The Complete Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Not as I felt, sir,” said the constable’s man. Indeed, the pale corpse did not show great bruises.

  Inquiry of the castle guards disclosed that dy Sanda had left the Zangre, alone and on foot, about the mid-watch last night. Cazaril gave up a budding plan to check every foot of the castle’s great lengths of corridors and niches for new bloodstains. Later in the afternoon the constable’s men found three people who’d said they’d seen the royse’s secretary drinking in a tavern in the bottoms, and depart alone; one swore he’d left staggering drunk. That witness, Cazaril would have liked to have had alone for a time in one of the Zangre’s stony, scream-absorbing cells off the old, old tunnels going down to the rivers. Some better kind of truth might have been pounded out of him there. Cazaril had never seen dy Sanda drink to drunkenness, ever.

  It fell to Cazaril to inventory and pack dy Sanda’s meager pile of worldly goods, to be sent off by carter to the man’s surviving older brother somewhere in the provinces of Chalion. While the city constable’s men searched the bottoms, futilely, Cazaril was sure, for the supposed footpads, Cazaril turned out every scrap of paper in dy Sanda’s room. But whatever lying assignation had lured him to the bottoms, he’d either received verbally or taken with him.

  Dy Sanda having no relatives near enough to wait upon, the funeral was held the next day. The services were somberly graced by both the royse and royesse and their households, so a few courtiers anxious for their favor likewise attended. The ceremony of departure, held in the Son’s chamber off the main courtyard of the temple, was brief. It was borne in upon Cazaril what a lonely man dy Sanda had been. No friends thronged to the head of his bier to speak long eulogies for each other’s comfort. Only Cazaril spoke a few formal words of regret on behalf of the royesse, managing to get through them without the embarrassment of referring to the paper, upon which he had so hastily composed them that morning, tucked in his sleeve.

  Cazaril stood down from the bier to make way for the blessing of the animals, going to stand with the little crowd of mourners before the altar. Acolytes, dressed each in the colors of their chosen gods, brought in their creatures and stood round the bier at five evenly spaced points. In country temples, the most motley assortment of animals was used for this rite; Cazaril had once seen it carried through—successfully—for the dead daughter of a poor man by a single overworked acolyte with a basket of five kittens with colored ribbons tied round their necks. The Roknari often used fish, though in the number of four, not five; the Quadrene divines marked them with dye and interpreted the will of the gods by the patterns they made swimming about in a tub. Whatever the means used, the omen was the one tiny miracle the gods granted every person, no matter how humble, at their last passing.

  The temple of Cardegoss had the resources to command the most beautiful of sacred animals, selected for appropriate color and gender. The Daughter’s acolyte in her blue robes had a fine female crested blue jay, new-hatched last spring. The Mother’s woman in green held on her arm a great green bird, close relative, Cazaril thought, to Umegat’s prize in the roya’s menagerie. The acolyte of the Son in his red-orange robes led a glorious young dog-fox, whose burnished coat seemed to glow like fire in the somber shadows of the echoing, vaulted chamber. The Father’s acolyte, in gray, was led in by a stout, elderly, and immensely dignified gray wolf. Cazaril expected the Bastard’s acolyte in her white robes to bear one of Fonsa’s sacred crows, but instead she cradled a pair of plump, inquisitive-looking white rats in her arms.

  The divine prostrated himself for the gods to make their sign, then stood back at dy Sanda’s head. The brightly robed acolytes each in turn urged their creatures forward. At a jerk of the acolyte’s wrist the blue jay fluttered up, but then back down to her shoulder, as did the Mother’s green bird. The dog-fox, released from its copper chain, sniffed, trotted to the bier, whined, hopped up, and curled itself at dy Sanda’s side. It rested its muzzle over the dead man’s heart, and sighed deeply.

  The wolf, obviously very experienced in these matters, evinced no interest. The Bastard’s acolyte released her rats upon the paving stones, but they merely ran back up her sleeve, nuzzled her ears, and caught their claws in her hair and had to be gently disengaged.

