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Authors: Margaret Weis
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are no children present,” he added but only under his breath. If Cardinal Radisovik heard, he kept a straight face.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” said Radisovik, his voice once more mild, “but I should like to inquire first why Simkin or Mosiah never told us this before You must have known,” he said, turning to Mosiah—who flushed uncomfortably and looked down at his boots—“that we found it difficult to accept the official pronouncement that came out of Merilon.”
“What official pronouncement was that?” Simkin asked, sending the orange silk skyward with a puff.
His face grim, Garald reached over, snatched the orange silk out of the air, and stuffed it into the sash he wore around his waist. “Sit up and behave yourself,” he commanded in such grating tones that even Simkin apparently realized he had gone a bit too far. Changing the fainting-couch to a straight-backed, uncomfortable chair, Simkin flew it into a corner of the room. Garbing himself in a child’s sailor suit, he sulkingly pressed his forehead against the wall and began to suck his thumb.
Prince Garald took a step toward him, but Radisovik hurriedly intervened.
“There would have been no official pronouncement at all, I am certain,” the Cardinal said, “had it not been for the bizarre events that were so strange they could not be hushed up. Vanya and Xavier held the trial in secret and scheduled the Turning immediately afterward. It was obvious—the world was intended never to know this took place. Their plans might have worked, but the death of the Empress could not be denied. Neither could Bishop Vanya’s near fatal stroke or the deposed Emperor’s disappearance. Too many people had witnessed all this.
“The official statement went out from the palace of Merilon, therefore, that Joram had been sentenced to the Turning because he was Dead. The catalyst, Saryon, through some misguided fanaticism, chose to martyr himself, and Joram took the opportunity to try to escape. Seeing that he was surrounded by
Duuk-tsarith
, Joram could not escape andcast himself into Beyond, rather than face his just punishment.”
“I think I did hear something along those lines.” Simkin’s voice was muffled, due to his having his head in the corner and his thumb in his mouth.
“That’s not how it happened?”
Simkin shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“I was there,” he replied, removing his thumb with a pop. “Third palm tree to the left.”
Prince Garald gave an impatient sigh, but was checked by Radisovik’s upraised hand. “Go on.”
“I’m not certain I will,” said Simkin, pouting. “After all, Garald won’t believe me…. Well, if you insist,” he added hastily, hearing an ominous growl behind him. Scooting his chair along the floor, he wriggled around to face his audience. “You see, our Joram was a prince in frog’s clothing.” Seeing a perplexed expression on the Cardinal’s face, he explained. “The Empress’s baby son. Reports of the child’s death, highly exaggerated.”
“Of course!” Garald muttered, startled. “I knew Joram reminded me of someone. That hair, the eyes—his mother’s!”
Simkin was warming up. “Stolen from his royal crib by migrant workers, the tadpole was spirited away to a small midwestern farming community. Raised up to be a wholesome young frog, he was led astray by unsavory companions”—Simkin cast a reproachful glance at Mosiah—“and traveled the dark path to murder and metallurgy.
“Sword in hand, unaware of princely blood, our frog journeyed to Merilon where he was saved by the love of a good woman, betrayed by the love of a wretched catalyst, and delivered into the chubby hands of Bishop Vanya. When kissed soundly upon the head by His Tubbiness, our warty youth turned to dangerous prince and was subsequently sentenced to life as sculpture—”
“That
part doesn’t make sense,” Garald interrupted, turning to Radisovik.
And the rest of it does? Mosiah asked
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” said Radisovik, his voice once more mild, “but I should like to inquire first why Simkin or Mosiah never told us this before You must have known,” he said, turning to Mosiah—who flushed uncomfortably and looked down at his boots—“that we found it difficult to accept the official pronouncement that came out of Merilon.”
“What official pronouncement was that?” Simkin asked, sending the orange silk skyward with a puff.
His face grim, Garald reached over, snatched the orange silk out of the air, and stuffed it into the sash he wore around his waist. “Sit up and behave yourself,” he commanded in such grating tones that even Simkin apparently realized he had gone a bit too far. Changing the fainting-couch to a straight-backed, uncomfortable chair, Simkin flew it into a corner of the room. Garbing himself in a child’s sailor suit, he sulkingly pressed his forehead against the wall and began to suck his thumb.
Prince Garald took a step toward him, but Radisovik hurriedly intervened.
“There would have been no official pronouncement at all, I am certain,” the Cardinal said, “had it not been for the bizarre events that were so strange they could not be hushed up. Vanya and Xavier held the trial in secret and scheduled the Turning immediately afterward. It was obvious—the world was intended never to know this took place. Their plans might have worked, but the death of the Empress could not be denied. Neither could Bishop Vanya’s near fatal stroke or the deposed Emperor’s disappearance. Too many people had witnessed all this.
“The official statement went out from the palace of Merilon, therefore, that Joram had been sentenced to the Turning because he was Dead. The catalyst, Saryon, through some misguided fanaticism, chose to martyr himself, and Joram took the opportunity to try to escape. Seeing that he was surrounded by
Duuk-tsarith
, Joram could not escape andcast himself into Beyond, rather than face his just punishment.”
“I think I did hear something along those lines.” Simkin’s voice was muffled, due to his having his head in the corner and his thumb in his mouth.
“That’s not how it happened?”
Simkin shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“I was there,” he replied, removing his thumb with a pop. “Third palm tree to the left.”
Prince Garald gave an impatient sigh, but was checked by Radisovik’s upraised hand. “Go on.”
“I’m not certain I will,” said Simkin, pouting. “After all, Garald won’t believe me…. Well, if you insist,” he added hastily, hearing an ominous growl behind him. Scooting his chair along the floor, he wriggled around to face his audience. “You see, our Joram was a prince in frog’s clothing.” Seeing a perplexed expression on the Cardinal’s face, he explained. “The Empress’s baby son. Reports of the child’s death, highly exaggerated.”
“Of course!” Garald muttered, startled. “I knew Joram reminded me of someone. That hair, the eyes—his mother’s!”
Simkin was warming up. “Stolen from his royal crib by migrant workers, the tadpole was spirited away to a small midwestern farming community. Raised up to be a wholesome young frog, he was led astray by unsavory companions”—Simkin cast a reproachful glance at Mosiah—“and traveled the dark path to murder and metallurgy.
“Sword in hand, unaware of princely blood, our frog journeyed to Merilon where he was saved by the love of a good woman, betrayed by the love of a wretched catalyst, and delivered into the chubby hands of Bishop Vanya. When kissed soundly upon the head by His Tubbiness, our warty youth turned to dangerous prince and was subsequently sentenced to life as sculpture—”
“That
part doesn’t make sense,” Garald interrupted, turning to Radisovik.
And the rest of it does? Mosiah asked
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