"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 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-" 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 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?" 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 You cheat," said Joram dryly. 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.

"What about you?" Joram asked, stopping Mosiah in the doorway.

"Maybe, maybe not," Mosiah answered without looking at him. "Maybe I'll leave by myself, before you all get caught."

"Well ... good luck, then," Joram said coldly.

"Thanks." Mosiah gave him a hurt, bitter glance. "Thanks very much. Good luck to you, too."

Slamming the door shut behind him, he left abruptly.

Looking out the window, Saryon could see him walking away, his head bowed.

"He cares a lot for you," the catalyst said quietly turning from the window to Joram, who was mixing a bowl of gruel over the coals of the fire.

The young man did not reply, he might not have even heard.

Crossing their small, cold prison, Saryon lay down on the hard bed. How long had it been since he'd slept? Truly peaceful sleep? Would he ever be able to sleep again? Or would he always see that young Deacon, the look of fear as he saw death in the warlocks eyes?

"Do you trust Simkin?" Saryon asked, staring up at the rotting beams of the ceiling.

"As much as I trust you, Catalyst," Joram replied.

7.

The Storm "C'mon, old hag, be brisk there. Take any longer and supper'll be breakfast!"

The old woman to whom this was addressed made no reply, nor did she appear to move faster. Shuffling back and forth between table and fireplace, carrying vegetables in her apron, she tossed them into a pot hanging by a hook over the fire. Slumped in a chair by a table he had dragged over near the window, the guard watched these proceedings with a growl, his attention divided between the old woman, the pot bubbling over the fire-from which came a strong smell of onions-and the prison across the street.

The very faintest light shone in the window of the prison, the light of a feeble fire. Occasionally the guard could see shadowy figures cross back and forth in front of the window. There was no one on the streets this night; no one came to visit the prisoners. The prisoners had made no move to leave, for which the guard was grateful. This was no night to be out. A cold slanting rain drove into the mud street like spears, arrowtips of sleet rattled against the windows of the houses, while the wind leading this onslaught shrieked and howled like a demon horde.

"It's stupid, keepin' a man here this night," muttered the guard. "Not even the Prince of Devils would be out in a storm the likes of this. A'nt that ready yet, you old bitty?" Half-turning in his chair, he raised his hand as if to cuff the woman. Being slightly deaf and dim of vision, she still paid no attention to him, and the guard was just getting to his feet when he was startled by the rattle of the door lock.

"Open up in there!" came an eerie voice as shrill as the wind.

The guard cast a swift glance across the street. The feeble light still burned in the prison, there were no shadows at all to be seen in the windows.

"Hullo! Hullo!" cried the voice. This was followed by a battering and banging on the door that seemed likely to stave it in.

The guard was not overburdened with imagination, but then neither was he overburdened with intelligence. Having summoned the Prince of Devils to mind, so to speak, the guard found, like many conjurers, that it was difficult to banish him. That this gentleman might have arrived to claim his soul seemed not unlikely, having been told by a mother he only dimly recalled that this was undoubtedly going to be his fate. Rising to his feet, he peered out the window in an attempt to see the visitor, but could make out nothing but an indistinct shadow.

"Answer the door!" the guard shouted at the old woman, having some vague idea that the Prince might not be particular about whose soul he claimed. But the old woman's attention was fixed solely upon the stew, for she heard neither shout nor door.

"Is anybody home?" came the voice, and the rattling increased.

At this, hope glimmered within the guard. Shrinking back from the window so that he couldn't be seen, he judged it likely that the unwanted visitor would go away. To insure this, he made several signs to the old woman, indicating she was to go on about her work undisturbed.

Unfortunately, this frantic hand-waving did what all the shouting in the village could not have done-it caught the old woman's attention. Seeing the guard pointing at the door, she nodded and, with shuffling gait, walked over and opened it.

A blast of chill wind, a flurry of rain, a stinging spray of sleet, and a huge furry figure all burst into the room simultaneously. Only one of these nocturnal visitors was permitted to stay however. Turning around, the furry figure put his shoulder against the door and, with the old woman's help, slammed it shut upon the icy intruders.

"Almin's death," swore a sepulchral voice, slightly muffled by frost-rimed fur, "I might have perished out there on that doorstoop! And here I've come for you 'specially."

At this confirmation of his fears, though he had expected something more fiery with tails and horns, the guard could only stammer incoherently until the figure removed its hat and hurled it upon the floor with another oath.

This was matched by an oath from the guard. "Simkin," he muttered, sinking back down in his chair in weak-kneed relief.

"So this is the thanks I get, after nearly perishing of the cold to bring you a bit of cheer," said Simkin with a sniff, tossing an aleskin upon the table in front of the guard.

"What's that?" the man demanded suspiciously.

"A little something from dear old Blachloch," said the young man, with a casual wave of his hand as he went to stand near the fire. "Sharing in the captured spoils, commendation for job well done, a toast drunk to rape, pillage, and plunder, and all that sort of thing."

The guard's face lit up. "Well, that's fine, that is," he said, eyeing the aleskin greedily and rubbing his hands. A sudden thought occurred to him. His eyes narrowing, he turned around. "Here, now," he said surlily, glancing at Simkin who was, it seemed, taking an uncommon interest in the stew. "You can't stay. I'm on guard duty and I'm not to be bothered."

"Believe me, dear chap, I wouldn't stay here for all the pet monkeys in Zith-el." Simkin sniffed and, grabbing the bit of orange silk from the air, put it to his nose. "I assure you, the smell of onion and unbathed lout hold no attraction for me. I am an errand boy, that is all, and I will remain here long enough to warm myself or until I pass out from the odor, whichever comes first. As for your guard duty"-he cast a disdainful glance out the window-"it's a complete waste of time, if you ask me."

