The Curse Of Chalion Part 32

"Should we not take more men, lord?"

"No, I don't think so..."

Leaving Bergon and Ferda to direct the mopping-up, Cazaril at last headed for the gate. Foix followed, staring as Cazaril turned without hesitation down a path into the pines. As they walked along it, the cries of the crows grew louder. Cazaril braced himself. The path opened out onto the edge of a steep ravine.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l," whispered Foix. He lowered his bow and touched the five theological points, forehead-lip-navel-groin-heart, in a warding gesture.

They'd found the bodies.

They were thrown upon the midden, tumbled down the edge of the creva.s.se atop years of kitchen and stable yard waste. One younger man, two older; in this rural place it was not possible to distinguish certainly master from man by dress, as all wore practical working leathers and woolens. The woman, plump and homely and middle-aged, was stripped naked, as was the boy, who appeared to have been about five. Both mutilated according to a cruel humor. Violated, too, probably. Dead about a day, Cazaril judged by the progress the crows had made. The woman-ghost was weeping silently, and the child-ghost clung to her and wailed. They were not G.o.d-rejected souls, then, just sundered, still dizzied from their deaths and unable to find their way without proper ceremonies.

Cazaril fell to his knees, and whispered, "Lady. If I am alive in this place, you must be, too. If it please you, give these poor spirits ease."

The ghostly faces changed, rippling from woe to wonder; the insubstantial bodies blurred like sun diffractions in a high, feathered cloud, then vanished.

After about a minute Cazaril said muzzily, "Help me up, please."

The bewildered Foix levered him up with a hand under his elbow. Cazaril staggered around and started back up the path.

"My lord, should we not look around for others?"

"No, that's all."

Foix followed him without another word.

In the slate-paved courtyard, they found Ferda and an armed groom just emerging again from the main doorway.

"Did you find anyone else?" Cazaril asked him.

"No, my lord."

Beside the door, only the young male ghost still lingered, although its luminescent body seemed to be ribboning away like smoke in a wind. It writhed in a kind of agony, gesturing Cazaril on. What dire urgency was it that turned it from the open arms of the G.o.ddess to cling to this wounded world? "Yes, yes, I'm coming," Cazaril told it.

It slipped inside; Cazaril motioned Foix and Ferda, looking uneasily at him, to follow on. They pa.s.sed through the main hall and under a gallery, back through the kitchens, and down some wooden stairs to a dark, stone-walled storeroom.

"Did you search in here?" Cazaril called over his shoulder.

"Yes, my lord," said Ferda.

"Get more light." He stared intently at the ghost, which was now circling the room in agitation, whirling in a tightening spiral. Cazaril pointed. "Move those barrels."

Foix rolled them aside. Ferda clattered back down from the kitchen with a brace of tallow candles, their flames yellow and smoky but bright in the gloom. Concealed beneath the barrels they found a stone slab in the floor with an iron ring set in it. Cazaril motioned to Foix again; the boy grabbed the ring and strained, and shifted the slab up and aside, revealing narrow steps descending into utter blackness.

From below, a faint voice cried out.

The ghost bent to Cazaril, seeming to kiss his forehead, hands, and feet, and then streamed away into eternity. A faint blue sparkle, like a chord of music made visible, glittered for a moment in Cazaril's second sight, and was gone. Ferda, the candles in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, cautiously descended the stone steps.

Clamor and babble wafted back up through the dank slot. In a few moments, Ferda appeared again, supporting up the stairs a disheveled stout old man, his face bruised and battered, his legs shaking. Following in his wake, weeping for gladness, a dozen other equally shattered people climbed one by one.

The freed prisoners all fell upon Ferda and Foix with questions and tales at once, inundating them; Cazaril leaned un.o.btrusively upon a barrel and pieced together the picture. The stout man proved the real Castillar dy Zavar, a distraught middle-aged woman his castillara, and two young people a son and a-in Cazaril's view, miraculously spared-daughter. The rest were servants and dependents of this rural household.

Dy Joal and his troop had descended upon them yesterday, at first seeming merely rough travelers. Only when a couple of the bravos had made to molest the castillar's cook, and her husband and the real castle warder had gone to her defense and attempted to eject the unwelcome visitors, had steel been drawn. It truly was the house's custom to take in benighted or storm-threatened wayfarers from the road over the pa.s.s. No one here had known or recognized dy Joal or any of his men.

The old castillar gripped Ferda's cloak anxiously. "My elder son, does he live? Have you seen him? He went to my castle warder's aid..."

"Was he a young man of about these men's age"-Cazaril nodded to the dy Gura brothers-"dressed in wool and leathers like your own?"

"Aye..." The old man's face drained in antic.i.p.ation.

"He is in the care of the G.o.ds, and much comforted there," Cazaril reported factually.

