The Complete Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Yes, but…in the heat of his temper, he has made serious accusations against his own holy general that he has not the…power to prove.”

  Iselle gave him a sharp look. “Do you believe him?”

  “My belief is not the issue.”

  “But—if it’s true—it’s a crime, and worse than a crime. An insulting impiety, and a violation of the trust not only of the roya and the goddess above, but of all who are sworn to obey in their names below.”

  She sees the consequences in both directions! Good! No, wait, no. “We haven’t seen the evidence. Maybe the council was justified in discarding it. We cannot know.”

  “If we can’t see the evidence as March dy Palliar has, can we judge the men and reason backward to it?”

  “No,” said Cazaril firmly. “Even a habitual liar may tell the truth from time to time, or an honest man be tempted to lie by some extraordinary need.”

  Betriz, startled, said, “Do you think your friend was lying?”

  “As he is my friend, no, of course not, but…but he might be mistaken.”

  “This is all too murky,” said Iselle decisively. “I shall pray to the goddess for guidance.”

  Cazaril, remembering the last time she’d done that, said hastily, “You need not reach that high for guidance, Royesse. You inadvertently overheard a confidence. You have a plain duty not to repeat it. In word or deed.”

  “But if it’s true, it matters. It matters greatly, Lord Caz!”

  “Nevertheless, liking and disliking do not constitute proof any more than hearsay does.”

  Iselle frowned thoughtfully. “It’s true I do not like Lord Dondo. He smells odd, and his hands are always hot and sweaty.”

  Betriz added, with a grimace of distaste, “Yes, and he’s always touching one with them. Ugh!”

  The quill snapped in Cazaril’s hand, spraying a small spatter of ink drops on his sleeve. He set the pieces aside. “Oh?” he said, in what he trusted was a neutral tone. “When was this?”

  “Oh, everywhere, at the dances, at dinner, in the halls. I mean, many gentlemen here flirt, some quite agreeably, but Lord Dondo…presses. There are enough fine ladies here at court nearer his own age. I don’t know why he doesn’t go try to charm them.”

  Cazaril almost asked her if thirty-five seemed as ancient to her as forty, but bit it short, and said instead, “He desires influence over Royse Teidez, of course. And therefore desires whatever good grace he can obtain from Teidez’s sister, directly or through her attendants.”

  Betriz’s breath puffed out in relief. “Oh, do you think that’s so? It made me quite ill to think he might really be in love with me. But if he’s only flattering me for his advantage, that’s all right.”

  Cazaril was still laboring to work this through when Iselle said, “He has a very odd idea of my character if he thinks seducing my attendants will gain my good graces! And I do not think he needs any more influence over Teidez, if what I’ve seen so far is a sample. I mean—if it were good influence, shouldn’t we see good results? We ought to see Teidez growing firmer in his studies, clearer in health, opening his mind to a wider world of some kind.”

  Cazaril also bit back the observation that Teidez was certainly getting that last from Lord Dondo, in a way.

  Iselle went on with growing passion, “Shouldn’t Teidez be apprenticing statecraft? At least seeing the Chancellery work, sitting in on councils, listening to envoys? Or if not statecraft, real warcraft? Hunting is fine, but shouldn’t he be learning military drill with men? His spiritual diet seems all candy and no meat. What kind of roya do they mean to train him to be?”

  Possibly, one just like Orico—sodden and sickly—who will not compete with Chancellor dy Jironal for power in Chalion. But what Cazaril said aloud was, “I do not know, Royesse.”

  “How can I know? How can I know anything?” She stepped back and forth across the chamber, her spine tense with frustration, her skirts swishing. “Mama and Grandmama would wish me to watch out for him. Cazaril, can you at least find out if it’s true about selling the Daughter’s men to the Heir of Ibra? That at least can’t be any kind of subtle secret!”

  She was right about that. Cazaril swallowed. “I’ll try, my lady. But—then what?” He made his voice stern, for emphasis. “Dondo dy Jironal is a power you dare not treat with anything but strictest courtesy.”

  Iselle swirled round, and stared intently at him. “No matter how corrupt that power is?”

  “The more corrupt, the less safe.”

