She shrugged her shoulders. “Come, come, Castillar, you quite daunt me with your offer of service. I’m not sure poor Valenda has posts enough to occupy you. You’ve been a courtier—a captain—a castle warder—a courier—”
“I haven’t been a courtier since before Roya Ias died, my lady. As a captain…I helped lose the battle of Dalus.” And rotted for nearly a year in the dungeons of the royacy of Brajar, thereafter. “As a castle warder, well, we lost the siege. As a courier, I was nearly hanged as a spy. Twice.” He brooded. And three times put to the torture in violation of parley. “Now…now, well, I know how to row boats. And five ways of preparing a dish of rats.”
I could relish a mighty dish of rat right now, in fact.
He did not know what she read in his face, for all that her sharp old eyes probed him. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but he hoped it was hunger. He was fairly sure it was hunger, for she at last smiled crookedly.
“Then come to supper with us, Castillar, though I’m afraid my cook cannot offer you rat. They are not in season, in peaceful Valenda. I shall think on your petition.”
He nodded mute thanks, not trusting his voice to not break.
IT BEING STILL WINTER, THE MAIN MEAL OF THE household’s day had been taken at noon, formally, in the great hall. The evening supper was a lighter repast, featuring, by the Provincara’s economy, the leftover breads and meats from noon, but by her pride, the very best of them, supplemented by a generous libation of her excellent wines. In the shimmering heat of the high plains summer, the procedure would be reversed; nuncheon would be light fare, and the main meal taken after nightfall, when Baocians of all degrees took to their cooler courtyards to eat by lantern light.
They sat down only eight, in an intimate chamber in a new building quite near the kitchens. The Provincara took the center of the table, and placed Cazaril on her honored right. Cazaril was daunted to find the Royesse Iselle on his other side, and the Royse Teidez across from her. He took heart again when the royse chose to while away the wait for all to be seated by flicking bread-balls at his older sister, a maneuver sternly suppressed by his grandmother. A retaliatory gleam in the royesse’s eye was only sidetracked, Cazaril judged, by some timely distraction from her companion Betriz, seated across and a little down from him.
Lady Betriz smiled across the board at Cazaril in friendly curiosity, revealing an elusive dimple, and seemed about to speak, but then the servant passed among them with a basin for hand-washing. The warm water was scented with verbena. Cazaril’s hands shook as he dipped and wiped them on the fine linen towel, a weakness he concealed as soon as he might by hiding them in his lap. The chair directly across from him remained empty.
Cazaril nodded to it, and asked the Provincara diffidently, “Will the dowager royina be joining us, Your Grace?”
Her lips pressed closed. “Ista is not well enough tonight, unfortunately. She…takes most of her meals in her chamber.”
Cazaril quelled a moment of unease, and resolved to ask someone else, later, exactly what troubled the royse and royesse’s mother. That brief compression suggested something chronic, or lingering, or too painful to be discussed. Her long widowhood had spared Ista the further dangers of childbirth that were the bane of young women, but then there were all those frightening female disorders that overtook matrons…As Roya Ias’s second wife, Ista had been wed in his middle age when his son and heir Orico was already full-grown. In the little time Cazaril had been at the court of Chalion, years ago, he had watched her only from a discreet distance; she’d seemed happy, the light of the roya’s eye when the marriage was new. Ias had doted upon toddler Iselle and upon Teidez, a babe in the nurse’s arms.
Their happiness had been darkened during the unfortunate tragedy of Lord dy Lutez’s treason, which, most observers agreed, had hastened the aging roya’s death by grief. Cazaril couldn’t help wondering if the illness that had evidently driven Royina Ista from her stepson’s court had any unfortunate political elements. But the new roya Orico had been respectful of his stepmother, and kind to his half siblings, by all reports.
Cazaril cleared his throat to cover the growling of his stomach and gave attention to the royse’s superior gentleman-tutor, on the far end of the table beyond Lady Betriz. The Provincara, with a regal nod of her head, desired him to lead the prayer to the Holy Family blessing the approaching meal. Cazaril hoped it was approaching rapidly. The mystery of the empty chair was solved when the castle warder Ser dy Ferrej hurried in late, and made brief apologies all round before seating himself.
