Forging the Darksword (34 page)

I know that face! he said to himself. But how? Not in that aspect. Sorrow, not bitterness, came to his mind. A sorrow that never quite left the face, not even in gaiety. Perhaps he had seen the face seventeen years ago, in the Font. Perhaps he had known this boy’s accursed father. Only the vaguest recollection of hearing about the renegade catalyst’s trial came to Saryon. The scandal had been talked of for weeks, but he had been too involved in his own torment to be interested in another man’s. Perhaps he had taken note of him unconsciously, without realizing it. That must be the explanation. It had to be and yet, yet ….

Visions of the face drifted into his mind. He could see it smiling, laughing yet always tainted, always haunted by a shadow of sorrow ….

He recognized it! He knew it! He could almost put a name to it ….

But it vanished before he could grasp it, drifting from his mind like smoke upon the wind.

The Warlock

P
icking his way through the mud street of the Technologists’ village, Simkin looked very much like a bright-plumaged bird wandering through a dreary brick jungle. Many of the people working about the area regarded him with looks of wary wonder, much as they might have regarded a rare bird appearing suddenly in their midst. Several scowled and shook their heads, muttering unflattering comments, while here and there a few called out cheerful greetings to the gaudily dressed young man as he walked through the streets, careful to keep his cape out of the mud. Simkin responded to both imprecations and greetings the same—with a casual wave of his lace-covered hand or the doff of a pink feathered cap that he had just added, as an afterthought, to top off his wardrobe.

The village children, however, were delighted to see him again. To them, he was a welcome distraction, easy prey. Dancing about him, they tried to touch his strange clothes, made fun of his silk-covered legs, or dared each other to sling
mud at him. The boldest among them—a hefty child of eleven who had the reputation as the town tough—was urged to go for a solid hit between the shoulder blades. Creeping up behind the young man, the child was prepared to throw when Simkin turned around. He did not speak to the child, he simply stared at him. Shrinking away, the child hurriedly withdrew, and promptly beat up the next smaller child he encountered.

Sniffing in disdain, Simkin drew his cape protectively around him and was continuing on his way when a group of women accosted him. Coarsely dressed, uneducated, their hands reddened and callused from hard labor, they were, nevertheless, the leading ladies of the town; one being the wife of the blacksmith, another the wife of the mine foreman, the third the wife of the candlestick maker. Crowding around Simkin, they eagerly and somewhat pathetically demanded to know the news of a court they had never seen except through the young man’s eyes. A court they were as far removed from as the moon from the sun.

To their delight, Simkin readily complied. “The Empress said to me, ‘What
do you
call that shade of green, Simkin, my treasure?’ To which I replied, ‘I don’t
call
it at all, Your Majesty. It simply
comes
when I whistle!’ Ha, ha, what? Drat, what did you say, my dear? I can’t hear a thing above the infernal banging!” He cast a scathing glance toward the forge. “Health? The Empress? Abysmal, simply abysmal. But she
insists
upon holding court every night. No, I’m not lying. In frightfully poor taste, if you ask me. ‘You don’t suppose she has anything
catching?’
I said to old Duke Mardoc. Poor man. I didn’t mean to upset him. Grabbed his catalyst, he did, and disappeared in the wink of an eye. Wouldn’t have supposed the old boy had it in him. What did you say? Yes, this is the
absolute latest
in fashion. Chafes my legs, though …. And now I must be getting along. I am running errands for our Noble Leader. Have you seen the catalyst?”

Yes, the ladies had seen him. He and Andon had been visting the forge. The two had returned to Andon’s home, however, the catalyst having been taken suddenly ill.

“I don’t doubt it,” Simkin murmured into his beard. Doffing his cap and bowing deeply to the ladies, he proceeded on his way, eventually arriving at one of the larger and older
homes in the settlement. Knocking at the door, he twirled his cap in his hands and waited patiently, whistling a dance air.

“Enter, Simkin, and welcome,” said an old woman pleasantly as she opened the door.

“Thank you, Marta,” Simkin said, pausing to kiss the wrinkled cheek as he passed. “The Empress sends her best wishes and thanks for your inquiry about her health.”

