The Curse of Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Is that all the coin we have?” asked Iselle.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” sighed Betriz.

  “Well, he’ll just have to pawn the jewelry when he gets to Valenda, or some other safe place.” Iselle wrapped the silk around the gauds and shoved them across the table to Cazaril. “Your purse, my lord. Daughter grant it is enough to get you there and back.”

  “More than enough, if I am not cheated.”

  “Mind you, this is to spend, not save. You are to put on a good show as my representative in Ibra. Remember to dress. And Royse Bergon is to travel in a style befitting his rank and mine, and no shame to Chalion.”

  “That could be tricky. I mean, without the army. I will bend my thoughts to it. Much will depend on, well, a number of unsettled things. Which reminds me. We must have a secure means of communication. Dy Jironal or his spies will surely be making all efforts to intercept any letters you receive.”

  “Ah.”

  “There is a very simple cipher that is nonetheless nearly impossible to break. It depends upon having two copies of the same printing of some book. One goes with me, one stays with you two. Three-number sequences pick out words—page number, line number, and rank in the line—which the recipient then works backward to find the word again. You do not always use the same numberings for the same words, but find them on another page, if you can. There are better ciphers, but there is no time to teach them to you. I, uh…have not two of any book, though.”

  “I will find two such books before you leave tomorrow,” said Betriz sturdily.

  “Thank you.” Cazaril rubbed his forehead. It was madness to undertake to ride, sick and maybe bleeding, over the mountains in midwinter. He would fall off his horse into the snows and freeze, and he and his horse and his letters of authorization would all be eaten by the wolves.

  “Iselle. My heart is willing. But my body is occupied territory, half­laid waste. I am afraid I will fail in the journey. My friend March dy Palliar is a good rider and a strong sword arm. May I offer him as your envoy instead?”

  Iselle frowned in thought. “I think it will be a duel of wits with the Fox for the hand of Bergon, not a duel of steel. Better to send the wits to Ibra and keep the sword in Chalion.”

  Beguiling thought, to leave Iselle and Betriz not unguarded after all, but with a strong friend to call upon…a friend with friends, aye. “In either case, may I bring him into our councils tomorrow?”

  Iselle glanced across at Betriz; Cazaril did not see any clear signal pass between them, but Iselle nodded decisively. “Yes. Bring him to me at the earliest possible instant.”

  The royesse pulled another piece of paper toward her and picked up a fresh quill. “Now I shall write a personal letter to the Royse Bergon, which you shall take sealed and pass to him unopened. And after that”—she sighed—“the letter to my mother. I think you cannot help me with either of these. Go get some sleep, while you can.”

  Dismissed, he rose and bowed.

  As he reached the door, she added softly, “I’m glad it shall be you to tell her the news, Cazaril, and not some random Chancellery courier. Though it will be hard.” She drew a deep breath and bent to the paper. The candlelight made her amber hair glow in an aureole about her abstracted face. Cazaril left her in the pool of light, and stepped into the darkness of the cold corridor.

  CAZARIL WAS AWAKENED AT DAWN BY INSISTENT KNOCKING at his chamber door. When he stumbled out of bed and went to unlock it he found not the page with some summons that he’d expected, but Palli.

  The normally neat Palli looked as though he had dressed in the dark, by guess; his hair was bent with sleep and sticking out in odd directions. His eyes were wide and dark. The yawning dy Gura brothers, looking sleepy but cheerful, smiled at Cazaril from their station in the corridor as Palli shouldered within. Cazaril handed out his bedside candle for the taller of them, Ferda, to light from the wall sconce; he handed it back to his lord and commander Palli, who took it with hands that shook slightly. Palli didn’t speak till the door closed behind him and Cazaril.

  “Bastard’s demons, Caz! What is all this about?”

  “Which what?” asked Cazaril in some confusion.

  Palli lit another brace of candles on Cazaril’s washstand and whirled about. “Pray for guidance, you said. In my sleep, if you please. I was killed five times in my dreams last night, I’ll have you know. Riding somewhere. Each time more horribly. In the last dream, my horses ate me. I don’t want to put my leg across anything, horse, mule, or sawhorse, for a week at least!”

