The Curse of Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The farmer watched from a safe distance as Cazaril undressed the corpse, tugging the layered garments off over the stiffened limbs. The man was swollen further even than he’d appeared at first, his abdomen puffing out obscenely when Cazaril finally pulled his fine embroidered cotton undershirt from him. It was rather frightening. But it couldn’t be contagion after all, not with this uncanny lack of smell. Cazaril wondered, if the body weren’t burned by nightfall, if it was likely to explode or rupture, and if it did, what would come out of it…or enter into it. He bundled up the clothing, only a little stained, as quickly as he could. The shoes were too small, and he left them. He and the farmer together heaved the corpse onto the pyre.

  When all was readied, Cazaril fell to his knees, shut his eyes, and chanted out the prayer for the dead. Not knowing which god had taken up the man’s soul, though he could make a shrewd guess, he addressed all five of the Holy Family in turn, speaking clearly and plainly. All offerings must be one’s best, even if all one had to offer was words. “Mercy from the Father and the Mother, mercy from the Sister and the Brother, Mercy from the Bastard, five times mercy, High Ones, we beseech you.” Whatever sins the stranger had committed, he had surely paid. Mercy, High Ones. Not justice, please, not justice. We would all be fools to pray for justice.

  When he’d finished, he climbed stiffly back to his feet and looked around. Thoughtfully, he collected the rat and the crow, and added their little corpses to the man’s, at his head and feet.

  It was Cazaril’s day for the gods’ own luck, it seemed. He wondered which kind it would prove to be this time.

  A COLUMN OF OILY SMOKE ROSE FROM THE BURNING mill as Cazaril started up the road to Valenda once more, the dead man’s clothes tied into a tight bundle on his back. Though they were less filthy than the clothes he wore, he would, he thought, find a laundress and have them thoroughly cleaned before donning them. His copper vaidas were dwindling sadly in his mind’s accounting, but the services of a laundress would be worth them.

  He’d slept last night in a barn, shivering in the straw, his meal a half a loaf of stale bread. The remaining half had been his breakfast. It was nearly three hundred miles from the port city of Zagosur, on Ibra’s mild coast, to the middle of Baocia, centralmost province of Chalion. He hadn’t been able to walk the distance nearly as quickly as he’d calculated. In Zagosur, the Temple Hospital of the Mother’s Mercy was dedicated to the succor of men cast up, in all the various ways they could be cast up, by the sea. The charity purse the acolytes there had given him had run thin, then out altogether, before he’d reached his goal. But only just before. One more day, he’d figured, less than a day. If he could just put one foot in front of the other for one more day, he might reach his refuge and crawl into it.

  When he’d started from Ibra, his head had been full of plans for how to ask the Dowager Provincara for a place, for old times’ sake, in her household. At the foot of her table. Something, anything at all so long as it was not too hard. His ambition had dwindled as he’d slogged east over the mountain passes into the cooler heights of the central plateau. Maybe her castle warder or her horse-master would grant him a place in her stables, or a place in her kitchen, and he need not intrude upon the great lady at all. If he could beg a place as a scullion, he wouldn’t even have to give his real name. He doubted anyone was left in her household by now who’d know him from the charmed days when he’d served the late Provincar dy Baocia as a page.

  The dream of a silent, abashed place by the kitchen fire, nameless, not bellowed at by any creature more alarming than a cook, for any task more dreadful than drawing water or carrying firewood, had drawn him onward into the last of the winter winds. The vision of rest drove him as an obsession, that and the knowledge that every stride put another yard between himself and the nightmare of the sea. He’d bemused himself for hours on the lonely road, revolving suitable new servile names for his new, anonymous self. But now, it seemed, he need not appear before the shocked eyes of her court dressed in poor men’s castoffs after all. Instead, Cazaril begs a peasant for the clothes off a corpse, and is grateful for both their favors. Is. Is. Most humbly grateful. Most humbly.

