Forging the Darksword (46 page)

A soft knocking upon an overhead door caused both men to start up in alarm.

“Well?” said Joram insistently.

Looking at him, seeing the eager intensity of the face, Saryon drew a breath, shut his eyes, and leaped off the cliff. ‘“Yes,” he answered inaudibly.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Joram hurried across the floor to the center of the small room and peered upward as the door in the ceiling above him opened a crack.

“It is Andon,” came the whisper. “The guard is looking for you. You must return.”

“Let down the ladder.”

A rope ladder tumbled down in response, Joram catching it as it fell.

“Catalyst …” He motioned.

“Yes.” Gathering his robes about him, Saryon came over to stand beneath the ladder, not without a final, hungry glance at the storehouse of treasure that surrounded him.

“Should we take the book with us?” Joram asked, starting back to pick it up.

“No,” Saryon said tiredly. “I have the formula memorized. You had best put it back in its place, however.”

Hastily Joram set the book on the shelves, then snuffed out the candle. Thick darkness buried the chamber, musty with the smell of the ancient texts lying in their hidden sepulcher.

Did the spirits of those who had written them live in this place as well, Saryon wondered as he fumbled clumsily with the rope ladder in the dim light from a candle Andon held above them. Perhaps
my
spirit will return here when I am dead, the catalyst thought, unable to refrain from a backward look as he clamored up the ladder with Joram’s impatient assistance. Certainly, here, I could remain happily for centuries.

“Here, Father, give me your hand.”

He was at the top. Clasping him by the wrist, Andon pulled him through the trapdoor, helping Saryon climb up into the old mineshaft that ran beneath Andon’s house. “Hold the light,” the old man told him, handing him the candle in its wrought-iron holder. Shadows leaped and danced about the rock walls as Saryon took the light.

Joram pulled himself up easily; Saryon looked at the strong, muscular arms with envy. Bending down, the young man made certain the trapdoor was closed tightly, then he and Andon between them fastened it with something the old man called a lock, inserting a piece of oddly shaped metal into it and turning it with a clicking sound. Returning the key to his pocket, Andon stepped back and, after a brief inspection, nodded to Joram.

Placing his hands upon a gigantic boulder, the young man slowly and with obvious effort rolled the rock into place over the trapdoor, effectively concealing it from sight.

Andon shook his head. “It generally takes two grown men to move that rock,” he said to Saryon, watching Joram and smiling in admiration. “At least so I remember from my youth. The rock had not been moved in years, not until the young man here insisted on seeing the ancient texts.” He sighed. “There was no need to move it, no need to go down there. None of us can read them, nor could they in my father’s day. I saw that rock moved only once, and then I suppose it was just to check to make certain the texts were surviving without damage.”

“They are well preserved,” Saryon murmured, “The room is dry. They should last for centuries if they are undisturbed.”

His face soft with sympathy, Andon laid his hand upon the catalyst’s arm. “I am sorry, Father. I can imagine how you must feel.” His brow creased in irritation. “I tried to tell Joram—”

“No, do not blame him,” Saryon said steadily. “It was my decision to come here. I am not sorry I did.”

“But you seem upset ….”

“So much knowledge … lost,” the catalyst replied, his gaze going to the boulder, his thoughts with what lay beneath it.

“Yes,” agreed Andon sadly.

“Not lost,” said Joram coming over to them, his eyes burning brighter than the flame of the candle. “Not lost …” he repeated, rubbing his hands.

“’Pon my honor, it’s devilishly cold in here. Or is that a contradiction in terms? You’ll forgive me, I trust,” Simkin said, slipping into a fur cape that he conjured up with a negligent wave of his hand, “but I have a tendency to weakness in the lungs. Sister died of pneumonia, you know. Well, not actually. She died of being rather badly squashed from falling off one of the platforms in Merilon, but she wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t been wandering about delirious from the fever that she ran on account of the pneumonia. Still—”

“Not now,” snapped Mosiah, sitting down at the table near the young man. “We can’t stay long. The guard didn’t
want to let us in at all, but Simkin got Blachloch to agree to it. Why did you send for us?”

“I need your help,” Joram said, sitting down near the young men.

“Oh, I say, a conspiracy! How frightfully fearful sounding. I am all ears. I
could
be all ears, you know,” Simkin added in sudden inspiration. “If it would help.”

“All mouth is nearer the mark. Shut up,” muttered Mosiah.