  No surprises today. Unless persons had dedicated themselves especially to another god, the childless soul normally went to the Daughter or the Son, deceased parents to the Mother or the Father. Dy Sanda was a childless man and had ridden as lay dedicat of the Son’s military order himself in his youth. It was the natural order of things that his soul would be taken up by the Son. Although it was not unknown for this moment of a funeral to be the first notice surviving family had that the member they buried had an unexpected child somewhere. The Bastard took up all of His own order—and all those souls disdained by the greater gods. The Bastard was the god of last resort, ultimate, if ambiguous, refuge for those who had made disasters of their lives.

  Obedient to the clear choice of Autumn’s elegant fox, the acolyte of the Son stepped forward to close the ceremonies, calling down his god’s special blessing upon dy Sanda’s sundered soul. The mourners filed past the bier and placed small offerings on the Son’s altar for the dead man’s sake.

  Cazaril nearly drove his fingernails through his palms, watching Dondo dy Jironal go through the motions of pious grief. Teidez was shocked and quiet, regretting, Cazaril hoped, all the hot complaints he’d heaped on his rigid but loyal secretary-tutor’s head while he lived; his offering was a notable heap of gold.

  Iselle and Betriz, too, were quiet, both then and later. They passed little comment upon the buzzing court gossip that surrounded the murder, except for refusing invitations to go into town and finding excuses to check on Cazaril’s continued existence four or five times of an evening.

  The court murmured over the mystery. New and more draconian punishments were mooted for such dangerous, lowlife scum as cutpurses and footpads. Cazaril said nothing. There was no mystery in dy Sanda’s death to him, except how to bring home its proof to the Jironals. He turned it over and over in his mind, but the way defeated him. He dared not start the process until he had every step laid clear to the end, or he might as well slit his own throat and be done with it.

  Unless, he decided, some luckless footpad or cutpurse was falsely accused. Then he would…what? What was his word worth now, after the misfired slander about his flogging scars? Most of the court had been impressed by the testimony of the crow—some had not. Easy enough to tell which was which, by the way some gentlemen drew aside their cloaks from Cazaril, or ladies recoiled from his touch. But no sacrificial peasants were brought forth by the constable’s office, and the revived gaiety of the court closed over the unpleasant incident like a scab over a wound.

  Teidez was assigned a new secretary, hand-selected from the roya’s own Chancellery by the senior dy Jironal himself. He was a narrow-faced fellow, altogether the chancellor’s creature, and he made no move to make friends with Cazaril. Dondo dy Jironal publicly undertook to distract the young royse from his sorrow by providing him with the most delectable entertainments. Just how delectable, Cazaril had all too good a view of, watching the drabs and ripe comrades pass in and out of Teidez’s chamber late at night. Once, Teidez stumbled into Cazaril’s room, apparently not able to tell one door from another, and vomited about a quart of red wine at his feet. Cazaril guided him, sick and blind, back to his servants for cleanup.

  Cazaril’s most troubled moment, however, was the evening his eye caught a green glint on the hand of Teidez’s guard captain, the man who had ridden with them from Baocia. Who before riding out had sworn to mother and grandmother, formally and on one knee, to guard both young people with his life…Cazaril’s hand snaked out to grab the captain’s hand in passing, bringing him up short. He gazed down at the familiar flat-cut stone.

  “Nice ring,” he said after a moment.

  The captain pulled his hand back, frowning. “I thought so.”

  “I hope you didn’t pay to
o much for it. I believe the stone is false.”

  “It is a true emerald, my lord!”

  “If I were you, I’d have it to a gem-cutter, and check. It’s a continuing source of amazement to me, the lies that men will tell these days for their profit.”

  The captain covered one hand with the other. “It is a good ring.”

  “Compared to what you traded for it, I’d say it is trash.”

  The captain’s lips pressed closed. He shrugged away and stalked off.

  If this is a siege, thought Cazaril, we’re losing.

  THE WEATHER TURNED CHILL AND RAINY, THE RIVERS swelling, as the Son’s season ran toward its close. At the musicale after supper one sodden evening, Orico leaned over to his sister, and murmured, “Bring your people to the throne room tomorrow at noon, and attend dy Jironal’s investiture. I’ll have some happy announcements afterward to make to the whole court. And wear your most festive raiment. Oh, and your pearls—Lord Dondo was saying only last night, he never sees you wear his pearls.”