  “Oh.” Cazaril blinked, taking this in. It seemed clear enough. “In that case, I don’t want you to ride anywhere.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I must go myself.”

  “Go where? In this weather? It’s snowing now, you know.”

  “Ah, it wanted only that. Hasn’t anyone told you yet? Royse Teidez died about midnight last night, of his infected wound.”

  Palli’s face abruptly sobered; his mouth formed a silent “O.” “That changes things in Chalion.”

  “Indeed. Let me dress, and then come upstairs with me.” Hastily, Cazaril splashed chill water on his face and shrugged into yesterday’s clothes.

  In the chambers above, Cazaril found Betriz also still dressed in last night’s black-and-lavender court mourning. It was plain she had not yet slept. Cazaril drew the dy Gura brothers out of sight of the corridor and closed them in his office antechamber. He and Palli entered the sitting room.

  Betriz’s hand touched a sealed packet waiting on a small table. “All the letters are ready to go to”—she glanced at Palli and hesitated—“Valenda.”

  “Is Iselle asleep?” Cazaril asked quietly.

  “Resting only. She’ll want to see you. Both.” Betriz disappeared into the bedchambers for a moment, from which floated low murmuring, then returned with a pair of books under her arm.

  “I sneaked down to the roya’s library and found two identical volumes. There weren’t many true duplicates. I thought I’d better take the biggest, so as to have more words to choose from.”

  “Good,” said Cazaril, and took one from her. He glanced at it, and choked back a black laugh. Ordol, read the gold letters on the spine. The Fivefold Pathway. “Perfect. I need to brush up on my theology.” He laid it down with the packet of letters.

  Iselle emerged, wrapped in a heavy blue velvet dressing gown from which the white lace of her nightgown peeped. Her amber hair cascaded down across her shoulders. Her face was as pale and puffy with lack of sleep as Betriz’s. She nodded to Cazaril and to Palli. “My lord dy Palliar. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

  “I, uh…” said Palli. He cast a rather desperate glance at Cazaril, What am I agreeing to?

  “Will he ride for you?” Betriz asked Cazaril anxiously. “You should not attempt this, you know you should not.”

  “Ah…no. Palli, instead I’m asking you to swear service and protection to the Royesse Iselle, personally, in the names of the gods, and especially the Lady of Spring. There is no treason in this; she is the rightful Heiress of Chalion. And you will thus have the honor of being the first of her courtiers to do so.”

  “I, I, I…I can swear my fealty in addition to what I have sworn to your brother Orico, lady. I cannot swear to you instead of to him.”

  “I do not ask for your service before what you give to Orico. I only ask for your service before what you give to Orico’s chancellor.”

  “Now, that I can do,” said Palli, brightening. “And with a will.” He kissed Iselle’s forehead, hands, and slippers, and, still kneeling before her skirts, swore the oaths of a lord of Chalion, witnessed by Betriz and Cazaril. He added, still on his knees, “What would you think, Royesse, of Lord dy Yarrin as the next holy general of the Daughter’s Order?”

  “I think…such great preferences are not yet mine to give. But he would certainly be more acceptable to me than any candidate from dy Jironal’s clan.”

  Palli nodded slow app
roval of her measured words and rose to his feet. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Iselle will need all the practical support you can give her, all through the funeral for Teidez,” said Cazaril to Palli. “He is to be buried in Valenda. Might I suggest she select your troop from Palliar to be part of the royse’s cortege? It will give you good excuse to confer often, and will assure that you are by her side when she rides out of Cardegoss.”

  “Oh, quick thinking,” said Iselle.

  Cazaril didn’t feel quick. He felt his wits were laboring along after Iselle’s as though in boots coated with twenty pounds of mud. Each. The authority that had fallen to her last night seemed to have released some coiled energy within her; she burned with it, inside her cocoon of darkness. He was afraid to close his eyes, lest he see it blazing in there still.

  “But must you ride alone, Cazaril?” asked Betriz unhappily. “I don’t like that.”

  Iselle pursed her lips. “As far as Valenda, I think he must. There is scarcely anyone in Cardegoss I would trust to dispatch with him.” She studied Cazaril in doubt. “In Valenda, perhaps my grandmother may supply men. In truth, you should not arrive at the Fox’s court alone and unattended. I don’t want us to appear desperate to him.” She added a trifle bitterly, “Although we are.”