Cries of grief greeted this news; wearily, Cazaril mounted the stairs to the kitchen in the mob's wake, as they spread out to regain their house, recover their dead, and care for the wounded.

"My lord," Ferda murmured to him, as Cazaril paused briefly to warm himself by the kitchen fire, "had you ever been to this house before?"

"No."

"Then how did you-I heard nothing, when I looked in that cellar. I would have left those poor people to die of thirst and hunger and madness in the dark."

"I think dy Joal's men would have confessed to them, before the night was done." Cazaril frowned grimly. "Among the many other things I intend to learn from them."

The captured bravos, under a duress Cazaril was happy to allow and the freed hous.e.m.e.n eager to supply, told their half of the tale soon enough. They were a mixed lot, including some lawless and impoverished discharged soldiers who had followed the grizzled man, and a few local hirelings, one of whom had led them to dy Zavar's holding for sake of its amazing vantage of the road from its highest tower. Dy Joal, riding to the Ibran border alone and in a hurry, had picked them all up from a town at the foot of these mountains, where they had formerly eked out a living alternating between guarding travelers and robbing them.

The bravos knew only that dy Joal had come there looking to waylay a man expected to be riding over the pa.s.ses from Ibra. They did not know who their new employer really was, although they'd despised his courtier's clothes and mannerisms. It was abundantly clear to Cazaril that dy Joal had not been in control of the men he'd hastily hired. When the altercation about the cook had tipped over into violence, he'd not had either the nerve or the muscle to stop it, administer discipline, or restore order before events had run their ugly course.

Bergon, disturbed, drew Cazaril aside in the flickering torchlight of the courtyard where this rough-and-ready interrogation was taking place. "Caz, did I bring this wretched chance down upon poor dy Zavar's good people?"

"No, Royse. It's clear dy Joal was expecting only me, riding back as Iselle's courier. Chancellor dy Jironal has sought to tear me from her service for some time-secretly a.s.sa.s.sinate me, if there proved no other way. How I wish I hadn't killed that fool! I'd give my teeth to know how much dy Jironal knows by now."

"Are you sure the chancellor set this trap?"

Cazaril hesitated. "Dy Joal had a personal grudge against me, but...the world knew merely that I'd ridden to Valenda. Dy Joal could only have had surmise of my true route from dy Jironal. Therefore, we may be certain dy Jironal had some report of me from his spies in Ibra. His knowledge of our real aim lags-but not, I think, by much. Dy Joal was a stopgap, hurriedly dispatched. And certainly not the only such agent. Something else must follow."

"How soon?"

"I don't know. Dy Jironal commands the Order of the Son; he can draw on its men as soon as he can evolve a plausible enough lie by which to move them."

Bergon tapped his sheathed sword against his leather-clad thigh, and frowned up at the sky, which was clearing as evening fell. The mountain spines to the west were black silhouettes against a lingering green glow, and the first stars shone overhead. The grizzled man's tale of an approaching blizzard had proved a mere decoy, although a light snow squall that had blown through earlier might have been the seed of the idea. "The moon is nearly full, and will be well up by midnight. If we ride both night and day, perchance we can push across this disturbed country before dy Jironal can bring up any more reinforcements."

Cazaril nodded. "Let him rush his men to patrol a border that we're already across? Good. I like it."

Bergon studied him in doubt. "But...will you be able to ride, Caz?"

"I'd rather ride than fight."

Bergon sighed agreement. "Yes."

THE GRATEFUL, GRIEVING C CASTILLAR DY Z ZAVAR pressed all the refreshment his disrupted household could spare upon them. Bergon decided to leave the mules, injured grooms, and lamed horses in his care, to follow on when they could, and lighten his own party thereby. Ferda selected the fastest, soundest horses, and made sure they were rubbed down well and fed and rested until time to start. March dy Sould had recovered after a few hours of rest in this more nourishing air, and insisted on accompanying the royse. Dy Cembuer, who had suffered a broken arm and some freely bleeding cuts in the courtyard fight, undertook to stay with the grooms and baggage and a.s.sist dy Zavar until all were ready to travel. pressed all the refreshment his disrupted household could spare upon them. Bergon decided to leave the mules, injured grooms, and lamed horses in his care, to follow on when they could, and lighten his own party thereby. Ferda selected the fastest, soundest horses, and made sure they were rubbed down well and fed and rested until time to start. March dy Sould had recovered after a few hours of rest in this more nourishing air, and insisted on accompanying the royse. Dy Cembuer, who had suffered a broken arm and some freely bleeding cuts in the courtyard fight, undertook to stay with the grooms and baggage and a.s.sist dy Zavar until all were ready to travel.

The problem of justice upon the brigands, Cazaril was relieved to leave to their victims. Bergon's midnight departure would spare them having to witness the hangings at dawn. He left the scattered portion of Dondo's pearls for the stricken household to collect, and tucked the remains of the rope back in his saddlebag.

