The Curse Of Chalion Part 38

"The ladies would hit us. Lips are a safe compromise, being as it were a stand-in or stepping-stone to the greater mysteries."

"Hah. Anyway, I desire all of her. Nose and lips and feet and all the parts between, and her soul, without which her mere body would be all still and cold and claylike, and start to rot, and be not an object of desire at all all."

"Agh!" Palli ran his hand through his hair. "My friend, you do not understand romance."

"I promise you, I do not understand anything anymore. I am gloriously bewildered." He lay back in his cushions and laughed softly.

Palli snorted, and bent forward to pick up the paper from the top of the pile, the only one so far with writing on it. He glanced down it, and his brows rose. "What's this? This isn't about ladies' noses." His face sobered; his gaze traveled back to the top of the page, and down once more. "In fact, I'm not just sure what it's about. Although it makes the hairs stand up on the backs of my arms..."

"Oh, that. It's nothing, I fear. I was trying-but it wasn't"-Cazaril's hands waved helplessly, and came back to touch his brow-"it wasn't what I saw." He added in explanation, "I thought in poetry the words might bear more freight, exist on both sides of the wall between the worlds, as people do. So far I'm just creating waste paper, fit only for lighting a fire."

"Hm," said Palli. Un.o.btrusively, he folded up the paper and tucked it inside his vest-cloak.

"I'll try again," sighed Cazaril. "Maybe I can get it right someday. I must write some hymns to matter, too. Birds. Stones. That would please the Lady, I think."

Palli blinked. "To lure Her closer?"

"Might."

"Dangerous stuff, this poetry. I think I'll stick to action, myself."

Cazaril grinned at him. "Watch out, my lord Dedicat. Action can be prayer, too."

Whispers and m.u.f.fled giggles sounded from the end of the gallery. Cazaril looked up to see some servant women and boys crouched behind the carved railings, peeking through at him. Palli followed his glance. One girl popped up boldly and waved at them. Amiably, Cazaril waved back. The giggles rose to a crescendo, and the women scurried off. Palli scratched his ear and regarded Cazaril with wry inquiry.

Cazaril explained, "People have been sneaking in all morning to see the spot where poor dy Jironal was struck down. If he's not careful, Lord dy Baocia will lose his nice new courtyard to a shrine."

Palli cleared his throat. "Actually, Caz, they're sneaking in to peek at you you. A couple of dy Baocia's servants are charging admission to conduct the curious in and out of the palace. I was of two minds whether to quash the enterprise, but if they're bothering you, I will..." He shifted, as if to rise.

"Oh. Oh, no, don't trouble them. I have made a great deal of extra work for the palace servants. Let them profit a bit."

Palli snorted, but shrugged acquiescence. "And you still have no fever?"

"I wasn't sure at first, but no. That physician finally let me eat, although not enough. I am healing, I think."

"That's a miracle in itself, worth a vaida to see."

"Yes. I'm not quite sure if putting me back into the world this way was a parting gift of the Lady, or just a chance benefit of Her need to have someone on this side to hold open the gate for Her. Ordol was right about the G.o.ds being parsimonious. Well, it's all right either way. We shall surely meet again someday." He leaned back, staring into the sky, the Lady's own blue. His lips curled up, unwilled.

"You were the soberest fellow I ever met, and now you grin all the time. Caz, are you sure She got your soul back in right way round?"

Cazaril laughed out loud. "Maybe not! You know how it is when you travel. You pack all your things in your saddlebags, and by the journey's end, they seem to have doubled in volume and are hanging out every which way, even though you'd swear you added nothing..." He patted his thigh. "Perhaps I am just not packed into this battered old case as neatly as I used to be."

Palli shook his head in wonder. "And so now you leak poetry. Huh."