  “I do not think they become me,” Iselle replied. She glanced sideways at Cazaril, seated nearby, and then down at her hands tightening in her lap.

  “Nonsense, how can pearls not become any maiden?” The roya sat back to applaud the sprightly piece just ending.

  Iselle kept her lips closed upon this suggestion until Cazaril had escorted his ladies as far as his office antechamber. He was about to bid them to sleep well, and depart, yawning, to his own bed, when she burst out, “I am not wearing that thief Lord Dondo’s pearls. I would give them back to the Daughter’s Order, but I swear they would be an insult to the goddess. They’re tainted. Cazaril, what can I do with them?”

  “The Bastard is not a fussy god. Give them to the divine of his foundling hospital, to sell for the orphans,” he suggested.

  Her lips curved. “Wouldn’t that annoy Lord Dondo. And he couldn’t even protest! Good idea. You shall take them to the orphans, with my goodwill. And for tomorrow—I’ll wear my red velvet vest-cloak over my white silk gown, that will certainly be festive, and my garnet set Mama gave me. None can chide me for wearing my mother’s jewels.”

  Nan dy Vrit said, “But what do you suppose your brother meant by happy announcements? You don’t think he’s determined upon your betrothal already, do you?”

  Iselle went still, blinking, but then said decisively, “No. It can’t be. There must be months of negotiations first—ambassadors, letters, exchanges of presents, treaties for the dowry—and my assent won. My portrait taken. And I will have a portrait of the man, whoever he may turn out to be. A true and honest portrait, by an artist I send myself. If my prince is fat, or squinty, or bald, or has a lip that hangs loose, so be it, but I will not be lied to in paint.”

  Betriz made a face at the image this conjured. “I do hope you’ll win a handsome lord, when the time does come.”

  Iselle sighed. “It would be nice, but given most of the great lords I’ve seen, not likely. I should settle for healthy, I think, and not plague the gods with impossible prayers. Healthy, and a Quintarian.”

  “Very sensible,” Cazaril put in, encouraging this practical frame of mind with an eye to easing his life in the near future.

  Betriz said uneasily, “There have been a great many envoys from the Roknari princedoms in and out of court this fall.”

  Iselle’s mouth tightened. “Mm.”

  “There are not a great many Quintarian choices, amongst the highest lords,” Cazaril conceded.

  “The roya of Brajar is a widower again,” Nan dy Vrit put in, pursing her lips in doubt.

  Iselle waved this away. “Surely not. He’s fifty-seven years old, has gout, and he already has an heir full-grown and married. Where’s the point of my having a son friendly to his Uncle Orico—or his Uncle Teidez, if it should chance so—if he’s not ruling his land?”

  “There’s Brajar’s grandson,” said Cazaril.

  “Seven years old! I’d have to wait seven more years—”

  Not, Cazaril thought, altogether a bad thing.

  “Now is too soon, but that is too long. Anything could happen in seven years. People die, countries go to war…”

  “It’s true,” said Nan dy Vrit, “your father Roya Ias betrothed you at the age of two to a Roknari prince, but the poor lad took a fever and died soon after, so that never came to anything. Or you would have been taken off to his princedom these two years ago.”

  Betriz said, a little teasingly, “The Fox of Ibra’s a widower, too.”

  Iselle choked. “He’s over seventy!”

  “Not fat, though. And I suppose you wouldn’t have to endure him for very long.”

  “Ha. He could live another twenty years just for spite, I think—he’s full enough of it. And his Heir is married, too. I think his second son is the only royse in the lands who’s near to my age, and he’s not the heir.”

  “You won’t be offered an Ibran this year, Royesse,” said Cazaril. “The Fox is exceedingly wroth with Orico for his clumsy meddling in the war in South Ibra.”

  “Yes, but…they say all the Ibran high lords are trained as naval officers,” said Iselle, taking on an introspective look.

  “Well, and how useful is that likely to be to Orico?” Nan dy Vrit snorted. “Chalion has not one yard of coastline.”

  “To our cost,” Iselle murmured.

  Cazaril said regretfully, “When we had Gotorget, and held those passes, we were almost in position to swoop down and take the port of Visping. We’ve lost that leverage now…well, anyway. My best guess, Royesse, is that you are destined for a lord of Darthaca. So let’s spend a little more time on those declensions this coming week, eh?”