  Iselle raised her chin. “So, Castillar, tell me—how safe, in your judgment, is Dondo dy Jironal?”

  He was caught out, his mouth at half cock. So say it—Dondo dy Jironal is the second-most-dangerous man in Chalion, after his brother. Instead, he picked up a new quill from the clay jar and began shaping its tip with the penknife. After a moment or two he got out, “I do not like his sweaty hands either.”

  Iselle snorted. But Cazaril was saved from further cross-examination by a call from Nan dy Vrit, some vital little matter of scarves and straying seed pearls, and the two ladies went back into their chambers.

  ON COOL AFTERNOONS WHEN NO MORE-EXCITING hunting party went out, Royesse Iselle vented her restless energy by gathering up her little household and going for rides in the oak woods near Cardegoss. Cazaril, along with Lady Betriz and a couple of wheezing grooms, was cantering in the wake of her dappled mare down a green ride, the crisp air spangled with golden falling leaves, when his ear picked up a thunder of new hooves gaining ground behind them. He glanced over his shoulder, and his stomach lurched; a cavalcade of masked men was pelting down the track. The yelling crew overtook them. He had his sword half-out before he recognized the horses and equipage as belonging to some of the Zangre’s younger courtiers. The men were dressed in an amazing array of rags, bare arms and legs smeared with a dirt suspiciously reminiscent of boot blacking.

  Cazaril drew a long breath, and bent briefly over his saddlebow, willing his heart to slow, as the grinning mob “captured” the royesse and Lady Betriz, and tied their prisoners, including Cazaril, with silk ribands. He wished fervently someone would warn him, at least, about these pranks in advance. The laughing Lord dy Rinal had come, though he apparently did not realize it, to within a fraction of a reflex of receiving a length of razor steel across his throat. His sturdy page, galloping up on Cazaril’s other side, might have died on the backstroke, and Cazaril’s sword sheathed itself in a third man’s belly before, had they been real bandits, they could have combined to take him down. And all before Cazaril’s brain had formulated his first clear thought, or his mouth opened to scream warning. They all laughed heartily at the look of terror they’d surprised on his face, and teased him about drawing steel; he smiled sheepishly, and decided not to explain just what aspect of it all had drained the blood from his face.

  They rode to their “bandit camp,” a large clearing in the forest where a number of servants from the Zangre, also dressed in artistic rags, roasted deer and lesser game on spits over open fires. Bandit ladies, shepherdesses, and some rather stately beggar girls hailed the kidnappers’ return. Iselle squeaked in laughing outrage when the bandit king dy Rinal clipped a lock of her curling hair and held it up for ransom. The masque was not yet finished, for upon this cue a troop of “rescuers” in blue and white, led by Lord Dondo dy Jironal, galloped into the camp. Vigorous mock swordplay ensued, including some alarming and messy moments involving pig’s bladders filled with blood, before all the bandits were slain—some still complaining about the unfairness of it—and the lock of hair rescued by Dondo. A mock divine of the Brother then went about miraculously raising the bandits back to life with a skin of wine, and the entire company settled down upon cloths spread on the ground for some serious feasting and drinking.

  Cazaril found himself sharing a cloth with Iselle, Betriz, and Lord Dondo. He sat cross-legged toward the edge, nibbled venison and bread, and watched and listened as Dondo entertained the royesse with what was, to hi
s ear, heavy-handed wit. Dondo begged Iselle to award him her shorn lock as his prize for her daring rescue, and offered up in return, with a snap of his fingers to his hovering page, a tooled leather case containing two beautiful jeweled tortoiseshell combs.

  “A treasure for a treasure, and all is quits,” Dondo told her, and ostentatiously tucked the curl of hair away in an inner pocket of his vest-cloak, over his heart.

  “It’s a cruel gift, though,” Iselle parried, “to give me combs but leave me no hair to hold with them.” She held a comb up and turned it, glittering and translucent, in the sunlight.

  “But you may grow new hair, Royesse.”

  “But can you grow new treasure?”

  “As easily as you can grow new hair, I assure you.” He leaned on his elbow by her side, and grinned up at her, his head nearly in her lap.

