asked, silencing the Prince.
“There was a word they used,” Simkin said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “A word that described it quite aptly. Let me think…. Ah! I have it! Genocide!”
“Genocide?” Garald repeated in perplexity. “What does that mean?”
“Extermination of a race of people,” Joram answered grimly. “Of course. It makes sense. Menju must kill us all.”
4
The Almin Have Mercy
Joram, keep your voice down!” Mosiah ordered.
It was too late The door between the rooms opened, but Lady Rosamund appeared. Her face was livid. She and Marie had obviously both overheard Joram. Only Gwendolyn remained unaffected, sitting in the parlor and chatting calmly with the late Count Devon.
“I’m certain they’ll move the china cabinet back to the north wall, since I’ve explained,” she was saying. “Is there anything else? Mice, you say, in the attic? They’re eating your portrait that’s stored up there? I’ll mention it, but—”
Distractedly, Lady Rosamund gazed from her daughter to her husband “Mice? China cabinets… Now … what I heard him say in here? They’re going to kill us? Why? Why is this happening?” Putting her head in her hands, she began to sob.
“My dear, calm yourself,” said Lord Samuels, hurrying to his wife’s side. Taking her in his arms, he laid her head upon his chest, smoothing her hair with his hand. “Remember the children,” he murmured, “and the servants.”
“I know!” Biting on her handkerchief, Lady Rosamund sought to hush her weeping. “I’ll be strong. I will!” she said, choking. “It’s just … all too much! My poor child! My poor child!”
“Gentlemen, Your Grace,” said Lord Samuels, looking back into the study, “please excuse me. Come, my dear,” he said, helping his wife stand. “I’ll take you to your room. Everything’s going to be all right. Marie, stay with my daughter.”
“Gwendolyn will be fine, my lord.” Father Saryon intervened. “I will stay with her. Marie should be with her mistress.”
Lord Samuels led his wife upstairs, Marie attending her. Father Saryon sat down in a chair near Gwendolyn, looking anxiously at her to see if this news disturbed her as well. Apparently not. Perfectly at home in the world of the dead, she was oblivious to anything transpiring in the world of the living.
“Father,” said Joram abruptly, turning from where he stood beside the fireplace in milord’s study, “please move closer, where you can hear us. I need your counsel.”
What counsel can I offer? the catalyst wondered bitterly. Joram brought this doom upon the woman who loved him, upon her parents, upon the world. Upon himself.
Did he have a choice? Did we?
Patting Gwendolyn’s hand, Saryon left her discussing the need for acquiring a cat with the Count. Moving his chair nearer the door that separated the parlor from milord’s study, he sat down, his heart a burden almost too heavy to bear. What will he do now? Saryon asked himself, his eyes on Joram. What will he do?
Raising his head, almost as though he had heard the unspoken question, Joram faced him. The lead weight of Saryon’s heart sank, his fears bearing it down. The pain-filled, anguished lines carved in the sculptured face had been ground out, leaving it smooth, hard, and unyielding. The bleeding soul had crept into its stone fortress and was hiding there, nursing its wounds.
“Genocide. This explains everything,” Joram said coolly. “The murder of the civilians, the disappearance of the catalysts—”
“Joram, listen to me!” interrupted Prince Garald sternly. The Prince gestured at Simkin who was lounging, eyes closed, on the fainting-couch. “How did he know what they were saying?”
“By the Almin!” Joram swore softly. “That’s true!” He turned from the mantelpiece. “How did you understand what they said, Simkin? You can’t speak their language.”
“I can’t?” Simkin’s eyes flared open wide. He appeared no end astonished. “By Jove, I wish someone had told me! Here I wasted all this time, sitting on the Major’s desk, allowing that ham-fisted sergeant to run off with me, listening to them talk