  Betriz plucked at her black velvets. “But what if you fall ill on the road? Suppose your tumor grows worse? And who would know to burn your body if you die?”

  Palli’s head swiveled round. “Tumor? Cazaril! What is this, now?”

  “Cazaril, didn’t you tell him? I thought he was your friend!” Betriz turned to Palli. “He means to jump on a horse and ride—ride!—off to Ibra with a great uncanny murderous tumor in his gut, and no help on the road. I don’t think that’s brave, I think it’s stupid. To Ibra he must go, for want of any other equal to the deed, but not alone like this!”

  Palli sat back, his thumb across his lips, and studied Cazaril through narrowing eyes. He said at last, “I thought you looked sick.”

  “Yes, well, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “Um…just how bad…I mean, um, are you…”

  “Am I dying? Yes. How soon? No one knows. Which makes my life different from yours, as Learned Umegat points out, not at all. Well, who wants to die in bed?”

  “You did, you always said. Of extreme old age, in bed, with somebody’s wife.”

  “Mine, by preference,” Cazaril sighed. “Ah, well.” He managed not to look at Betriz. “My death is the gods’ problem. For me, I ride as soon as a horse can be saddled.” He grunted to his feet, and collected the book and the packet.

  Palli glanced at Betriz, who clenched her hands together and stared beseechingly at him. He muttered an oath under his breath, stood, and strode abruptly to the door to the antechamber, which he jerked open. Foix dy Gura, his ear to the other side, staggered upright, and blinked and smiled at his commander. His brother Ferda, leaning on the opposite wall, snorted.

  “Hello, boys,” said Palli smoothly. “I have a little task for you.”

  CAZARIL, PALLI AT HIS HEELS, STRODE OUT THE ZANGRE gates dressed for winter riding, the saddlebag slung over his shoulder heavy with a change of clothes, a small fortune, theology, and arguable treason.

  He found the dy Gura brothers already in the stable yard before him. Sped back to Yarrin Palace by Palli’s urgent orders, they had also changed out of their blue-and-white court dress into garb more practical for riding, with tall and well-worn boots.

  Betriz was with them, wrapped in a white wool cloak. They had their heads close together, and Betriz was gesticulating emphatically. Foix glanced up to see Cazaril approaching; his broad face set in a sober and rather intimidated expression. He made a motion, and said something; Betriz glanced over her shoulder, and the conversation abruptly ceased. The brothers turned around and made small bows to Cazaril. Betriz stared at him steadily, as if his face were some lesson he’d set her to memorize.

  “Ferda!” said Palli. The horse-master came to attention before him. Palli withdrew two letters from his vest-cloak, one sealed, one merely folded. “This”—he handed the folded paper to Ferda—“is a letter of authorization from me, as a lord dedicat of the Daughter’s Order, entitling you to whatever assistance you may need to draft from our sister chapters on your journey. Any costs to be settled up with me at Palliar. This other”—he handed across the sealed letter—“is for you to open in Valenda.”

  Ferda nodded, and tucked them both away. The second letter of hand put the dy Gura brothers under Cazaril’s command in the name of the Daughter, with no other details. Their trip to Ibra was going to make an interesting surprise for them.

  Palli walked about them, inspecting with a commander’s eye. “You have enough warm clothes? Armed for bandits?” They displayed polished swords and readied crossbows—bowstrings protected from dampness, with a sufficiency of quarrels—gear all in good condition. Only a few flakes of snow now spun through the moist air to land on wool and leather and hair, there to melt to small droplets. The dawn snowfall had proved a mere dusting, here in town. In the hills it would likely be heavier.

  From beneath her cloak, Betriz produced a fluffy white object. Cazaril blinked it into focus as a fur hat in the style of Chalion’s hardy southern mountaineers, with flaps meant to be folded down over the ears with the fur inward and tied under the chin. While both men and women wore similar styles, this one was clearly meant for a lady, in white rabbit skin with flowers brocaded in gold thread over the crown. “Cazaril, I thought you might need this in the high passes.”

  Foix raised his brows and grinned, and Ferda snickered behind his hand. “Fetching,” he said.