The royse's cavalcade took to the road again when the moon rose over the hills before them, filling the snowy vales with liquid light. There would be no turning aside now before Valenda.

24.

They retraced Cazaril's outbound route across western Chalion, changing horses at obscure rural posts of the Daughter's Order. At every stop he inquired anxiously for any further ciphered messages from Iselle or news from Valenda that might reveal the tactical situation into which they rushed. He grew increasingly uneasy at the absence of letters. In the original plan, they had envisioned Iselle waiting with her grandmother and mother, guarded by her uncle dy Baocia's troops. Cazaril feared this ideal condition no longer held. route across western Chalion, changing horses at obscure rural posts of the Daughter's Order. At every stop he inquired anxiously for any further ciphered messages from Iselle or news from Valenda that might reveal the tactical situation into which they rushed. He grew increasingly uneasy at the absence of letters. In the original plan, they had envisioned Iselle waiting with her grandmother and mother, guarded by her uncle dy Baocia's troops. Cazaril feared this ideal condition no longer held.

They checked at midevening twenty-five miles short of Valenda at the village of Palma. The region around Palma was noted for its fine pasturage; a post of the Daughter's Order there devoted itself to raising and training remounts for the Temple. Cazaril was certain of obtaining fresh horses in Palma. He prayed for fresh intelligence as well.

Cazaril did not so much dismount from his blown horse as fall slowly, all in a piece, as if his body were carved from a single block of wood. Both Ferda and Foix had to support him through the order's sprawling compound. They brought him into a shabbily comfortable chamber, where a bright fire burned in a fieldstone fireplace. A plain pine table had been hastily cleared of someone's card game. The dedicat-commander of the post hurried in to wait upon them. The man glanced uncertainly from dy Tagille to dy Sould; his gaze pa.s.sed over Bergon, who'd dressed as a groom since the border for caution's sake. The commander fell into apologetic confusion when the royse was introduced, and sent his lieutenant scurrying for food and drink to offer his distinguished company.

Cazaril sat by the table in a cushioned chair, wonderfully unlike a saddle even if the room did still seem to be rocking around him. He was beginning to dislike horses almost as much as he disliked boats. His head felt stuffed with wool, and his body didn't bear thinking about. He broke into the exchange of courtly amenities to croak, "What word have you from Valenda? Do you hold any new messages from the Royesse Iselle?" Ferda pressed a gla.s.s of watered wine into his hand, and he gulped half of it at once.

The dedicat-commander gave him a little understanding headshake, his lips tightening. "Chancellor dy Jironal marched a thousand more of his men into the town last week. He has another thousand bivouacked along the river. They patrol the countryside, looking for you. Searchers have stopped here twice. He holds Valenda tight in his grip."

"Didn't Provincar dy Baocia have any men there?"

"Yes, two companies, but they were badly outnumbered. No one would start the fight at Royse Teidez's interment, and after that they dared not."

"Have you heard from March dy Palliar?"

"He used to bring the letters. We've had no direct word from the royesse for five days. It's rumored that she is very ill and sees no one."

Bergon's eyes widened in alarm. Cazaril squinted and rubbed his aching head. "Ill? Iselle? Well...maybe. Or else held close-confined by dy Jironal, and the illness a tale put about." Had one of Cazaril's letters fallen into the wrong hands? He had feared they might have to either spirit the royesse out of Valenda, or break her free by force of arms, preferably the former. He hadn't planned what to do if she had fallen, perhaps, too sick to ride at this critical moment.

His muzzy brain evolved a mad vision of somehow sneaking Bergon in to her, over the rooftops and balconies like a lover in a poem. No. A night of secret love between them might break the curse, channel it back somehow to the G.o.ds who had spilled it, but he couldn't see how it would miraculously make away with two thousand or so very fleshly soldiers.

"Does Orico still live?" he asked at last.

"As far as we've heard."

"We can do nothing more tonight." He wouldn't trust any plan that came out of his tired brain tonight. "Tomorrow, Foix and Ferda and I will go into Valenda on foot, in disguise, and reconnoiter. I promise you I can pa.s.s for a road vagabond. If we can't see our way clear, then fall back to Provincar dy Baocia's people in Taryoon, and plan again."

"Can you walk, my lord?" asked Foix in a dubious voice. you walk, my lord?" asked Foix in a dubious voice.

Right now, he wasn't sure if he could stand up. He glowered helplessly at Foix, who was tired but resilient, pink rather than gray after days in the saddle. Youth. Eh. "By tomorrow, I will." He rubbed his face. "Do dy Jironal's men realize they are not guardians but prison-keepers? That they are being led into possible treason against the rightful Heiress?"