"I didn't, but you're right there," said the guard, sitting back comfortably, not at all disconcerted by Simkin's insults once assured the young man would not be sharing his repast. "I c'n understand puttin' up with the catalyst, makin' sure he toes the mark. But a clunk over t'head and a dip in t'river would settle that black-haired bastard of a kid. Why Blachloch puts up with 'im is beyond me."

"Why indeed," murmured Simkin in bored tones, his eyes on the guard, who was pulling the cork on the aleskin. "Well, back into the night, as they say. You take care, Grammie," the young man whispered. "Get to bed early, and when you do, be certain to put out the light."

Simkin emphasized this last with a wink and a nod toward the guard, who was sniffing at the ale and licking his lips. Looking at him with eyes suddenly shrewd and penetrating, the old woman smiled and bobbed her white cap, then shuffled back to dish up the stew, her ears deaf to all but whispers, it would seem.

Cheered by the sight of the guard putting the neck of the aleskin to his lips, Simkin hurried out the door into, the teeth of the storm and dashed across the street. Blinded by darkness, rain, sleet, and his huge fur hat, he promptly collided with someone.

"Simkin! Watch where you're going!" snarled a voice in irritated relief.

"I say, Mosiah! So you didn't venture into the wilderness, after all. No, not the door, the lout's still watching. Come over here in the shadows. Wait ..."

"For what? I'm freezing! Didn't you-"

"Ah, there's the signal." The light in the guard's house blinked out, leaving it dark except for the reflected gleam of the fire. Darting out from behind the corner of the prison, Simkin tapped upon the door, which opened at his knock.

Darting inside, Simkin dragged Mosiah with him, and Joram slammed the door shut behind them. "A fine night you've picked for this," Simkin said through clicking teeth.

"I know," remarked Joram coolly from the depths of the shadows in the chill room. "With the fog and the rain, the light from the forge won't be seen."

"It won't matter if it is," muttered Mosiah, standing hunch-shouldered and shivering near the door. "I talked to the smith. He's let the word out among Blachloch's men that some of his people might be working tonight-make up for the time lost because of the raid. Don't worry," Mosiah returned in answer to Joram's frown, "I didn't tell him anything and he didn't ask. His sons were with us when the village burned. They've taken the vow. You-Well, never mind." Mosiah stopped.

"You what?" said Joram.

"Nothing," Mosiah mumbled. You can trust him You can trust him had been on Mosiah's lips, but, looking at Joram's dark, cold expression, he shook his head. had been on Mosiah's lips, but, looking at Joram's dark, cold expression, he shook his head.

The half-smile lit the brown eyes like the light from the dying embers. Joram knew what his friend had intended to say and why he hadn't said it.

"What about the guard?"

"The lout is out on his snout," reported Simkin, highly pleased with his rhyme that he had been composing all evening. "I-Oh, good evening, Father. I didn't see you, lurking about the shadows. Getting in practice? I say, you don't look at all well. Cold still bothering you? I got over mine, fortunately. Blachloch and and a cold in the head would simply be too much to deal with ...." a cold in the head would simply be too much to deal with ...."

Saryon said nothing. He hadn't even heard Simkin. He couldn't hear anything above the sound of the wind, prowling about the prison like a beast of prey yearning for the blood it smelled inside.

Once, long ago, Saryon had heard the wind talk. Only then it had whispered, "The Prince is Dead .... The Prince is Dead ...." and its tone had been sad and sorrowful. Now it shrieked and yammered, "Dead, Dead, Dead!" in a kind of mad triumph, delighting to torment him in his downfall. Saryon ...

The wind spoke to him, calling him by name, summoning him- "Saryon!"

Blinking, he started.

"I-I'm sorry," he murmured. "I was ... just ... Is it time?"

"Yes." Joram's voice was cool and toneless. The wind seemed more alive. "Simkin's gone. We should delay no longer."

"Here, Father, you'll need more wraps than that," said Mosiah, struggling out of his own wet cloak.

"He'll warm up quick enough in the forge," muttered Joram, irritated at the delay.

Paying no attention to Joram, Mosiah overrode Saryon's confused protests and helped the catalyst put the young mans cloak on over his shabby robes.

"Are you finally ready?" Joram asked and, without waiting for a reply, cautiously opened the door and peered into the street. Not surprisingly, its only occupants were the rain, the sleet, and the wind. Grabbing a cloak Mosiah handed to him at the last moment-or he might have gone out into the bitter weather without any protection-Joram carelessly tossed it around his shoulders and stepped out into the storm whose fierceness seemed reflected on the young man's face.

Moving more slowly, Saryon followed.

"May the Almin go with you," came Mosiah's soft whisper.

Saryon shook his head.

As though waiting for him to emerge, the wind pounced on the catalyst with a snarl. Chill talons of rain ripped through his cloak and robes with ease; teethlike sleet bit into his flesh. But the wind wasn't intent on devouring him, it seemed. Dogging his heels, it panted behind him, driving him forward, its breath cold upon the back of his neck. Saryon had the vague impression that if he tried to veer from this dark path he walked, the wind would leap to intercept him and block him, nipping at his bare ankles, its slashing fangs a threat and a reminder.

Death, Death, Death ...

"Confound it, Father, watch where you're going!" Joram's voice cracked impatiently, but his strong arm steadied Saryon, who, in his misery and bleak despair, had nearly walked into a gully filled with icy water.

"It's not much further," said Joram. Glancing at the young man through the driving rain, Saryon saw that Joram's teeth were clenched, not against the chill of the storm but against the excitement that raged within him. And, as though conjured up by the young man's voice, the cavern of the forge suddenly rose up out of the darkness, its red-glowing embers staring at the catalyst like the eyes of the creature that had been pursuing him.