“I won’t say another word.” Muffled to the eyes in fur, Simkin obligingly snapped his lips shut and gazed at Joram with grave intensity that was, however, rather spoiled by a gaping yawn. “Beg pardon,” he said.

Huddled, shivering, in a corner as close to the feeble fire as he could get, Saryon snorted in disgust. Joram glanced at him irritably, making a motion as if to reassure him. Then he turned back to his friends.

“The catalyst and I have to get out of here tonight …”

“You’re escaping?” Mosiah asked eagerly. “I’ll come with you—”

“No, listen!” Joram said in exasperation. “I can’t tell you what we’re doing. It’s better you don’t know, anyway. In case anything goes wrong. We have to get out of here and back in without the guard knowing and, more important, we have to be free to do … what we have to do without being interrupted,”

“That should be easy.” Mosiah appeared disappointed. “You went to Andon’s last night—”

“And the guard escorted us there and back, just like he escorts me to the forge every day,” Joram finished grimly.

“In other words,” said Simkin coolly, “you want the guard to be in the land of Bidey-Bye whilst you two perform dark and treacherous acts. In the morning you want him to find you slumbering peacefully in your little beds when he himself awakes.”

Glancing at Simkin, Saryon stirred uneasily. The young man was near the mark with his playful guessing. Too near. The catalyst hadn’t wanted to involve these two at all—Mosiah because it was dangerous and Simkin because he was Simkin.

“In addition,” the fur-covered young man was continuing languidly, “you do not want interruptions by one person in particular—our Blond and Baleful Leader. My dear boy”—Simkin snuggled comfortably into his cape—“nothing simpler. Leave everything to me.”

“What do you intend to do?” Saryon asked, his voice rasping.

“I say, old fellow. You’re not taking cold, are you?” Simkin asked anxiously, twisting around to look over at the catalyst. “A bit dangerous for one of your advanced years. Carried off the Earl of Mooria in a matter of days, and he was your age to the year. Sneezed his head off. Quite literally. It landed—splat—in the baked custard. Oh, Duke Zebulon said it was just his little joke—a sort of after-dinner entertainment for the amusement of his guests—and that he never
meant
his catalyst to take him seriously and grant him such an excessive amount of magic. But we all wondered. He and the Earl had quarreled over Swan’s Doom just the day prior. Something about cheating. At any rate, the guests were highly diverted. Nothing else was talked of for weeks. It’s quite the thing, now, to land a dinner invitation from the Duke—”

“I am not taking cold!” Saryon snapped when he could get a word in edgewise.

“Delighted to hear it,” Simkin said earnestly, leaning over to pat the catalyst’s hand.

“Let’s get on with this,” Joram said impatiently. “The guard and Blachloch?”

“Ah, yes. I knew we were talking about something else. The guard. I’ll handle him,” said Simkin.

“How?” asked Mosiah suspiciously, glancing at the catalyst. It was obvious he and Saryon shared the same opinion of the bearded young man.

“A mild sedative—recipe known only to myself and the Marchioness of Lonnoni, who had fourteen children. So much for the guard. Now, as to Blachloch. I am engaged to play tarok with him this evening anyhow. He will not disturb you. ’Pon my honor.”

“Honor!” Mosiah sneered. “I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, no. Quite impossible,” Simkin said with another yawn. Stretching his feet out toward the fire, he lounged back in the chair at a seemingly impossible angle, shifting around until he got himself completely comfortable. “Not to sound unfeeling, but you are a bit of a bumpkin, dear boy. I mean, I don’t dare take you anyplace in polite society. Table manners quite shocking. Besides,” he added, ignoring Mosiah’s glare, “someone should stay here in this wretched shack and keep up the illusion that Father and Son are within.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Joram, placing his hand on Mosiah’s clenched fist restrainingly. “What would he have to do?”

“Nothing much,” said Simkin, shrugging his fur-cloaked shoulders like a dainty bear. “Build up the fire. Move back and forth in front of the window now and then so that his shadow is visible. I say, Mosiah,” he added with a yawn so wide his jaws cracked, “I could even conjure your hair to look like Joram’s. Just a little help from our Life-giving friend here and your tresses would be the envy of every woman in the settlement. Long, thick, luxuriant …”

Mosiah turned to Joram. “He’s a buffoon,” the young man said quietly. “You’re staking your life on a fool!”