The dedicat-commander sat back, and opened his hands. "Such charges are being flung about like s...o...b..a.l.l.s from both parties right now. Rumors that the royesse has sent agents into Ibra to contract a marriage with the new Heir are flying everywhere." He gave Royse Bergon an apologetic nod.

So much for the secrecy of his mission. He considered the pitfalls of potential party lines in Chalion. Iselle and Orico versus dy Jironal, all right. Iselle versus Orico and Dy Jironal...hideously dangerous.

"The news has had a mixed reception," the commander continued. "The ladies look on Bergon with approval and want to make a romance of it all, because it's said that he is brave and well-favored. Soberer heads worry that Iselle may sell Chalion to the Fox, because she is, ah, young and inexperienced."

In other words, foolish and flighty. foolish and flighty. Sober heads had much to learn. Cazaril's lips drew back on a dry grin. "No," he mumbled. "We have not done that." He realized that he was speaking to his knees, his forehead having unaccountably sunk to the table and anch.o.r.ed there. Sober heads had much to learn. Cazaril's lips drew back on a dry grin. "No," he mumbled. "We have not done that." He realized that he was speaking to his knees, his forehead having unaccountably sunk to the table and anch.o.r.ed there.

After about a minute Bergon's voice murmured gently in his ear, "Caz? Are you awake?"

"Mm."

"Would you like to go to bed, my lord?" the dedicat-commander inquired after another pause.

"Mm."

He whimpered a little as strong hands under each arm forced him to his feet. Ferda and Foix, leading him off somewhere, cruelly. The table had been soft enough...He didn't even remember falling into the bed.

SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HIS SHOULDER.

A hideously cheerful voice bellowed in his ear, "Rise and ride, Captain Sunshine!"

He spasmed and clawed at his covers, tried to sit up, and thought better of the effort. He pulled open his glued-shut eyelids, blinking in the candlelight. The ident.i.ty of the voice finally penetrated. "Palli! You're alive!" He meant to shout joyfully. At least it came out audibly. "What time is it?" He struggled again to sit up, making it onto one elbow. He seemed to be in some evicted officer-dedicat's plainly furnished bedchamber.

"About an hour before dawn. We've been riding all night. Iselle sent me to find you." He raised his brace of candles higher. Bergon was standing anxiously at his shoulder, and Foix too. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d's demons, Caz, you look like death on a trencher."

"That...has been observed." He lay back down. Palli was here. Palli was here, and all was well. He could shove Bergon and all his burdens off onto him, lie here, and not get up. Die alone and in peace, taking Dondo out of the world with him. "Take Royse Bergon and his company to Iselle. Leave me-"

"What, for dy Jironal's patrols to find? Not if I value my future fortune as a courtier! Iselle wants you safe with her in Taryoon."

"Taryoon? Not Valenda?" He blinked. "Safe?" This time he did struggle up, and all the way to his feet, where he pa.s.sed out.

The black fog lifted, and he found Bergon, round-eyed, holding him slumped on the edge of the bed.

"Sit a minute with your head down," Palli advised.

Cazaril obediently bent over his aching belly. If Dondo had visited him last night, he'd not been home. The ghost had kicked him a few times in his sleep, though, it felt like. From the inside out.

Bergon said softly, "He ate nothing when we came in last night. He collapsed straightaway, and we put him to bed."

"Right," said Palli, and jerked his thumb at the hovering Foix, who nodded and slipped out of the room.

"Taryoon?" Cazaril mumbled from the vicinity of his knees.

"Aye. She gave all two thousand of dy Jironal's men the slip, she did. Well, first of all, before that, her uncle dy Baocia pulled his men out and went home. The fools let him go; thought it was a danger removed from their midst. Yes, and made free to move at will! Then Iselle rode out five days running, always with a troop of dy Jironal's cavalry for escort, and gave them more exercise than they cared for. Had 'em absolutely convinced she meant to escape while riding. So when she and Lady Betriz went walking out one day with old Lady dy Hueltar, they let her go by. I was waiting with two saddled horses, and two women to change cloaks with 'em and go back with the old lady. We were gone down that ravine so fast...The old Provincara undertook to conceal she'd flown for as long as possible, pa.s.s it off that she was ill in her mother's chambers. They've doubtless tumbled to it by now, but I'll wager she was safe with her uncle in Taryoon before Valenda knew she was gone. Five G.o.ds, those girls can ride! Sixty miles cross-country between dusk and dawn under a full moon, and only one change of horses."

"Girls?" said Cazaril. "Is Lady Betriz safe, too?"

"Oh, aye. Both of 'em chipper as songbirds, when I left 'em. Made me feel old."

Cazaril squinted up at Palli, five years his junior, but let this pa.s.s. "Ser dy Ferrej...the Provincara, Lady Ista?"

Palli's face sobered. "Still hostages in Valenda. They all told the girls to go on, you know."

"Ah."