Doom Of The Darksword Part 22

Simkin shrugged. "I know so much, one thing blends with another. Try me."

"Why is there a sword on it?" Mosiah asked, pointing to the figure carved below the wizard's name.

"Why not?" Simkin yawned.

"A weapon of the Dark Arts, on a wizard's tomb?" Mosiah said, shocked. "He wasn't a Sorcerer, was he?"

"Almin's blood, didn't they teach you anything except how to plant potatoes?" Simkin snorted. "Of course he wasn't a Sorcerer. DKarn-Duuk DKarn-Duuk, a warlock of the highest ranking. According to legend, he asked that the sword be carved there. Something about a King and an enchanted realm where all the tables were round and they dressed in clothes made of iron to go on quests after cups and saucers."

"Oh, for the love of - Just forget it!" Mosiah said, exasperated.

"I'm telling the truth," Simkin said loftily. "The cups and saucers were of religious significance. They kept trying to get a complete set. And now, are you going to stand here all day moping or shall we have some fun? The illusionists and shapers are in the pavilion, practicing."

"I'll go," said Mosiah, glancing in the direction Simkin indicated. Beautiful, multicolored silk streamers hung suspended from midair, fluttering magically over the crowd. He could hear tantalizing sounds of laughter, gasps of wonder and awe, and applause coming from all directions, and his pulse beat faster at the thought of the marvels he was to soon witness. Yet, as he turned from the tomb, he felt a stab of pain and regret. It was so quiet here, so peaceful ...

"I wonder what happened to the enchanted realm?" Mosiah murmured, running his hand for the last time over the warm marble as they started to leave.

"What always happens to enchanted realms. I suppose," Simkin said languidly, pulling the orange silk from the air and dabbing his nose with it. "Someone woke up and the dream ended."

Throngs of people floated and hovered and drifted beneath the gaily colored silks of the illusionist amphitheater. Mosiah had never imagined so many people could be in one place at one time, and he stopped at the entrance, daunted by the crowd. But Simkin, darting here and there like a bright-plumaged bird, put his hand on his friend's arm and guided him into the pavilion with surprising ease. Flitting into this person, dancing around that one, brus.h.i.+ng up against another, Simkin kept up a steady flow of lively conversation as he moved ever nearer the front of the crowd.

"Beg pardon, old chap. Was that your foot? Mistook it for a cauliflower. You should really have the Theldara Theldara do something about those toes.... Just pa.s.sing through, don't mind us. Do you like this ensemble? I call it do something about those toes.... Just pa.s.sing through, don't mind us. Do you like this ensemble? I call it Rotting Plum Rotting Plum. Yes, I know it's not up to my usual standards, but my friend and I are supposed to be traveling incognito. Pray take no notice of us. Duke Richlow! Sink me! In town for the gala? Did I do that? Frightfully sorry, old boy. Must've jostled your elbow. Actually that wine stain rather helps your somewhat drab robe, if you don't mind my saying - Well ... if you've no imagination, allow me." Simkin s.n.a.t.c.hed the orange silk out of the air. "I'll have you as spotless, old chap, as your wife's reputation. Ah, is it my fault you drink this cheap brand that won't wash out? Try a lemon rinse. It does wonders for the d.u.c.h.ess's hair, doesn't it? Ah, Contessa! Charmed. And your privileged escort? I don't believe we've met. Simkin, at your service. Any relation to the Contessa? Cousin? Yes, of course, I should have known. You're about the eighth cousin I've met. Kissing cousin, too, I'll wager. I envy the Contessa her large family ... and you are unaccountably large, aren't you, dear boy? I was just thinking, Contessa, it's such a coincidence that all your cousins are male, six feet tall, with such perfect teeth ..."

Heads turned. People laughed and pointed, some floating higher or lower to get a better view, many moving nearer to hear the irreverent young man's barbed comments. Floundering along in Simkin's wake, Mosiah felt his skin alternately burn with embarra.s.sment or go cold with fear. In vain he tugged on Simkin's sleeve - which once came off in his hand to the delight of two Earls and a Marchioness - in vain he reminded him in a low voice that they were supposed to be "mingling with the throng." This only goaded Simkin to perpetrate greater outrages - such as changing his clothes five times in as many minutes "to throw off pursuit."