  THE TOWN OF VALENDA TUMBLED DOWN OVER ITS low hill like a rich quilt worked in red and gold, red for the tile roofs, gold for the native stone, both glowing in the sun. Cazaril blinked at the dazzle of color in his blurring eyes, the familiar hues of his homeland. The houses of Ibra were all whitewashed, too bright in their hot northern noons, bleached and blinding. This ochre sandstone was the perfect shade for a house, a town, a country—a caress upon the eyes. At the top of the hill, like a golden crown in truth, the Provincara’s castle sprawled, its curtain walls seeming to waver in his vision. He stared at it, daunted, for a little, then slogged onward, his steps somehow going faster than he’d been able to push them all this long journey, despite the shaking, aching weariness of his legs.

  It was past the hour for the markets, so the streets were quiet and serene as he threaded through them to the main square. At the temple gate, he approached an elderly woman who looked unlikely to try to follow and rob him, and asked his way to a moneylender. The moneylender filled his hand with a satisfying weight of copper vaidas in exchange for his tiny royal, and directed him to the laundress and the public bath. He paused on the way only long enough to buy an oil cake from a lone street vendor, and devour it.

  He poured out vaidas on the laundress’s counter and negotiated the loan of a pair of linen drawstring trousers and a tunic, together with a pair of straw sandals in which he might trot down the street through the now-mild afternoon to the baths. In competently red hands she carried off all his vile clothing and his filthy boots. The bath’s barber trimmed his hair and beard while he sat, still, in a real chair, oh wonderful. The bath boy served him tea. And then it was back to the bath courtyard itself, to stand on the flagstones and scrub himself all over with scented soap and wait for the bath boy to sluice him down with a bucket of warm water. In joyous anticipation, Cazaril eyed the huge copper-bottomed wooden tank that was sized for six men, or women every other day, but which by the happy chance of the hour he looked to have all to himself. The brazier underneath kept the water steaming. He could soak there all afternoon, while the laundress boiled his clothing.

  The bath boy climbed the stool and poured the water over his head, while Cazaril turned and sputtered under the stream. He opened his eyes to find the boy staring at him, mouth agape.

  “Were you…were you a deserter?” the boy choked out.

  Oh. His back, the ropy red mess of scars piled one across another so thickly as to leave no untouched skin between, legacy of the last flogging the Roknari galley-masters had given him. Here in the royacy of Chalion, army deserters were among the few criminals punished so savagely by that particular means. “No,” said Cazaril firmly. “I’m not a deserter.” Cast-off, certainly; betrayed, perhaps. But he’d never deserted a post, not even his most disastrous ones.

  The boy snapped his mouth shut, dropped his wooden bucket with a clunk, and scampered out. Cazaril sighed, and made for the tank.

  He’d just lowered his aching body to the chin in the heavenly heat when the bath owner stomped into the tiny tiled courtyard.

  “Out!” the owner roared. “Out of there, you—!”

  Cazaril recoiled in terror as the bath man seized him by the hair and dragged him bodily up out of the water. “What?” The man shoved his tunic and trousers and sandals at him, all in a wad, and dragged him fiercely by the arm out of the courtyard and into the front of the shop. “Here, wait, what are you doing? I can’t go naked into the street!”

  The bath man wheeled him around, and released him momentarily. “Get dressed, and get out. I run a respectable place here! Not for the likes of you! Go down to the whorehouse. Or better still, drown yourself in the river!”

  Dazed and dripping, Cazaril fumbled the tunic over his head, yanked up the trousers, and tried to cram his feet back into the straw sandals while holding
up the pants’ drawstring and being shoved again toward the door. It slammed in his face as he turned, realization dawning upon him. The other crime punished by flogging near to death in the royacy of Chalion was the rape of a virgin or a boy. His face flushed hot. “But it wasn’t—but I didn’t—I was sold to the corsairs of Roknar—”

  He stood trembling. He considered beating on the door, and insisting those within listen to his explanations. Oh, my poor honor. The bath man was the bath boy’s father, Cazaril rather guessed.

  He was laughing. And crying. Teetering on the ragged edge of…something that frightened him more than the outraged bath man. He gulped for breath. He had not the stamina for an argument, and even if he could get them to listen, why should they believe him? He rubbed his eyes with the soft linen of his sleeve. It had that sharp, pleasant scent left only by the track of a good hot iron. It tumbled him back to memories of life in houses, not in ditches. It seemed a thousand years ago.