“Get along with you!” Marta scolded, waving her hand to dispel the strong wave of gardenia fragrance that enveloped her as Simkin walked past. “Empress indeed! You’re either a liar or a fool, young man.”

“Ah, Marta,” said Simkin, leaning near her to whisper in confidence. “The Emperor himself posed that very question, ‘Simkin,’ he said, ‘are you a liar or a fool?’”

“And what was your answer?” Marta asked, her lips twitching, though she tried to sound severe.

“I said, ‘If I say I am neither, Your Majesty, then I am one. If I say I am one, then I am the other.’ Do you follow me so far, Marta?”

“And if you say you’re both?” Marta tilted her head, putting her hands beneath the apron of her dress.

“Precisely what His Majesty inquired. My reply: “Then I am either, aren’t I?’” Simkin bowed. “Think about it, Marta. It kept His Majesty occupied for at least an hour.”

“So, you’ve been to court again, have you, Simkin?” asked Andon, coming over to greet the young man. “Which one?”

“Merilon. Zith-el. It doesn’t matter,” returned Simkin with a gaping yawn. “Let me assure you, sir, they’re all alike, ’specially this time of year. Preparing for Harvest Revels and all that. Quite boring. ’Pon my honor, I’d be more than happy to stay and chat. Especially”—he sniffed hungrily—“since dinner smells positively heavenly as the centaur said of the catalyst he was stewing, but—What was I saying? Oh, catalyst—Yes, that’s the very reason I’ve come. Is he about?”

“He is resting,” said Andon gravely.

“Not taken ill, I suppose?” Simkin asked nonchalantly, his gaze wandering about the room and just happening to fix on the figure stretched out upon a cot in a shadowy corner.

“No. We walked rather farther this morning than he was up to, I am afraid.”

“A pity. Old Blachloch’s sent for him,” said Simkin coolly, twirling his cap in his hand.

Andon’s face darkened. “If it could wait—”

“‘Fraid not,” Simkin replied with another yawn. “Urgent and all that. You know Blachloch.”

Moving to stand near her husband, a worried look on her face, Marta put her hand on his arm. Andon patted it. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know him. Still, I—”

The figure on the bed roused itself. “Do not worry, Andon,” said Saryon, getting to his feet. “I am feeling much more myself. I think it must have been the fumes or the smoke, it made me feel light-headed—”

“Father! You’ve no idea,” cried Simkin in a choked voice, leaping forward and throwing his arms around the startled catalyst, “how perfectly wonderful it is to see you up and about. I was so worried! So frightfully worried—”

“There, there,” Saryon said, flushing in embarrassment and trying to disengage the young man, who was sobbing on his shoulder.

“I’m all right,” Simkin said bravely, stepping backward. “Sorry. Forgot myself. Well …” He rubbed his hands together, smiling. “All ready? If you’re tired, we could take a cart …”

“A what?”

“Cart,” said Simkin patiently. “You know. Moves over the ground. Drawn by a horse. Thing with wheels—”

“Uh, no. I’d really prefer walking,” Saryon said hastily.

“Well, up to you.” Simkin shrugged. “Now, must be off.” Herding the catalyst along in front of him, the young man practically pushed him out the door. “Good-bye, Marta, Andon. Hopefully we’ll be back in time for dinner. If not, don’t wait up.”

Before he quite knew what was happening, Saryon found himself standing in the street, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d napped almost all afternoon, he realized, seeing the sun starting to set behind the trees that lined the riverbank. But he didn’t feel any better, and he wished he hadn’t fallen asleep. Now his head ached; he felt incapable of thinking clearly.

Of all times to see Blachloch—the man everyone from Andon to the devil-may-care Simkin seemed to hold in quiet terror. I wonder what Joram thinks of him? Saryon wondered. Then he shook his head angrily. What a stupid thought. As if it mattered. Hopefully, the walk will wake me, he told himself, falling into step with Simkin, who was prodding him along.