Glancing about uneasily Mosiah expected any moment to see the black-robed figures of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith appear. But no black hoods shot up from among the flowered and plumed and bejeweled heads, no correctly folded hands cast a pall over the laughter and merriment. Gradually, Mosiah began to relax and even to enjoy himself, figuring that the dread watchers must not find much to watch in this gay throng. appear. But no black hoods shot up from among the flowered and plumed and bejeweled heads, no correctly folded hands cast a pall over the laughter and merriment. Gradually, Mosiah began to relax and even to enjoy himself, figuring that the dread watchers must not find much to watch in this gay throng.

Simkin could have told Mosiah - had the innocent Field Magus asked - that the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith were here as they were everywhere, watching and listening, discreet and un.o.bserved. Let the tiniest ripple mar the glittering surface of the festivities and they were present in an eyeblink to smooth it out. Three university students - having imbibed too much champagne - began singing songs considered to be in poor taste. A dark shadow appeared, like a cloud pa.s.sing over the sun, and the students were gone, to sleep off their inebriation. were here as they were everywhere, watching and listening, discreet and un.o.bserved. Let the tiniest ripple mar the glittering surface of the festivities and they were present in an eyeblink to smooth it out. Three university students - having imbibed too much champagne - began singing songs considered to be in poor taste. A dark shadow appeared, like a cloud pa.s.sing over the sun, and the students were gone, to sleep off their inebriation.

A troupe of players, presenting what they thought was a harmless little satire on the Emperor, were whisked away at intermission with such skill and dispatch that the audience never noticed and left, thinking the play had ended. A cutpurse was apprehended, punished, and released so swiftly and silently that the wretched fellow had the feeling it had all been some sort of horrible nightdream except that his hands - now magically deformed so that they were five times larger than normal - were a monstrous reality.

Mosiah knew nothing of this, he saw nothing. He was not intended to see or know. The pleasure of the crowd must not be disturbed. And so he forgot himself, forgot his plain clothing (Simkin had offered to change it but Mosiah - after seeing himself attired in rosebud-pink silk trousers - adamantly refused), and gave himself up to the beauty that surrounded him. He even managed, more or less, to forget about Simkin. No one seemed to take offense at the bearded young man's offhanded insults or scandalous remarks. He dragged so many skeletons out of closets that Mosiah expected to see them dancing along behind him. But though here and there a n.o.ble mustache quivered or a rouged cheek paled, the Dukes and Barons, Countesses and Princesses, mopped up their own blood and watched in delight as Simkin neatly knifed his next victim.

Knowing that he would soon get lost by himself, Mosiah stayed near the witty fool. But his attention left the finely dressed lords and ladies who obviously had no use for him either. They took in his simple clothes and sunburned skin, his calloused hands and work-thickened arms, and appeared to spit him out again immediately, their lips twisting as though he'd left behind a bad taste.

"Why does Joram want to be a part of this?" Mosiah asked himself as Simkin stopped to stab yet another merry party with his rapier wit. The feeling of homesickness that Mosiah had experienced beside the tomb of the wizard returned. He had never felt more alone than when surrounded by these people who cared nothing for him. Memories of his father and mother came back to him and tears stung his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he swallowed them, hoping no one noticed. Then, to wrench his mind free of its childish wallowings, he began to concentrate on the floating stage in front of him.

Mosiah's eyes widened, his breath left him in a sigh, and he was so enthralled that he slowly drifted down to stand on the soft green gra.s.s. He had been so confused by the crowd, so intent on watching for the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, and so flurried by Simkin that he had pa.s.sed by several such stages without noticing what was going on. But this ... this was remarkable! He had never dreamed of anything so wonderful.

Actually, it was nothing more than a Water Dancer. She was good, but not great, and Mosiah, a small group of children, an elderly catalyst who was half blind, and two moderately drunk university students were her only audience. The children soon flew off, bored. The catalyst took a short nap standing up and the university students wavered off in search of more wine. But Mosiah stayed, enraptured.

The stage - a platform of crystal - floated above one of the many sparkling streams that ran through the Grove; the Druids having altered the course of the great river that flowed through Merilon, bringing it into the Grove so that it could provide nourishment to the plants and trees and entertainment to the populace. Using her magical arts, the Water Dancer caused the waters of the stream below her stage to leap up and join her in her ballet.

The young girl was lovely, with hair the color of the water. She seemed clothed in water, too; her thin wet gown clinging to her lithe body as the water spiraled up and twisted about her in an intricate dance. By her magical arts, the water came to life. It caught her and held her in its foaming arms; the rippling of her own body made her one with her element.