  Iselle’s amused smile faded. “Do you find your new post so profitable, then, Holy General?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You are miscast, then. Perhaps you should have played the bandit king today.”

  Dondo’s smile thinned. “If the world were not so, how could I ever buy enough pearls to please the pretty ladies?”

  Spots of color flared in Iselle’s cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. Dondo’s smile grew satisfied. Cazaril, his tongue clamped between his teeth, reached for a silver flagon of wine, with an eye to accidentally in this emergency spilling it down the back of Iselle’s neck. Alas, the flagon was empty. But to his intense relief, Iselle took a bite of bread and meat next, and chewed instead on it. It was notable, though, that she drew her skirts aside from Lord Dondo when next she shifted position.

  The chill of the autumn evening was rising with the shadows from the low places when the replete company rode slowly back to the Zangre after the bandits’ picnic. Iselle reined in her dappled mare and fell back beside Cazaril for a moment.

  “Castillar. Did you ever discover for me the truth of the rumor of the Daughter’s troops being sold for mercenaries?”

  “One or two other men have said so, but it is not what I would call confirmed news.” It was, in fact, quite thoroughly confirmed, but Cazaril judged it imprudent to say so to Iselle just at this moment.

  She frowned silently, then spurred her horse forward to catch up with Lady Betriz again.

  THAT NIGHT THE SPARER-THAN-USUAL EVENING BANQUET broke up without dancing, and tired courtiers and ladies went off to an early bed or private pleasures. Cazaril found Dondo dy Jironal falling into step beside him in an antechamber.

  “Walk with me a little, Castillar. I think we need to talk.”

  Cazaril shrugged obligingly, and followed Dondo, feigning not to notice the two choice young bravos, a couple of Dondo’s riper friends, who padded along a few paces behind them. They exited the tower block at the narrow end of the fortress, onto an irregular little quadrangle of a courtyard overlooking the confluence of the rivers. At a hand signal from Dondo, his two friends waited by the door, leaning against the stone wall like bored and tired sentries.

  Cazaril calculated the odds. He had reach on Dondo, and despite his subsequent illness, his months pulling the oar on the galleys had left his wiry arms much stronger than they looked. Dondo was doubtless better trained. The bravos were young. A little drunk, but young. At three-to-one, swordplay might not even be required. An unagile secretary, too full of wine after supper, taking a walk on the battlements, could slip and fall in the dark, bouncing off the rock face three hundred feet down to the water below; his broken body might be found next day without a single telltale stab wound in it.

  A few lanterns in wall brackets cast flickering orange light across the paving stones. Dondo gestured invitingly to a carved granite bench against the outer wall. The stone was gritty and chill against Cazaril’s legs as he sat, the night breeze dank on his neck. With a little grunt, Dondo seated himself, too, automatically flipping his vest-cloak aside to free his sword hilt.

  “So, Cazaril,” Dondo began. “I see you are quite close in the confidence of the Royesse Iselle, these days.”

  “The post of her secretary is one of great responsibility. Of her tutor, even more so. I take it quite seriously.”

  “No surprise there—you always took everything too seriously. Too much of a good thing can be a fault in a man, you know.”

  Cazaril shrugged.

  Dondo sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles, as if making himself comfortable for a chat with some intimate. “For example”—he waved a hand toward the tower block now rising before them—“a girl of her age and style should be just starting to warm to men, and yet I find her strangely chill. A mare like that is made for breeding—she has good wide hips, to cradle a man.” He gave his own a little double jerk, for illustration. “One hopes she has escaped that unfortunate taint in the blood, and it’s not an early sign of the sort of, ah, difficulties of mind that overset her poor mother.”

  Cazaril decided not to touch this one. “Mm,” he said.

  “One hopes. And yet, if that is not the case, one is almost led to wonder if some…overserious person has taken to poisoning her mind against me.”

  “This court is full of gossip. And gossipers.”

  “Indeed. And, ah…just how do you speak of me to her, Cazaril?”

  “Carefully.”

  Dondo sat back, and folded his arms. “Good. That’s good.” He paused for a time. “And yet, withal, I think that I should prefer warmly. Warmly would be better.”

  Cazaril moistened his lips. “Iselle is a very clever and sensitive girl. I’m sure she could sense if I were lying. Better to leave it as it is.”