TEN MORE DAYS OF HEALING LEFT C CAZARIL NOT AT all bored with resting, if only his ease were not so empty of the people he desired. At last his longing for them overcame his revulsion at the prospect of getting on a horse again, and he set Palli to arranging their journey. Palli's protests at this premature exercise were perfunctory, easily overborne, as he was no less anxious than Cazaril to see how events in Cardegoss went on. all bored with resting, if only his ease were not so empty of the people he desired. At last his longing for them overcame his revulsion at the prospect of getting on a horse again, and he set Palli to arranging their journey. Palli's protests at this premature exercise were perfunctory, easily overborne, as he was no less anxious than Cazaril to see how events in Cardegoss went on.

Cazaril and his escort, including the ever-faithful Ferda and Foix, traveled up the road in the fine weather in gentle, easy stages, a world apart from winter's desperate ride. Each evening Cazaril was helped from his horse swearing that tomorrow they would go more slowly, and each morning he found himself even more eager to push on. At length the distant Zangre again rose before his eyes. Against the backdrop of puffy white clouds, blue sky, and green fields, it seemed a rich ornament to the landscape.

A few miles out of Cardegoss they encountered another procession on the road. Men in the livery of the provincar of Labran escorted three carts and a trailing tail of mules and servants. Two of the carts were piled with baggage. The third cart's canvas top, rolled up to open the sides to the spring scenery, shaded several ladies.

The ladies' cart pulled to the side of the road and a servingwoman leaned out to call to one of the outriders. The Labran sergeant bent his head to her, rode up in turn to Palli and Cazaril, and saluted.

"If it please you, sirs, if one of you is the Castillar dy Cazaril, my lady the Dowager Royina Sara bid-begs," he corrected himself, "you to wait upon her."

The present provincar of Labran, Cazaril was reminded, was Royina Sara's nephew. He gathered that he was witnessing her removal-or retreat-to her family estates there. He returned the salute. "I am entirely at the royina's service."

Foix helped Cazaril from his horse. Steps were let down from the back of the cart, and the ladies and maidservants descended to stroll together about the fallow field nearby and examine the spring wildflowers. Sara remained seated in the shadow of the canvas. "Please you, Castillar," she called softly, "I am glad for this chance crossing. Can you bide with me a moment?"

"I am honored, lady." He ducked his head and climbed into the cart, seating himself on the padded bench opposite hers. The baggage mules plodded on past them. A peaceful, distant murmur enveloped the scene, of birdsong, low voices, the bridle-jingle and champing of the horses let to graze by the roadside, and the occasional trill of laugher from the maidservants.

Sara was dressed now in a simply cut gown and vest-cloak of lavender and black, mourning for poor doomed Orico, presumably.

"My apologies," said Cazaril, with an acknowledging nod at her garb, "for not attending the roya's funeral. I was not yet recovered enough to travel."

She waved this away. "From what Iselle and Bergon and Lady Betriz have told me, it is a miracle you survived your wounds."

"Yes, well...precisely."

She gave him an oddly sympathetic look.

"Orico was taken up safely, then?" Cazaril asked.

"Yes, by the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. As G.o.ds-rejected in death as he was in life. It stirred a bit of unpleasant speculation about his parentage, alas."

"Not so, lady. He was surely Ias's child. I think the b.a.s.t.a.r.d has been special guardian of his House since Fonsa's reign. And so this time the G.o.d picked first, not last."

She shrugged her thin shoulders. "A sorry guardianship, if so. On the day before he died, Orico said to me that he wished he'd been born the son of a woodcutter, and not the son of the roya of Chalion. Of all the epitaphs on his death, his own seems the most apposite to me." Her voice grew a shade more sour. "Martou dy Jironal, they say, was taken up by the Father."

"So I had heard. They sent his body to his daughter in Thistan to take charge of. Well, he, too, had his part to play, and little enough joy it brought him in the end." He offered after a moment, "I can personally guarantee you, though, his brother Dondo was carried to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l."

A small, grim smile curved her lips. "Perchance he may learn better manners there."

There seemed nothing to add to this, as epitaphs went.

Cazaril was reminded of a curiosity, and diffidently cleared his throat. "The day before Orico died. And which day would that have been, my lady?"