Too soon the dance ended. Mosiah thought he might have watched until the river itself dried up. The girl on her crystal stage - water running from her body in sparkling rivulets - waited a moment, smiling down on Mosiah expectantly. Then, seeing that he had no money to throw to her, she tossed her wet blue hair and caused the stage to rise up in the air, drifting further downstream.

Mosiah followed her with his eyes and was just about to take the rest of his body along when he suddenly became aware of a crowd gathering around him. Startled, he discovered that Simkin had floated down out of the air to stand beside him on the gra.s.s. The bearded young man had changed his dress, too. He was now wearing the motley and cap and bells of a fool, and he was, Mosiah slowly realized in growing alarm, gesturing at him him.

"Brought to you, lords and ladies, at great expense and tremendous personal risk from the darkest, deepest wilderness of the Outland! Here it is, lords and ladies, the genuine article, the only one in Merilon. I present for your enjoyment - a peasant!"

The crowd laughed appreciatively. Mosiah, blood pounding in his ears, caught hold of Simkin by a multicolored arm. "What are you doing?" he snarled.

"Go along with me, there's a good chap!" Simkin muttered in an undertone. "Look, over there! The Kan-Hanar Kan-Hanar who nearly caught us at the Gate! Told him we were actors, remember? Must appear legitimate, mustn't we?" who nearly caught us at the Gate! Told him we were actors, remember? Must appear legitimate, mustn't we?"

Suddenly he shoved Mosiah backward. "Ye gads! It's attacking!" he shouted. "Savage creatures, these peasants, lords and ladies. Back, I say! Back!" Taking off his belled cap, Simkin waved it furiously at Mosiah, to the enjoyment of the crowd.

Staring at Simkin in confusion, Mosiah was wondering fleetingly if he had enough Life within him to turn himself invisible, or at least enough to choke Simkin to death, when the bearded young man came dancing up to him and began stroking his nose!

"See here?" Simkin called to the audience. "Quite docile. At the close of the act, I'll put my head in his mouth. What are are you doing, Mosiah?" Simkin hissed in his friend's ear. "Strolling troupe of players, what? Remember? The you doing, Mosiah?" Simkin hissed in his friend's ear. "Strolling troupe of players, what? Remember? The Kan-Hanar Kan-Hanar is watching! You're doing a remarkable impression of a flounder, dear boy, but I'm afraid someone's going to find it a bit fishy after a while. Come up with something more original. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves...." is watching! You're doing a remarkable impression of a flounder, dear boy, but I'm afraid someone's going to find it a bit fishy after a while. Come up with something more original. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves...."

"You've already taken care of that! What the devil am I supposed to do?" Mosiah whispered back angrily.

"Bow, bow," said Simkin between clenched teeth. Smiling and bowing and waving his hat to the crowd, he put his hand on the back of Mosiah's neck. Digging his fingers into his skin, Simkin forced his "savage peasant" to duck his head awkwardly. "Let's see," he muttered, "are you lyrical? Can you sing, dance, tell the odd joke? Keep bowing. No? Mmmmm. I've got it! Swallowing fire! Perfectly simple. You don't suffer from gas, do you? Might be dangerous ..."

"Just leave me alone!" Mosiah snapped, breaking away from Simkin with difficulty. Standing up, his face flushed and his palms sweating, he faced the crowd, who were staring at him expectantly. Mosiah's limbs were as cold as ice; he was frozen, unable to move or speak or even think. Looking out at the people hovering over him, staring down at him as he stood on the gra.s.s, Mosiah saw the Kan-Hanar - Kan-Hanar - or at least it was a man in the robes of the or at least it was a man in the robes of the Kan-Hanar Kan-Hanar. He couldn't be certain if it had been the one at the Gate or not. Still, he supposed they couldn't take chances. Now, if there was only something he could do! ...

"Hey, Simkin! Your peasant's boring. Take him back to the Outland -"

"No, wait! Look! What's he doing?"

"Ah, that's more like it. He's painting! How original!"

"What is that?"

"It's ... yes, my dear ... it's a house. Made out of a tree! How marvelous and primitive. I've heard the Field Magi live in these quaint little hovels but I never thought I'd see one! Isn't this fun? This must be his village he's painting for us.... Bravo, peasant! Bravo!"