  Defeated, he turned and shuffled back up the street to the laundress’s green-painted door again. Its bell rang as he pushed timidly back inside.

  “Have you a corner where I might sit, ma’am?” he asked her, when she popped back out at the bell’s summons. “I…finished earlier than…” his voice died in muffled shame.

  She shrugged sturdy shoulders. “Ah, aye. Come back with me. Wait.” She dived below her counter and came up with a small book, the span of Cazaril’s hand and bound in plain undyed leather. “Here’s your book. You’re lucky I checked your pockets, or it would be a mucky mess by now, believe you me.”

  Startled, Cazaril picked it up. It must have lain concealed in the thick cloth of the dead man’s outer cloak; he hadn’t felt it when he’d bundled the garment up so hastily back in the mill. This ought to go to that divine of the Temple, with the rest of the dead man’s possessions. Well, I’m not walking it back there tonight, that’s certain. He would return it as soon as he was able.

  For now, he merely said, “Thank you, ma’am,” to the laundress, and followed her into a central court with a deep well, similar to her neighbor’s of the bathhouse, where a fire kept a cauldron on the boil, and a quartet of young women scrubbed and splashed at the laundry tubs. She gestured him to a bench by the wall and he sat down out of range of the splashes, staring a while in a kind of disembodied bliss at the peaceful, busy scene. Time was he would have scorned to eye a troupe of red-faced peasant girls, saving his glances for the fine ladies. How had he never realized how beautiful laundresses were? Strong and laughing, moving like a dance, and kind, so kind, so kind…

  Finally, his hand moved in reawakened curiosity to look in the book. It might bear the dead man’s name, solving a mystery. He flipped it open to discover its pages covered in a thicket of handwriting, with occasional little scratchy diagrams. Entirely in a cipher.

  He blinked, and bent more closely, his eye beginning to take the cipher apart almost despite his own volition. It was mirror-writing. And with a substitution-of-letters system—those could be tedious to break down. But the chance of a short word, three times repeated on the page, handed him his key. The merchant had chosen the most childish of ciphers, merely shifting each letter one position and not troubling to shuffle his pattern thereafter. Except that…this wasn’t in the Ibran language spoken, in its various dialects, in the royacies of Ibra, Chalion, and Brajar. It was in Darthacan, spoken in the southernmost provinces of Ibra and great Darthaca beyond the mountains. And the man’s handwriting was dreadful, his spelling worse, and his command of Darthacan grammar apparently almost nonexistent. This was going to be harder than Cazaril had thought. He would need paper and pen, a quiet place, time, and a good light, if he was to make head or tail of this mess. Well, it might have been worse. It might have been ciphered in bad Roknari.

  It was almost certainly the man’s notes on his magic experiments, however. That much Cazaril could tell. Enough to convict and hang him, if he hadn’t been dead already. The punishments for practicing—no, for attempting—death magic were ferocious. Punishment for succeeding was generally considered redundant, as there was no case Cazaril knew of a magical assassination that had not cost the life of its caster. Whatever the link was by which the practitioner forced the Bastard to let one of his demons into the world, it always returned with two souls or none.

  That being so, there should have been another corpse made somewhere in Baocia last night…. By its nature, death magic wasn’t very popular. It did not allow substitutions or proxies in its double-edged scything. To kill was to be killed. Knife, sword, poison, cudgel, almost any other means was a better choice if one wanted to survive one’s own murderous effort. But, in delusion or desperation, men still attempted it from time to time. This book must definitely be taken back to that rural divine, for her to pass along to whatever superior of the gods’ Temple ended up investigating the case for the royacy. Cazaril’s brow wrinkled, and he sat up, closing the frustrating volume.

  The warm steam, the rhythm of the women’s work and voices, and Cazaril’s exhaustion tempted him to lie on his side, curled up on the bench with the book pillowed under his cheek. He would just close his eyes for a moment…

  He woke with a start and a crick in his neck, his fingers closing around an unexpected weight of wool…one of the laundresses had thrown a blanket over him. An involuntary sigh of gratitude escaped his throat at this careless grace. He scrambled upright, checking the lay of the light. The courtyard was nearly all in shadow now. He must have slept for most of the afternoon. The sound waking him had been the thump of his cleaned and, to the limit they would take it, polished boots, dropped from the laundress’s hand. She set the pile of Cazaril’s folded clothing, fine and disreputable both, on the bench next to him.