“I was caught by the divine of the Order of the Bastard,” he explained as bread, meat, and dried fruit were passed.
Cazaril, hard-pressed not to fall on his food like a starving dog, made a politely inquiring noise, and took his first bite.
“The most earnestly long-winded young man,” dy Ferraj expanded.
“What does he want now?” asked the Provincara. “More donations for the foundling hospital? We sent down a load last week. The castle servants are refusing to give up any more of their old clothes.”
“Wet nurses,” said dy Ferrej, chewing.
The Provincara snorted. “Not from my household!”
“No, but he wanted me to pass the word that the Temple was looking. He was hoping someone might have a female relative who would be moved to pious charity. They had another babe left at the postern last week, and he’s expecting more. It’s the time of year, apparently.”
The Order of the Bastard, by the logic of its theology, classified unwanted births among the things-out-of-season that were the god’s mandate: including bastards—naturally—and children bereft of parents untimely young. The Temple’s foundling hospitals and orphanages were one of the order’s main concerns. In all, Cazaril thought that a god who was supposed to command a legion of demons ought to have an easier time shaking out donations for his good works.
Cautiously, Cazaril watered his wine; a crime to treat this vintage so, but on his empty stomach it was sure to go straight to his head. The Provincara nodded approvingly at him, but then entered into an argument with her lady cousin on the same subject, emerging partially triumphant with half a glass of wine undiluted.
Ser dy Ferrej continued, “The divine had a good story, though; guess who died last night?”
“Who, Papa?” said Lady Betriz helpfully.
“Ser dy Naoza, the celebrated duelist.”
It was not a name Cazaril recognized, but the Provincara sniffed. “About time. Ghastly man. I did not receive him, though I suppose there were fools enough who did. Did he finally underestimate a victim—I mean, opponent?”
“That’s where the story gets interesting. He was apparently assassinated by death magic.” No bad raconteur, dy Ferrej quaffed wine while the shocked murmur ran around the table. Cazaril froze in mid-chew.
“Is the Temple going to try to solve the mystery?” asked Royesse Iselle.
“No mystery to it, though I gather it was rather a tragedy. About a year ago, dy Naoza was jostled in the street by the only son of a provincial wool merchant, with the usual result. Well, dy Naoza claimed it for a duel, of course, but there were those on the scene who said it was bloody murder. Somehow, none of them could be found to testify when the boy’s father tried to take dy Naoza to justice. There was some question about the probity of the judge, too, it was rumored.”
The Provincara tsked. Cazaril dared to swallow, and say, “Do go on.”
Encouraged, the castle warder continued, “The merchant was a widower, and the boy not just an only son, but an only child. Just about to be married, too, to turn the knife. Death magic is an ugly business, true, but I can’t help having a spot of sympathy for the poor merchant. Well, rich merchant, I suppose, but in any case, far too old to train up to the degree of swordsmanship required to remove someone like dy Naoza. So he fell back on what he thought was his only recourse. Spent the next year studying the black arts—where he found all his lore is a good puzzle for the Temple, mind yo
u—letting his business go, I was told—and then, last night, took himself off to an abandoned mill about seven miles from Valenda, and tried to call up a demon. And, by the Bastard, succeeded! His body was found there this morning.”
The Father of Winter was the god of all deaths in good season, and of justice; but in addition to all the other disasters in his gift the Bastard was the god of executioners. And, indeed, god of a whole purseful of other dirty jobs. It seems the merchant went to the right store for his miracle. The notebook in Cazaril’s vest suddenly seemed to weigh ten pounds; but it was only in his imagination that it felt as though it might scorch through the cloth and burst into flame.
“Well, I don’t have any sympathy for him,” said Royse Teidez. “That was cowardly!”
“Yes, but what can you expect of a merchant?” observed his tutor, from down the table. “Men of that class are not trained up in the kind of code of honor a true gentleman learns.”
“But it’s so sad,” protested Iselle. “I mean, about the son about to be wed.”