The comments continued, along with the applause. Simkin was saying something, but Mosiah couldn't hear. He couldn't hear anything anymore. He was listening to the voices from his past. He was painting a picture, a living picture, using the air for his canvas, his homesickness for his brush.

The crowd around the young man grew larger as the images created by Mosiah's magic s.h.i.+fted and changed in the air above his head. As the images became clearer and more detailed - the young man's memory giving them life - the laughter and the excited chatter of the crowd gave way to murmurs. Then awed silence. No one stirred or even spoke. All watched as Mosiah portrayed to the glittering, gay audience the lives of the Field Magi.

The people of Merilon saw the houses that had once been trees, their trunks magically transformed by the Druids into crude dwellings, the roofs made of branches woven and thatched together. Fierce winds of winter drove the snow through the cracks in the wood, while the magi expended their precious Life to surround their children with bubbles of warmth. They saw the magi eating their scant meals while outside, in the snow, wolves and other hunger-driven beasts prowled and nosed about, smelling warm blood. They saw a mother cradle a dead infant in her arms.

Winter eased his cruel grip, allowing the warmth of spring to seep through his fingers. The magi returned to the fields, breaking up ground that was still half-frozen or plodding in mud to their knees when the rains came. Then they took to the air, seeds falling from their fingers to the plowed earth, or they set the seedlings, nurtured through the dying days of winter, into the soil. Children worked beside their parents, rising at dawn and returning to their homes when the light of day failed.

Summer brought land to be cleared, homes repaired, and the never-ending weeding and tending of the young plants, the constant fight with bugs and animals for a share in the crops, the burning sun by day and the often violent thunderstorms by night. But there were simple pleasures, too. The catalyst and his young charges out during the noon hour, the children tumbling through the air, learning to use the Life that would eventually earn them their bread. There were the few, peaceful moments between dusk and nightfall when the Field Magi gathered together at day's end. There was Almin's Day. They spent the morning listening to the reedy voice of the catalyst describing a heaven of golden gates and marble halls that they did not recognize. In the afternoon, they worked twice as hard to make up for lost time.

Fall brought fiery colors to the trees and hours of back-breaking labor to the Field Magi as they harvested the fruits of their toil, only a part of which they would ever share in. The Ariels came flying to the village, bearing huge golden disks. The magi loaded the corn and potatoes, wheat and barley, vegetables and fruits, onto the disks and watched as the Ariels bore them away to the granaries and storage houses of the n.o.bleman who owned the lands. When this was done, they took their own small share and planned how to make it last the winter, already breathing on them with his bitter breath. Their children gleaned in the fields, picking up every vestige and sc.r.a.p, each grain as precious as a jewel.

And then it was winter again, the snow swirling about the small dwellings, the magi fighting boredom and cold and hunger, the Field Catalyst huddled in his dwelling, his hands wrapped in rags, reading to himself of the Almin's great love for his people....

Mosiah's shoulders slumped, his head bowed. The images he had painted above the crowd dissolved as the Life drained out of the young man. The people regarded him in silence; and, fearfully, Mosiah raised his eyes, expecting to see faces bored, scornful, derisive. Instead he saw puzzlement, wonder, disbelief. These people might have been watching a portrayal of the lives of creatures living on a far distant world instead of humans, like themselves, living on their own.

Mosiah saw Merilon for the first time, truth illuminating the city in his eyes with far greater brilliance than the light of the meek spring sun. These people were locked in their own enchanted realm, willing prisoners in a crystal kingdom of their own manufacture and design. What would happen, Mosiah wondered - looking at them with their costly robes and soft bare feet - if someone would would wake up? wake up?

Shaking his head, he glanced around in search of Simkin. He wanted to leave, get out of this place. But suddenly people were crowding around him, reaching for his hand, touching him.

"Marvelous, my dear, absolutely marvelous! Such a delightful, primitive style. Colors so natural. How do you achieve it?"

"I've been crying like a child! Such quaint ideas, living in trees! Strikingly original. You must come to my next gala ..."

"The dead baby. A bit overstated. I prefer more subtle imagery myself. Now when you present that again, I believe I'd change that to ... mmmm ... a lamb. That's it! Woman holding dead lamb in her lap. Much more symbolic, don't you think? And if you altered the scene with the -"

Mosiah stared around, bewildered. Making incoherent replies, he was backing away when a firm hand gripped his arm.