  Dondo snorted. “Ah, here we come to it. I suspected you might still be holding a grudge against me for that evil little game of mad Olus’s.”

  Cazaril made a little negating gesture. “No. It is forgotten, my lord.” The proximity of Dondo, as close as in Olus’s tent, his slightly peculiar scent, brought it back in intense detail, blaring through Cazaril’s memory, the panting despair, the skree, the heavy blow…“It was a long time ago.”

  “Huh. I do like a man with a malleable memory, and yet…I still feel you need more heat. I suppose you’re still a poor man, as ever. Some fellows never catch the tricks of getting on in the world.” Dondo unfolded his arms, and, with some little difficulty, twisted a ring off one of his thick, damp fingers. Its gold was thin, but a large bevel-cut flat green stone gleamed in its setting. He held it out to Cazaril. “Let this warm your heart to me. And your tongue.”

  Cazaril didn’t move. “I have all I need from the royesse, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Dondo’s black brows knotted; his dark eyes glittered in the lanternlight between his narrowed lids. “Your position does give you considerable opportunity to fill your pockets, I suppose.”

  Cazaril closed his teeth, hiding his tremble of outrage. “If you decline to believe in my probity, my lord, you might at least reflect upon Royesse Iselle’s future, and believe I still possess the wits the gods gave me. Today she has a household. Another day, it may be some royacy, or a princedom.”

  “Indeed, think you so?” Dondo sat back with a strange grin, then laughed aloud. “Ah, poor Cazaril. If a man neglects his bird in the hand for the flock he sees in the tree, he’s very like to end with no bird at all. How clever is that?” He set the ring coyly down on the stone between them.

  Cazaril opened both his hands and held them out palm up in front of his chest in a gesture of release. He returned them firmly to his knees, and said with undeceptive mildness, “Save your treasure, my lord, to buy yourself a man with a lower price. I’m sure you can find one.”

  Dondo scooped his ring back up and frowned fiercely at Cazaril. “You haven’t changed. Still the same sanctimonious prig. You and that fool dy Sanda are much alike. No wonder, I suppose, considering that old woman in Valenda who chose you both.” He rose and stalked indoors, shoving the ring back on his finger. The two men waiting glanced across curiously at Cazaril and turned to follow.
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  Cazaril sighed, and wondered if his moment of furious satisfaction had been bought at too high a price. It might have been wiser to take the bribe and leave Lord Dondo calm, happy in the belief that he’d bought another man, one just like himself, easy to understand, certain of control. Feeling very tired, he pushed himself to his feet and went back inside to mount the stairs to his bedchamber.

  He was just putting his key in his lock when dy Sanda passed him in the corridor, yawning. They exchanged cordial-enough murmurs of greeting.

  “Stay a moment, dy Sanda.”

  Dy Sanda glanced back over his shoulder. “Castillar?”

  “Are you careful to keep your door locked these days, and your key about your person?”

  Dy Sanda’s brows rose, and he turned. “I have a trunk with a good, stout lock, that serves for all I have to guard.”

  “That’s not enough. You need to block your whole room.”

  “So that nothing can be stolen? I have little enough that—”

  “No. So that nothing stolen can be placed therein.”

  Dy Sanda’s lips parted; he stood a moment, as this sank in, and raised his eyes to meet Cazaril’s. “Oh,” he said at last. He gave Cazaril a slow nod, almost a bow. “Thank you, Castillar. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Cazaril returned the nod, and went inside.

  Cazaril sat in his bedchamber with a profligacy of candles and the classic Brajaran verse romance The Legend of the Green Tree, and sighed in contentment. The Zangre’s library had been famous in the days of Fonsa the Wise but neglected ever since—this volume, judging by the dust, hadn’t been pulled off the shelves since the end of Fonsa’s reign. But it was the luxury of enough candles to make reading late at night a pleasure and not a strain, as much as Behar’s versifying, that gave his heart joy. And a little guilt—the charges for good wax candles upon Iselle’s household accounts were going to add up after a time, and look a trifle odd. Behar’s thundering cadences echoing in his head, he moistened his finger and turned a page.