Teidez snorted. “Girls. All you can think about is getting married. But which is the greater loss to the royacy? Some moneygrubbing wool-man, or a swordsman? Any duelist that skilled must be a good soldier for the roya!”
“Not in my experience,” Cazaril said dryly.
“What do you mean?” Teidez promptly challenged him.
Abashed, Cazaril mumbled, “Excuse me. I spoke out of turn.”
“What’s the difference?” Teidez pressed.
The Provincara tapped a finger on the tablecloth and shot him an indecipherable look. “Do expand, Castillar.”
Cazaril shrugged, and offered a slight, apologetic bow in the boy’s direction. “The difference, Royse, is that a skilled soldier kills your enemies, but a skilled duelist kills your allies. I leave you to guess which a wise commander prefers to have in his camp.”
“Oh,” said Teidez. He fell silent, looking thoughtful.
There was, apparently, no rush to return the merchant’s notebook to the proper authorities, and also no difficulty. Cazaril might search out the divine at the Temple of the Holy Family here in Valenda tomorrow at his leisure, and turn it over to be passed along. It would have to be decoded; some men found that sort of puzzle difficult or tedious, but Cazaril had always found it restful. He wondered if he ought, as a courtesy, to offer to decipher it. He touched his soft wool robe, and was glad he’d prayed for the man at his hurried burning.
Betriz, her dark brows crimping, asked, “Who was the judge, Papa?”
Dy Ferrej hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “The Honorable Vrese.”
“Ah,” said the Provincara. “Him.” Her nose twitched, as though she’d sniffed a bad smell.
“Did the duelist threaten him, then?” asked Royesse Iselle. “Shouldn’t he—couldn’t he have called for help, or had dy Naoza arrested?”
“I doubt that even dy Naoza was foolish enough to threaten a justiciar of the province,” said dy Ferrej. “Though it was probable he intimidated the witnesses. Vrese was, hm, likely handled by more peaceful means.” He popped a fragment of bread into his mouth and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, miming a man warming a coin.
“If the judge had done his job honestly and bravely, the merchant would never have been driven to use death magic,” said Iselle slowly. “Two men are dead and damned, where it might have only been one…and even if he’d been executed, dy Naoza might have had time to clean his soul before facing the gods. If this is known, why is the man still a judge? Grandmama, can’t you do something about it?”
The Provincara pressed her lips together. “The appointment of provincial justiciars is not within my gift, dear one. Nor their removal. Or their department would be rather more orderly run, I assure you.” She took a sip of her wine and added to her granddaughter’s frowning look, “I have great privilege in Baocia, child. I do not have great powers.”
Iselle glanced at Teidez, and at Cazaril, before echoing her brother’s question, in a voice gone serious: “What’s the difference?”
“One is the right to rule—and the duty to protect! T’ other is the right to receive protection,” replied the Provincara. “There is alas more difference between a provincar and a provincara than just the one letter.”
Teidez smirked. “Oh, like the difference between a royse and a royesse?”
Iselle turned on him and raised her brows. “Oh? And how do you propose to remove the corrupt judge—privileged boy?”
“That’s enough, you two,” said the Provincara sternly, in a voice that was pure grandmother. Cazaril hid a smile. Within these walls, she ruled, right enough, by an older code than Chalion’s. Hers was a sufficient little state.
The conversation turned to less lurid matters as the servants brought cakes, cheese, and a wine from Brajar. Cazaril had, surreptitiously he hoped, stuffed himself. If he didn’t stop soon, he would make himself sick. But the golden dessert wine almost sent him into tears at the table; that one, he drank unwatered, though he managed to limit himself to one glass.
At the end of the meal prayers were offered again, and Royse Teidez was dragged off by his tutor for studies. Iselle and Betriz were sent to do needlework. They departed at a gallop, followed at a more sedate pace by dy Ferrej.
“Will they actually sit still for needlework?” Cazaril asked the Provincara, watching the departing flurry of skirts.
“They gossip and giggle till I can’t bear it, but yes, they’re very handy,” said the Provincara, the disapproving purse of her lips belied by the warmth of her eyes.