"Simkin!" cried Mosiah thankfully. "I never thought I'd be grateful to see you, but -"

"Flattered, I'm sure, old chap, but you've put yourself in rather a bad situation and this is no time to share hugs and kisses," Simkin said in an urgent whisper.

Mosiah looked around in alarm.

"Over there." Simkin nodded his head. "No, don't turn! Two black-robed observers have decided they're art critics."

"Name of the Almin!" Mosiah swallowed. "Duuk-tsarith." "Duuk-tsarith."

"Yes, and I believe they got a great deal more out of your little exhibition than the tea-and-crumpet set here. They know reality when they see it, and you've just proclaimed yourself a Field Magus as blatantly as if you'd sprouted corn out your ears. In fact, that might have been less damaging. I can't think what put it into your head to do something so inane!" Simkin raised his voice. "I'll take that under advis.e.m.e.nt, Countess Darymple. Dinner party a week from Tuesday? I'll have to look at his schedule. I'm his manager, you see. Now, if you'll just excuse us a moment - No, Baron, I really can't say where he conjures up these crude clothes. If you want some like them, try the stables...."

"You were the one who got me into this!" Mosiah reminded him. "Not that it matters now. What are we going to do?" He glanced fearfully at the black hoods hovering on the outskirts of the crowd.

"They're waiting for the excitement to die down," Simkin muttered, pretending to fuss with Mosiah's s.h.i.+rt, yet all the while keeping his gaze fixed on the warlocks. "Then they'll move in. Do you have any magic left?"

"None." Mosiah shook his head. "I'm exhausted. I couldn't melt b.u.t.ter."

"We may be the ones melting," Simkin predicted grimly. "What was that, Duke? The dead baby? No, I don't agree. Shock value. Audible gasps. Women fainting...." may be the ones melting," Simkin predicted grimly. "What was that, Duke? The dead baby? No, I don't agree. Shock value. Audible gasps. Women fainting...."

"Simkin, look!" Mosiah felt faint himself with relief. "They've gone! Perhaps they weren't watching!"

"Gone!" Simkin glanced about in increased agitation. "Dear boy, I hate to burst your bubble - it's so frightfully messy - but that means that they are no doubt standing next to you, hands outstretched -"

"My G.o.d!" Mosiah clutched at Simkin's multicolored sleeve. "Do something!"

"I am," said Simkin coolly. "I'm going to give them what they want." He pointed. "You."

Mosiah's mouth dropped open. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he began angrily, and stopped in amazement. It was his own own sleeve he was hanging onto in a state of panic. It was his own arm beneath that sleeve, the arm was attached to his body. In fact, his own face looked back at him, grinning. sleeve he was hanging onto in a state of panic. It was his own arm beneath that sleeve, the arm was attached to his body. In fact, his own face looked back at him, grinning.

A hubbub of voices started all around him, laughing, exclaiming, crying out in wonder. Dazed, Mosiah turned and saw himself. He saw himself drifting in the air above himself. Everywhere Mosiah looked, in fact, he saw Mosiahs as far as the eye could see.

"Oh, Simkin, this is your best yet!" cried a Mosiah in a distinctly feminine voice. "Look, Geraldine - that is you, isn't it, Geraldine? We're dressed in these simply wonderful primitive clothes, and look at these trousers!"

"Play along!" said the Mosiah who Mosiah was holding, giving him a swift poke in the ribs. "This spell won't last long and it won't fool them forever! We've got to get out of here! I say, Duke! Absolutely brilliant of old Simkin this, what?" said Mosiah in a loud voice. "Play along!" he ordered in an undertone.

"Uh, right, B-baron," Mosiah stammered in a deep ba.s.s, hanging onto what used to be Simkin as his last link with reality.

"Start moving!" Simkin/Mosiah hissed at him, drawing him along toward the exit. "I must go and show this to the Emperor!" he called out. "His Highness simply will not believe what Simkin, that genius, that sheer master of magic, that king of comedy -"

"Don't overdo it!" Mosiah growled, shoving his way through the throngs of himself that surrounded him.

But he couldn't make himself heard.

"The Emperor! Let's go show the Emperor!"

Everyone picked up the cry. Laughing and pus.h.i.+ng, Mosiahs began to call for the carriages. Mosiahs conjured up carriages. Some Mosiahs simply vanished. Corridors popped open in mult.i.tudes, large holes into nothingness, until the air in the Grove began to resemble rat-gnawed cheese. Mosiahs by the hundreds stepped into these, throwing the Thon-Li Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters, into vast confusion.