  Remembering the bath boy’s reaction, Cazaril asked timorously, “Have you a room where I might dress, ma’am?” Privately.

  She nodded cordially and led him to a modest bedroom at the back of the house, and left him. Western light poured through the little window. Cazaril sorted his clean laundry, and eyed with aversion the shabby clothes he’d been wearing for weeks. An oval mirror on a stand in the corner, the room’s richest ornament, decided him.

  Tentatively, with another prayer of thanks to the spirit of the departed man whose unexpected heir he had become, he donned clean cotton trews, the fine embroidered shirt, the brown wool robe—warm from the iron, though the seams were still a trifle damp—and finally the black vest-cloak that fell in a rich profusion of cloth and glint of silver to his ankles. The dead man’s clothes were long enough, if loose on Cazaril’s gaunt frame. He sat on the bed and pulled on his boots, their heels lopsided and their soles worn to scarcely more than the thickness of parchment. He had not seen himself in any mirror larger or better than a piece of polished steel for…three years? This one was glass, and tilted to show himself quite half at a time, from head to foot.

  A stranger stared back at him. Five gods, when did my beard go part-gray? He touched its short-trimmed neatness with a trembling hand. At least his newly scissored hair had not begun to retreat from his forehead, much. If Cazaril had to guess himself merchant, lord, or scholar in this dress, he would have to say scholar; one of the more fanatic sort, hollow-eyed and a little crazed. The garments wanted chains of gold or silver, seals, a fine belt with studs or jewels, thick rings with gleaming stones, to proclaim him any rank higher. And yet the flowing lines suited him, he fancied. He stood a little straighter.

  In any case, the roadside vagabond had vanished. In any case…here was not a man to beg a scullion’s place from a castle cook.

  He’d planned to buy a night’s bed in an inn with the last of his vaidas and present himself to the Provincara in the morning. Uneasily, he wondered if gossip from the bath man had gotten round town very far yet. And if he would be denied entry to any safe and respectable house….

  Now, tonight. Go. He would climb to the castle and find out if he might claim refuge or not. I cannot bear another night of not knowing. Befor
e the light failed. Before my heart fails.

  He tucked the notebook back into the inside pocket of the black vest-cloak that had apparently concealed it before. Leaving the vagabond’s clothing in a pile on the bed, he turned and strode from the room.

  2

  As he climbed the last slope to the main castle gate, Cazaril regretted he’d had no way to provision himself with a sword. The two guards in the green-and-black livery of the provincar of Baocia watched his unarmed approach without alarm, but also without any of the alert interest that might presage respect. Cazaril saluted the one wearing the sergeant’s badge in his hat with only an austere, calculated nod. The servility he’d practiced in his mind was for some back gate, not this one, not if he expected to get any farther. At least, by the courtesy of his laundress, he’d been able to provision himself with the right names.

  “Good evening, Sergeant. I am here to see the castle warder, the Ser dy Ferrej. I am Lupe dy Cazaril.” Leaving the sergeant to guess, preferably wrongly, if he’d been summoned.

  “On what business, sir?” the sergeant asked, polite but unimpressed.

  Cazaril’s shoulders straightened; he didn’t know from what unused lumber room in the back of his soul the voice came, but it came out clipped and commanding nonetheless: “On his business, Sergeant.”

  Automatically, the sergeant saluted. “Yes, sir.” His nod told off his fellow to stay sharp, and he gestured Cazaril to follow him through the open gate. “This way, sir. I’ll ask if the warder will see you.”

  Cazaril’s heart wrung as he stared around the broad cobbled courtyard inside the castle gates. He’d worn out how much shoe leather, scampering across these stones on errands for the high household? The master of the pages had complained of bankruptcy in buskins, till the Provincara, laughing, had inquired if he would truly prefer a lazy page who would wear out the seat of his trousers instead, for if so, she could find a few to plague him with.