“Your granddaughter is a delightful young lady.”
“To a man of a certain age, Cazaril, all young ladies start to look delightful. It’s the first symptom of senility.”
“True, my lady.” His lips twitched up.
“She’s worn out two governesses and looks to be bent on destroying a third, by the way the woman complains of her. And yet…” the Provincara’s tart voice grew slower, “she needs to be strong. Someday, inevitably, she will be sent far from me. And I will no longer be able to help her…protect her…”
An attractive, fresh young royesse was a pawn, not a player, in the politics of Chalion. Her bride-price would come high, but a politically and financially favorable marriage might not necessarily prove a good one in more intimate senses. The Dowager Provincara had been fortunate in her personal life, but in her long years had doubtless had opportunity to observe the whole range of marital fates awaiting highborn women. Would Iselle be sent to far Darthaca? Married off to some cousin in the too-close-related royacy of Brajar? Gods forbid she should be bartered away to the Roknari to seal some temporary peace, exiled to the Archipelago.
She studied him sidelong, in the light from the lavish branches of candles she had always favored. “How old are you now, Castillar? I thought you were about thirteen when your father sent you to serve my dear Provincar.”
“About that, yes, Your Grace. I’m thirty-five.”
“Ha. You should shave off that nasty mess growing out of your face, then. It makes you look fifteen years older than you are.”
Cazaril considered some quip about a turn in the Roknari galleys being very aging to a man, but he wasn’t quite up to it. Instead he said, “I hope I did not annoy the royse with my maunderings, my lady.”
“I believe you actually made young Teidez stop and think. A rare event. I wish his tutor could manage it more often.” She drummed her thin fingers briefly on the cloth and drained the last of her tiny glass of wine. She set it down, and added, “I don’t know what flea-ridden inn you’ve put up at down in town, Castillar, but I’ll dispatch a page for your things. You’ll lodge here tonight.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I accept with gratitude.” And alacrity. Thank the gods, oh, five times five, he was gathered in, at least temporarily. He hesitated, embarrassed. “But, ah…it won’t be necessary to trouble your page.”
She raised a brow at him. “That’s what they exist for. As
you may recall.”
“Yes, but”—he smiled briefly, and gestured down himself—“these are my things.”
At her pained look, he added weakly, “I had less, when I fell off the Ibran galley in Zagosur.” He’d been dressed in a breechclout of surpassing filthiness, and scabs. The acolytes had burned the rag at their first opportunity.
“Then my page,” said the Provincara in a precise voice, still regarding him levelly, “will escort you to your chamber. My lord Castillar.”
She added, as she made to rise, and her cousin-companion hastened to assist her, “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
THE CHAMBER WAS ONE IN THE OLD KEEP RESERVED for honored guests, more on account of having been slept in by several historical royas than for its absolute comfort; Cazaril had served its guests himself a hundred times. The bed had three mattresses, straw, feather, and down, and was dressed in the softest washed linen and a coverlet worked by ladies of the household. Before the page had left him, two maids arrived, bearing wash water, drinking water, towels, soap, a tooth-stick, and an embroidered nightgown, cap, and slippers. Cazaril had been planning to sleep in the dead man’s shirt.
It was abruptly all too much. Cazaril sat down on the edge of the bed with the nightgown in his hands and burst into wracking sobs. Gulping, he gestured the unnerved-looking servitors to leave him.
“What’s the matter with him?” he heard the maid’s voice, as their footsteps trailed off down the corridor, and the tears trailed down the inside of his nose.
The page answered disgustedly, “A madman, I suppose.”
After a short pause, the maid’s voice floated back faintly, “Well, he’ll fit right in here, then, won’t he…”
3
The sounds of the household stirring—calls from the courtyard, the distant clank of pots—woke Cazaril in the predawn gray. He opened his eyes to a moment of panicked disorientation, but the reassuring embrace of the feather bed drew him down again into drowsy repose. Not a hard bench. Not moving up and down. Not moving at all, oh five gods, that was very heaven. So warm, on his knotted back.
The Curse of Chalion Page 4