  Iselle made a face, but sighed assent. Cazaril smiled and bowed himself out. If she was not to espouse a ruling roya, he wouldn’t altogether mind a Darthacan border lord for Iselle, he thought as he made his way down the stairs. At least a lord of one of its warmer northern provinces. Either power or distance would do to protect Iselle from the…difficulties, of the court of Chalion. And the sooner, the better.

  For her, or for you?

  For both of us.

  FOR ALL THAT NAN DY VRIT PUT HER HAND OVER her eyes and winced, Cazaril thought Iselle looked very bright and warm in her carmine robes, with her amber curls cascading down her back nearly to her waist. Given the hint, he wore a red brocade tunic that had been the old provincar’s and his white wool vest-cloak. Betriz, too, wore her favorite red; Nan, claiming eyestrain, had chosen a sober black and white. The reds clashed a trifle, but they certainly defied the rain.

  They all scurried across the wet cobbles to Ias’s great tower block. The crows from Fonsa’s Tower were all gone to roost—no, not quite. Cazaril ducked as a certain foolish bird missing two feathers from its tail swooped down out of the drizzling mist past him, cawing, Caz, Caz! With an eye to defending his white cloak from birdish deposits, he fended it off. It circled back up to the ruined slates, screeching sadly.

  Orico’s red brocade throne room was brilliantly lit with wall sconces against the autumn gray; two or three dozen courtiers and ladies warmed it thoroughly. Orico wore his formal robes, and his crown, but Royina Sara was not at his side today. Teidez was given a seat in a lower chair at Orico’s right hand.

  The royesse’s party kissed his hands and took their places, Iselle in a smaller chair to the left of Sara’s empty one, the rest standing. Orico, smiling, began the day’s largesse by awarding Teidez the revenues of four more royal towns for the support of his household, for which his younger half brother thanked him with proper hand-kisses and a brief set-speech. Dondo had not kept the royse up last night, so he was looking much less green and seedy than usual.

  Orico then motioned his chancellor to his royal knee. As had been announced, the roya awarded the letters and sword, and received the oath, that made the senior dy Jironal into the provincar of Ildar. Several of Ildar’s minor lords knelt and took oath in turn to dy Jironal. It was less expected when the two turned ro
und at once and transferred the marchship of Jironal, together with its towns and tax revenues, immediately to Lord—now March—Dondo.

  Iselle was surprised, but obviously pleased, when her brother next awarded her the revenues of six towns for the support of her household. Not before time, to be sure—her allowance till now had been notably scant for a royesse. She thanked him prettily, while Cazaril’s brain lurched into calculation. Might Iselle afford her own guard company, instead of the loan of men from Baocia she’d shared till now with Teidez? And might Cazaril choose them himself? Could she take a house of her own in town, protected by her own people? Iselle returned to her chair on the dais and arranged her skirts, a certain tension easing from her face that had not been apparent till its absence.

  Orico cleared his throat. “I’m pleased to come to the happiest of this day’s rewards, well merited, and, er, much-desired. Iselle, up—” Orico stood, and held out his hand to his half sister; puzzled but smiling, she rose and stood with him before the dais.

  “March dy Jironal, come forth,” Orico continued. Lord Dondo, in the full robes of the Daughter’s holy generalship and with a page in dy Jironal livery at his heels, came and stood at Orico’s other hand. The skin on the back of Cazaril’s neck began to creep, as he watched from the side of the room. What is Orico about…?

  “My much-beloved and loyal Chancellor and Provincar dy Jironal has begged a boon of blood from my house, and upon meditation, I have concluded it gives my heart joy to comply.” He didn’t look joyful. He looked nervous. “He has asked for the hand of my sister Iselle for his brother, the new march. Freely do I betroth and bestow it.” He turned Dondo’s thick hand palm up, Iselle’s slim one palm down, pressed them together at the height of his chest, and stepped back.

  Iselle’s face drained of color and all expression. She stood utterly still, staring across at Dondo as though she could not believe her senses. The blood thudded in Cazaril’s ears, almost roaring, and he could hardly draw his breath. No, no, no…!