The bored expression on Simkin’s bearded face changed suddenly to a look so shrewd and penetrating that Saryon could have sworn, for an instant, that a stranger sat there. Mosiah had his back turned to the young man; Joram was scowling at Mosiah. No one saw the look but the catalyst, and before he could realize it or absorb it, the look was gone, replaced by the playful, negligent smile.

The fur cape vanished, as did the silken breeches and waistcoat. There was a blur of color and, in an instant, Simkin was dressed from head to toe in motley. Rainbow colors wildly clashing, his ribbons fluttering, and bells tinkling, Simkin slithered out of his chair and crawled on hands and knees across the floor to Joram. Sitting cross-legged before him, he shook the bells on his cap.

“A fool, yes, I am a fool,” cried Simkin gaily, waving his arms in a grand flourish, the ribbons floating about him like a swirling, multicolored fog. “I am Joram’s fool. Remember the tarok reading? The king of Swords was your card! You will be Emperor someday and you will need a fool, won’t
you, Joram?” Leaning forward, Simkin put his hands together in a mockery of prayer. “Let me be your fool, sire. You need one, I assure you.”

“Why, idiot?” asked Joram, the half-smile in his dark eyes.

“Because only a fool dares tell you the truth,” Simkin said softly.

Joram stared at Simkin in silence for as long as it took to draw a breath, then—seeing the bearded face split into a grin—he lifted his booted foot and placed it firmly on the young man’s chest, shoving him backward. Tumbling head over heels, laughing wildly, Simkin performed a graceful somersault and came up on his feet.

Ignoring Simkin, who was dancing about the room, Mosiah put his hand on Joram’s shoulder, almost shaking him in his earnestness. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Forget this! Forget the cards, forget whatever idea you have of challenging Blachloch. Oh, come on, Joram! I know you! I’ve heard you talk. I’d be a fool myself not to figure it out. Let’s take this chance to escape! Let Simkin use his potion on the guard, and we’ll try our luck in the Outland. We can make it. We’re young and strong, plus we’ll have the catalyst along to give us Life. You’ll come, won’t you, Father?”

Saryon could do nothing but nod. The idea of losing himself in the wilderness was suddenly so appealing that he would have rushed out the door then and there if but one person had led the way.

Joram did not immediately answer, and Mosiah, seeing the thoughtful expression on his friend’s dark face and mistaking it for interest, hurried on. “We could go north, to Sharakan. There’ll be work for us there. No one knows us. It’s dangerous, but not as dangerous as staying around here, not as dangerous as fighting Blach—”

“No,” said Joram quietly.

“Joram, think—”

“You think!” Joram said. Flame flickered in the brown eyes as he shook Mosiah’s hand from his shoulder. “Do you believe for one instant that Blachloch would just let his catalyst escape without doing everything in his power to bring him back? And his power is pretty damn extensive. What are the
Duuk-tsarith
trained for—hunting, tracking people down! He
knows the Outland! We don’t. And when he caught us, he’d kill us, you and I. What are we, after all? But what about the catalyst? What do you think he would do to him?”

“Cut off his hands,” said Simkin, divesting himself of the fool’s clothing with a gesture. Dressed once more in his habitual garish costume, he conjured up the fur cape and draped it gracefully around his shoulders. “It’s what they used to do to them in the old days, I understand,” he continued with an apologetic glance at Saryon. “Doesn’t affect their usefulness, you see.”

Scowling, Mosiah kept his eyes on Joram. “And what happens if he catches us now?”

“He won’t.”

Mosiah turned away. “Come on,” he said to Simkin. “We’ve been here long enough. The guard will get suspicious.”

“Yes, we must be running along,” Simkin said, following. “I think I feel a definite stuffiness in my nose. I—Ah-choo! There, what did I tell you! The catalyst has given me his cold! I’m—Ah-choo! quite put out!” The orange bit of silk fluttered in the air. Applying it to his nose, Simkin sniffed gloomily. “And such a strenuous evening ahead of me, too. Blachloch cheats, you know.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s too good.
You
cheat,” said Joram dryly.

“Because he always wins! Even when I cheat, I never seem to manage that. I suppose I should keep my mind on the game. See you in a bit, dear boy. Must go pick the pretty flowers and mix up the potion.” Simkin winked. “Be ready. You’ll hear my voice …” Nodding toward the guard, who could be seen watching from the doorway of a house across the street, Simkin sauntered out of the prison.