"You know," said Simkin/Mosiah in satisfaction, pulling a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbing at his nose with it, "I am am a genius." a genius."

Stepping into a Corridor, he dragged another Mosiah after him. "I say, old chap," one of the befuddled Thon-Li Thon-Li heard him ask, "that is really you, isn't it?" heard him ask, "that is really you, isn't it?"

11.

On the Run "Mosiah, that fool!" Joram fumed, packing back and forth. "Why did he leave the house?"

"I think Mosiahs been remarkably patient. After all, you can't expect him to share your interests in gardening," Saryon said acidly. "He's been cooped up in this house for well over a week with nothing to do but read books while you have -"

"All right, all right!" Joram interrupted irritably. "Spare me the sermon."

Sighing, his brow furrowed in concern, Saryon lay back among his pillows, his hands plucking nervously at the sheets. It was evening. Mosiah had been gone all day, no one knew where. Not that anyone in their host's household was particularly worried. It was perfectly natural that the young man should get out and see the sights of Merilon.

Joram ate dinner with the family, and though Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were polite, they were cold and detached. (Had they known about the incident in the family garden, they might have been decidedly warmer, but Marie kept her young mistress's secret.) The talk at dinner centered around Simkin. He'd performed a marvelous illusion in Merlyn's Grove that afternoon. No one knew the details, but it had created a sensation in the city.

"I hope Simkin comes back tomorrow, to escort us to the ball, don't you, Joram?" Gwendolyn dared address this remark to the young man. Before he could answer, however, Lord Samuels intervened.

"I think you should go to your room now, Gwen," he said coolly. "Tomorrow will be a busy day. You need your sleep."

"Yes, Papa," Gwen replied, obediently rising from the table and retiring to her room; not, however, without a backward glance at her beloved.

Joram took the opportunity to leave the table as well, saying abruptly that he must return to the catalyst.

Weak but now conscious, Saryon was able to sit up in his bed, and even consume a small amount of broth. The Theldara Theldara had visited him in the morning and p.r.o.nounced him recovered, though she had advised rest, the continuation of the soothing music, aromatic herbs, and the broth of a chicken. She had also hinted strongly that she would be willing to talk about anything the catalyst felt like discussing. Saryon had accepted the music, the herbs, and broth, but had said humbly that he had nothing to discuss. The had visited him in the morning and p.r.o.nounced him recovered, though she had advised rest, the continuation of the soothing music, aromatic herbs, and the broth of a chicken. She had also hinted strongly that she would be willing to talk about anything the catalyst felt like discussing. Saryon had accepted the music, the herbs, and broth, but had said humbly that he had nothing to discuss. The Theldara Theldara had left, shaking her head. had left, shaking her head.

Over and over, Saryon considered his dilemma. In a fevered dream, he saw Joram as the fool in the tarok deck - walking the edge of a cliff, his eyes on the sun above him, while a chasm yawned at his feet. More than once, Saryon started to tell him the truth, to stretch out the hand that would keep him from tumbling over the cliff. But just as he started to do so, he woke up.

"That would open his eyes to the chasm," the catalyst muttered to himself, "but would he meekly draw back from the edge? No! Prince of Merilon. It would be all he dreamed. And he wouldn't understand that they would destroy him.... No," the catalyst decided after endless reflection. "No. I will not tell him. I cannot. What is the worst that will happen to him now? He will meet this Theldara Theldara and be revealed as an imposter. Lord Samuels will not want to create a scene at the Palace. I will take Joram and we will leave the Palace quickly and quietly. We will go to Sharakan." and be revealed as an imposter. Lord Samuels will not want to create a scene at the Palace. I will take Joram and we will leave the Palace quickly and quietly. We will go to Sharakan."

Saryon had it all figured out, all arranged. And then this ... Mosiah disappearing....

"Something's happened to him!" Joram muttered. "There was all that talk about Simkin at dinner. Some illusion he performed. You don't suppose Mosiah was with him?"

Saryon sighed. "Who knows. No one in the house saw Mosiah leave. No one's seen Simkin for days." He was silent a moment, then he said, "You should leave, Joram. Leave now. If something did happen to him -"

"No!" Joram said sharply, coming to a halt in his pacing and glaring at the catalyst. "I'm too close! Tomorrow night -"

"He's right, I'm afraid, Joram," said a voice.