“What can you tell me about this Blachloch?” Saryon asked Simkin in a low voice as they moved among the lengthening shadows cast by the buildings in the slowly gathering gloom of twilight.

“Nothing I haven’t already. Nothing you won’t find out soon enough,” Simkin replied nonchalantly.

“I hear you spend a good deal of time with him,” Saryon commented, glancing at Simkin sharply. But the young man returned the glance with a cool and sardonic smile.

“They’ll be saying the same of you shortly,” he remarked.

Shivering, Saryon drew his robes around him. The thoughts of what this warlock, this Enforcer turned outlaw, might ask him to do alarmed him. Why had he never considered this before?

Because I never expected to live long enough to get here before, Saryon answered himself bitterly. Now I am here, and I have no idea what to do! Maybe, he said to himself hopefully, it won’t be any more than giving these people sufficient Life so that they can go about their work easier. The thought of the new mathematical calculations he’d made occurred to him. Surely that would be all they could expect of him …

“Tell me,” Saryon said to Simkin abruptly, glad to change the subject and take his mind off one worry by investigating another, “how do you manage to work that … that magic you do? …”

“Oh, you’ve been admiring my hat?” Simkin inquired with a pleased air, twirling the cap’s feather. “Actually, the difficult part comes not with conjuring up the article but in deciding upon just the right shade of pink. Too much, and it makes my eyes look swollen—so the Duchess of Fenwick told me, and I rather fancy she’s right—”

“I don’t mean the hat,” Saryon snapped irritably. “I meant the … the tree. Turning yourself into a tree! It’s quite
Impossible,” he added. “Mathematically speaking. I’ve been over and over the formula …”

“Oh, I don’t know a thing about math,” Simkin said with a shrug. “I just know it works. I’ve been able to do it since I was a small tyke. Mosiah says it must be like lizards changing their skin color to match rocks and jolly things like that. I’ll tell you how it came about, if you like. We’ve got a ways to go, I’m afraid.” His gaze went to the tall building. Standing black against the reddish light of the setting sun, it cast a stark, dark shadow over the entire settlement.

“I was abandoned as a babe in Merilon,” Simkin was saying in a subdued voice. “Dumped in a doorway. Left on my own. I never knew my parents. I probably wasn’t supposed to have happened, if you know what I mean.” Shrugging, he gave a short, forced laugh. “I was taken in by an old woman. Not out of charity, I assure you. By the age of five I was working, picking through refuse for anything valuable that she could sell. She beat me regularly, for good measure, and finally, I ran away. I grew up in the streets of Lower City, the part you
don’t
see from the Crystal Spires. Do you have any idea what the
Duuk-tsarith
do with abandoned children?”

Saryon was staring at him in amazement. “Abandoned children? But—”

“Me either,” Simkin continued with his tight, little laugh. “They just … disappear … I saw it happen. Friends of mine. Vanished. Never seen nor heard from again. One day, the Enforcers suddenly materialized in the street right before me. I couldn’t escape. I can still hear”—Simkin’s eyes grew dreamy—“the rustle of their black robes, so near me, so near … I was terrified. You can’t imagine … My one thought was that they mustn’t see me and I concentrated on that thought with my whole being.” He smiled suddenly. “And, you know what? They
didn’t
see me. The
Duuk-tsarith
walked right past me … as they would have walked past any other water pail on the street.”

Saryon rubbed his head. “You’re saying that out of sheer terror, you were able to—”

“Perform a remarkable transformation? Yes,” Simkin replied with a touch of modest pride. “Later, I learned to control it. Thus, I survived many, many years.”

Saryon was silent a moment, then he said grimly, “What about your sister?”

“Sister?” Simkin glanced at him in bemusement. “What sister? I’m an orphan.”

“The sister the Coven is holding captive, remember? And then there’s your father? The one the Enforcers dragged off. The one I remind you of ….”

“I say, old fellow”—Simkin looked at him in deep concern—“you must have received a smart blow to the head when we jumped off the cliff. Whatever are you talking about?”

“We didn’t jump,” Saryon said through clenched teeth. “We fell because
you
were rotten—”