Read Online Legacy of the Darksword by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman - Free Book Online Page B

it was his birthday, for we had shared this with no one. Then I remembered
the green-glowing eavesdropping devices.
    So this was to be the
excuse—visiting the old catalyst on his birthday. How fortunate for them that
it fell on this date. I wondered what other excuse they would have cooked up,
had this one not been conveniently provided. I was extremely angry, more
angered at this than at the invasion of our house by the silver-robed
Technomancers.
    It is, sometimes, a blessing to
be mute. Had I the gift of speech, I would have used it to lash out at this
woman and probably would have spoiled everything. As it was, being forced to
sign my words, I had time to consider them. I could see, on reflection,
that it was wisdom on the part of the King and the General to keep the
true nature of this meeting secret.
    “You must forgive Saryon,” I
signed to the woman. “My master is a very humble man, and completely
overwhelmed by such a great honor, to the point where he is dazed by all the
attention. He feels himself very unworthy and he deplores all the fuss and
bother.”
    She was somewhat mollified by
this, and we went over the rest of the details. The guests would be staying one
hour, no more, and fortunately, there would be no need to serve them tea. She
hinted that Saryon might want to change out of the brown robes he was
wearing—the robes of a catalyst, such as he had worn all his life—and into a
suit, and that it would be well if I also changed out of my blue jeans into
something more appropriate to the occasion. I replied that neither of us owned
a suit, at which point she gave up on us both and left to go check on how
things were proceeding.
    I went to my master’s study, to
inform him that it was his birthday, which I was sure he had forgotten. I made
more hot toast and took a plate of it and the tea with me.
    I explained everything—rather
heatedly, I’m afraid. Saryon regarded my flashing hands with a weary, indulgent
smile and shook his head.
    “Intrigue. Politics. All of them were born into the game. They live in the game. They have no idea
how to leave the game and so they will play the game until they die.” He sighed
again and absentmindedly ate the toast. “Even Prince Garald. King Garald, I should say. He held himself above it, when he was young. But I
suppose it’s like quicksand. It sucks even good men down.”
    “Father,” I asked him, “what
decision have you made?”
    He did not speak aloud, but
signed back to me, “The men were just in this room, Reuven. For all we know,
they may have planted their electronic ears and eyes in this room. And there may
be others watching, listening, as well.”
    I remembered the
two Duuk-tsarith who had appeared out of the air of our kitchen, and I understood. It seemed strange to me to think that there might be a dozen
people crowded into that small study and my master and I the only two visible.
I felt nervous when I walked out, returning the plate to the kitchen. I kept fearing I would bump into one of them.
     
    The dignitaries arrived precisely
on time. First came the black limousine with flags of
Thimhallan flying and the royal coat of arms upon the door. Mrs. Mumford and
Mrs. Billingsgate had, by this time, abandoned all pretense .
They were standing on their front doorstoops, openmouthed and jabbering. I
couldn’t help but feel a swelling of pride as His Majesty, dressed quite
conservatively in a dark suit, but wearing his medallions and ceremonial sash,
accompanied by the General in his uniform with all his medals and ribbons,
stepped out of the limo. Aides trailed after them. Soldiers came to stiff
attention and saluted. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate stared until I
thought it likely they might strain something.
    My pride advanced a step further
as I imagined having tea with the two women tomorrow, explaining, with suitable
modesty, how the King was an old friend of my master’s; the General once a
worthy adversary. It was a harmless, if