Her eyes flew to his, and her dark brows went up. After a moment she said, "Why, the day after Iselle's wedding, of course."

"Not the day before? Martou dy Jironal seemed strangely misinformed, then. Not to mention premature in certain of his actions. And...it seems to me very like a certain cursed luck, to die just a day before one's rescue."

"I, and Orico's physician, and Archdivine Mendenal, who all attended on him together, will all swear that Orico yet lived to speak to us that afternoon and evening, and did not breathe his sad last until early the next morning." She met his gaze very directly indeed, her lips still set in that same grim curve. "And so Iselle's marriage to Royse Bergon is una.s.sailably valid."

And thus a legal quibble was rendered unavailable to disaffected lords as a pretext for defiance. Cazaril imagined it, her daylong secret deathwatch beside the gelid bloated corpse of her husband. What had she thought about, what had she reflected upon, as the hours crept by in that sealed chamber? And yet she had made of that horror a pragmatic gift for Iselle and Bergon, for the House of Chalion that she was departing. He pictured her suddenly as a tidy housewife, sweeping out her old familiar rooms for the last time, and leaving a vase of flowers on the hearth for the new owners.

"I...think I see."

"I think you do. You always had very seeing eyes, Castillar." She added after a moment, "And a discreet tongue."

"A condition of my service, Royina."

"You have served the House of Chalion well. Better, perhaps, than it deserved."

"But not half so well as it needed."

She sighed agreement.

He made polite inquiry after her plans; she was indeed returning to her home province, to take residence at a country estate happily to be entirely under her own direction. She seemed not just resigned but eager to escape Cardegoss and leave it to her successors. Cazaril, rising, wished her well, and a safe journey, with all his heart. He kissed her hands; she in turn kissed his and, briefly, touched her fingertips to his forehead as he bent to her.

He watched her train of carts rumble away, wincing in sympathy as they jounced over the ruts. The roads of Chalion could use improvement, Cazaril decided, and he had ridden over enough of them to know. He'd seen roads in the Archipelago made wide and smooth for all weathers-perhaps Iselle and Bergon needed to import some Roknari masons. Better roads, with fewer bandits on them, would do a world of good for Chalion. Chalion-Ibra, he corrected this thought, and smiled as Foix gave him a leg up onto his horse.

29.

Palli had sent Ferda galloping ahead while Cazaril lingered by the roadside to speak with Royina Sara. As a result, the Zangre's castle warder and an array of servants were waiting to greet the party from Taryoon when they rode at last into the castle courtyard. The castle warder bowed to Cazaril as the grooms helped him down from his horse. Cazaril stretched, carefully, and asked in an eager voice, "Are Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon within?" ahead while Cazaril lingered by the roadside to speak with Royina Sara. As a result, the Zangre's castle warder and an array of servants were waiting to greet the party from Taryoon when they rode at last into the castle courtyard. The castle warder bowed to Cazaril as the grooms helped him down from his horse. Cazaril stretched, carefully, and asked in an eager voice, "Are Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon within?"

"No, my lord. They are just this hour gone to the temple, for the ceremonies of invest.i.ture for Lord dy Yarrin and Royse Bergon."

The new royina had, as antic.i.p.ated, selected dy Yarrin for the new holy general of the Daughter's Order. The appointment of Bergon to the Son's generalship was, in Cazaril's view, a brilliant stroke to recover direct control of that important military arm for the royacy, and remove it as a bone of contention among the high lords of Chalion. It had been Iselle's own idea, too, when they had discussed the matter before she and Bergon had left Taryoon. Cazaril had pointed out that while she could not in honor fail to reward dy Yarrin's loyalty with the appointment he'd so ardently desired, dy Yarrin was not a young man; in time, the generalship of the Daughter, too, must revert to the royacy.

"Ah!" cried Palli. "Today, is it? Is the ceremony still going forward, then?"

"I believe so, March."

"If I hurry, perhaps I can see some of it. Cazaril, may I leave you to the good care of this gentleman? My lord warder, see that he takes his rest. He is not nearly so recovered from his late wounds as he will try to make you believe."