  Betriz reddened. “It was the only thing I could find in the time I had,” she said defensively. “Better than having your ears freeze!”

  “Indeed,” said Cazaril gravely. “I do not have so good a hat. I shall be very grateful.” Ignoring the grinning youths, he took it from her and knelt to pack it carefully in his saddlebag. It wasn’t just a gesture to gratify Betriz, though he smiled inwardly at her sniff in Ferda’s direction; when the brothers met the winter wind in the border mountains, those grins would vanish soon enough.

  Iselle appeared through the gates, in a velvet cloak so dark a purple as to be almost black, attended by a shivering Chancellery clerk who handed over a numbered courier’s baton in exchange for Cazaril’s signature in his ledger. He clapped the ledger shut and scurried back over the drawbridge and out of the cold.

  “You were able to get dy Jironal’s order?” Cazaril inquired, tucking the baton into a secure inner pocket of his coat. The baton would command its bearer fresh horses, food, and clean, if hard and narrow, beds in any Chancellery posting house on the main roads across Chalion.

  “Not dy Jironal’s. Orico’s. Orico is still roya in Chalion, though even the Chancellery clerk had to be reminded of the fact.” Iselle snorted softly. “The gods go with you, Cazaril.”

  “Alas, yes,” he sighed, then realized that had been not an observation, but a farewell. He bowed his head to kiss her chilled hands. Betriz eyed him sideways. He hesitated, then cleared his throat and took her hands as well. Her fingers spasmed around his at the touch of his lips, and her breath drew in, but her eyes stared away over his head. He straightened to see the dy Gura brothers shrinking under her glower.

  A Zangre groom led out three saddled courier horses. Palli clasped hands with his cousins. Ferda took the reins of what proved to be Cazaril’s horse, a rangy roan that matched his height. The muscular Foix hastened to give him a leg up, and as he settled in the saddle with a faint grunt inquired anxiously, “Are you all right, sir?”

  They hadn’t even started yet; what had Betriz been telling them? “Yes, it’s all fine,” Cazaril assured him. “Thank you.” Ferda presented him with his reins, and Foix assisted him in tying on his precious saddlebags. Ferda leapt lightly aboard his horse, his brother climbed more heavily onto his, and they started out of the stable yard. Cazari
l turned in his saddle to watch Iselle and Betriz making their way back across the drawbridge and through the Zangre’s great gate. Betriz looked back, and raised her hand high; Cazaril returned the salute. Then the horses rounded the first corner, and the buildings of Cardegoss hid the gate from his view. A single crow followed them, swooping from gutter to cornice.

  On the first street, they met Chancellor dy Jironal riding slowly up from Jironal Palace, flanked by two armed retainers on foot. He’d obviously been home to wash and eat and change his clothes, and attend to his more urgent correspondence. Judging from his gray face and bloodshot eyes, he’d had no more sleep than Iselle the night past.

  Dy Jironal reined in, and gave Cazaril an odd little salute. “Where away, Lord Cazaril”—his eye took in the light courier saddles, stamped with the castle-and-leopard of Chalion—“upon my Chancellery’s horses?”

  Cazaril returned a half bow from his saddle. “Valenda, my lord. The Royesse Iselle decided she did not want some stranger bearing the bad news to her mother and grandmother, and has dispatched me as her courier.”

  “Mad Ista, eh?” Dy Jironal’s lips screwed up. “I do not envy you that task.”

  “Indeed.” Cazaril let his voice go hopeful. “Order me back to Iselle’s side, and I shall obey you at once.”

  “No, no.” Dy Jironal’s lip curled just slightly in satisfaction. “I can think of no man more fitted for this sad duty. Ride on. Oh—when do you mean to return?”

  “I’m not yet sure. Iselle desired me to be sure her mother was going to be all right before I returned. I do not expect Ista to take the news well.”

  “Truly. Well, we’ll watch for you.”

  I wager you will. He and dy Jironal exchanged guarded nods, and the two parties rode on in their opposite directions. Cazaril glanced back to catch dy Jironal glancing back, just before he turned the corner toward the Zangre’s gates. Dy Jironal would know no ambush could now catch Cazaril’s start on the courier horses. The return was another opportunity. Except that I won’t be coming back on this road.