Palli reined his horse around and gave Cazaril a cheery salute. "I shall return with all the tale for you when it's done." Followed by his little company, he trotted back out the gate.

Grooms and servants whisked away horses and baggage. Cazaril refused, in what he hoped was a dignified manner, the support of the castle warder's proffered arm, at least until they should have reached the stairs. The castle warder called him back as he started toward the main block.

"Your room has been moved by order of the royina to Ias's Tower," the castle warder explained, "that you may be near her and the royse."

"Oh." That had a pleasing sound to it. Agreeably, Cazaril followed the man up to the third floor, where Royse Bergon and his Ibran courtiers had taken their new residence, although Bergon had evidently chosen another official bedchamber for himself than the one Orico had lately died in. Not, Cazaril was given to understand, that the royse slept there. Iselle had just moved into the old royina's suite, above. The castle warder showed Cazaril to the room near Bergon's that was to be his. Someone had moved his trunk and few possessions over from his old chamber, and entirely new clothing for tonight's banquet was already laid out waiting. Cazaril let the servants bring him wash water, but then shooed them away and lay down obediently to rest.

This lasted about ten minutes. He rose again and prowled up one flight to examine his new office arrangements. A maidservant, recognizing him, curtsied him past. He poked his nose into the chamber Sara had kept for her secretary. As he expected, it was now filled with his records, books, and ledgers from the royesse's former household, with a great many more added. Unexpectedly, a neat dark-haired fellow, who looked to be about thirty years old, manned his broad desk. He wore the gray robe and carmine shoulder braid of a divine of the Father, and was scratching figures into one of Cazaril's own account books. Opened correspondence lay fanned out at his left hand, and a larger stack of finished letters rose at his right.

He glanced up at Cazaril in polite but cool inquiry. "May I help you, sir?"

"I-excuse me, I do not believe we have met. Who are you?"

"I am Learned Bonneret, Royina Iselle's private secretary."

Cazaril's mouth opened, and shut. But I'm Royina Iselle's private secretary! But I'm Royina Iselle's private secretary! "A temporary appointment, is it?" "A temporary appointment, is it?"

Bonneret's eyebrows went up. "Well, I trust it shall be permanent."

"How came you by the post?"

"Archdivine Mendenal was kind enough to recommend me to the royina."

"Lately?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are lately appointed?"

"These two weeks past, sir." Bonneret frowned in faint annoyance. "Ah-you have the advantage of me, I believe?"

Quite the reverse. "The royina...didn't tell me," said Cazaril. Was he discarded, shunted from his position of trust? Granted, the avalanche of tasks attendant upon Iselle's ascension to the royacy was hardly going to halt while Cazaril slowly recovered; someone had to attend to them. And, Cazaril noted by the outgoing inscriptions, Bonneret had beautiful handwriting. The divine was frowning more deeply at him. He supplied, "My name is Cazaril." "The royina...didn't tell me," said Cazaril. Was he discarded, shunted from his position of trust? Granted, the avalanche of tasks attendant upon Iselle's ascension to the royacy was hardly going to halt while Cazaril slowly recovered; someone had to attend to them. And, Cazaril noted by the outgoing inscriptions, Bonneret had beautiful handwriting. The divine was frowning more deeply at him. He supplied, "My name is Cazaril."

Bonneret's frown evaporated, to be replaced with an even more alarming awed smile; he dropped his quill, spattering ink, and scrambled abruptly to his feet. "My lord dy Cazaril! I am honored!" He bowed low. "What may may I do to help you, my lord?" he repeated, in a very different tone. I do to help you, my lord?" he repeated, in a very different tone.

This eager courtesy daunted Cazaril far more than Bonneret's former superciliousness. He mumbled some incoherent excuse for his intrusion, pleaded weariness from the road, and fled back downstairs.

He filled a little time inventorying his clothing and too-few books and arranging them in his new chamber. Amazingly, nothing seemed to be missing from his possessions. He wandered to his narrow window, which looked down over the town. He swung his cas.e.m.e.nt wide and craned his neck out, but no sacred crows flew in to visit him. With the curse broken, the menagerie gone, did they still roost in Fonsa's Tower? He studied the temple domes, and made plans to seek out Umegat at his first opportunity. Then he sat in bewilderment.

He was shaken, and knew it partly for an effect of fatigue. His energy was still fragile, spasmodic. His healing gut wound ached from the morning's riding, although not as much as when Dondo had used to claw him from the inside. He was gloriously unoccupied, a fact that alone had been enough to keep him ecstatically happy for days. It didn't seem to be working this afternoon, though. All his urgent push to arrive here made this quiet rest that everybody thought he ought to be having feel rather a letdown.

His mood darkened. Maybe there was no use for him in this new Chalion-Ibra. Iselle would need more learned, smoother men now to help manage her vastly enlarged affairs than a battered and, well, strange ex-soldier with a weakness for poetry. Worse-to be culled from Iselle's service was to be exiled from Betriz's daily presence. No one would light his reading candles at dusk, or make him wear warm unfashionable hats, or notice if he fell ill and bring him frightening physicians, or pray for his safety when he was far from home....

He heard the clatter and noise of what he presumed was Iselle and Bergon's party returning from the ceremonies at the temple, but even at an angle his window did not give a view onto the courtyard. He ought to rush out to greet them. No. I'm resting. No. I'm resting. That sounded mulish and petulant even to his own inward ear. That sounded mulish and petulant even to his own inward ear. Don't be a fool. Don't be a fool. But a dreary fatigue anch.o.r.ed him in his chair. But a dreary fatigue anch.o.r.ed him in his chair.

Before he could overcome his wash of melancholy, Bergon himself bustled into his chamber, and then it became impossible to stay down-at-the-mouth. The royse was still wearing the brown, orange, and yellow robes of the holy general of the Son's Order, with its broad sword belt ornamented with the symbols of autumn, all looking a lot better on him than they ever had on old gray dy Jironal. If Bergon was not a joy to the G.o.d, there was no pleasing Him at all. Cazaril rose, and Bergon embraced him, inquired after his trip from Taryoon and his healing, barely waited for the answer, tried to tell him in turn of eight things at once, then burst out laughing at himself.

"There will be time for all this shortly. Right now I am on a mission from my wife the royina of Chalion. But tell me first and privately, Lord Caz-do you love the Lady Betriz?"

Cazaril blinked. "I...she...very fond, Royse."

"Good. I mean, I was sure of it, but Iselle insisted I ask first. Now, and very important-are you willing to be shaved?"

"I-what?" Cazaril's hand went to his beard. It was not at all as scraggly as it had started out, it had filled in nicely, he thought, and besides, he kept it neatly trimmed. "Is there some reason you ask me this? Not that it matters greatly, beards grow back, I suppose..."

"But you're not madly attached to it or anything, right?"

"Not madly, no. My hand was shaky for a time after the galleys, and I did not care to carve myself b.l.o.o.d.y, but I could not afford a barber. Then I just became used to it."

"Good." Bergon returned to the doorway, and thrust his head through to the corridor. "All right, come in."

A barber and a servant holding a can of hot water trooped in at the royse's command. The barber made Cazaril sit, and whipped his cloth around him. Cazaril found himself soaped up before he could make remark. The servant held the basin beneath his chin as the barber, humming under his breath, went to work with his steel. Cazaril stared down cross-eyed over his nose as blobs of soapy gray and black hair splatted into the tin basin. The barber made unsettling little chirping noises, but at last smiled in satisfaction and grandly gestured the basin away. "There, my lord!" Some work with a hot towel and a cold lavender-scented tincture that stung completed his artistic effort. The royse dropped a coin into the barber's hand that made him bow low and, murmuring compliments, retreat backwards through the door again.

Feminine giggles sounded from the hallway. A voice, not quite low enough, whispered, "See, Iselle! He does too too have a chin. Told you." have a chin. Told you."

"Yes, you were right. Quite a nice one."