The dedicat-commander sat back, and opened his hands. “Such charges are being flung about like snowballs 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. 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 anchored 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 identity 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. “Bastard’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 passed 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, pass 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 gods, 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 pass. “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.”
Foix brought him a bowl of bean porridge, hot and aromatic, on a tray, and Bergon himself arranged his pillows and helped him sit up to eat it. Cazaril had thought he was ravenous, yet found himself unable to force down more than a few bites. Palli was keen to get away while the darkness still cloaked their numbers. Cazaril struggled to oblige, letting Foix help him back into his clothes. He dreaded the attempt to ride again.
In the post’s stable yard, he found that their escort, a dozen men of the Daughter’s Order who’d followed Palli from Taryoon, waited with a horse litter slung between two mounts. Indignant at first, he let Bergon persuade him into it, and the cavalcade swung away into the graying dark. The rough back roads and trails they took made the litter jounce and sway nauseatingly. After half an hour of this, he cried for mercy, and undertook to climb on a horse. Someone had thought to bring along a smooth-paced ambler for this very purpose, and he clung to the saddle and endured its rippling gait while they swung wide around Valenda and its occupiers’ patrols.
In the afternoon, they dropped down from some wooded slopes onto a wider road, and Palli rode alongside him. Palli eyed him curiously, a little sideways.
“I hear you do miracles with mules.”
“Not me. The goddess.” Cazaril’s smile twisted. “She has a way with mules, it seems.”
“I’m also told you’re strangely hard on brigands.”
“We were a strong company, well armed. If the brigands hadn’t been set onto us by dy Joal, they would never have attempted us.”
“Dy Joal was one of dy Jironal’s best swords. Foix says you took him down in seconds.”
“That was a mistake. Besides, his foot slipped.”
Palli’s lips twitched. “You don’t have to go around telling people that, you know.” He stared ahead between his horse’s bobbing ears for a time. “So, the boy you defended on the Roknari galley was Bergon himself.”
“Yes. Kidnapped by his brother’s bravos, it turned out. Now I know why the Ibran fleet rowed so hard after us.”
“Did you never guess who he really was? Then or later?”
“No. He had…he had a deal more self-control than even I realized at the time. That one will make a roya worth following, when he comes into his own.”
Palli glanced ahead to where Bergon rode with dy Sould, and signed himself in wonder. “The gods are on our side, right enough. Can we fail?”
Cazaril snorted bitterly. “Yes.” He thought of Ista, Umegat, the tongueless groom. Of the deathly straits he was in. “And when we fail, the gods do, too.” He didn’t think he’d ever quite realized that before, not in those terms.
At least Iselle was safe for now behind the shield of her uncle; as Heiress, she would attract other ambitious men to her side. She would have many, not least Bergon himself, to protect her from her enemies, although advisors wise enough to also protect her from her friends might be harder for her to come by… But what provision against the looming hazards could he effect for Betriz?
?
??Did you get the chance to know Lady Betriz better while you escorted the cortege to Valenda, and after?” he asked Palli.
“Oh, aye.”
“Beautiful girl, don’t you think? Did you get much conversation with her father, Ser dy Ferrej?”
“Yes. A most honorable man.”
“So I thought, too.”
“She’s very worried for him right now,” Palli added.
“I can imagine. And him for her, both now and later. If…if all goes well, she will be a favorite of the future royina. That kind of political influence could be worth far more to a shrewd man than a mere material dowry. If the man had the wit to see it.”
“No question of it.”
“She’s intelligent, energetic…”
“Rides well, too.” Palli’s tone was oddly dry.
Cazaril swallowed, and with an effort at a casual tone got out, “Couldn’t you just see her as the future Marchess dy Palliar?”
Palli’s mouth turned up on one side. “I fear my suit would be hopeless. I believe she has another man in her eye. Judging from all the questions she’s asked me about him, anyway.”
“Oh? Who?” He tried, briefly and without success, to convince himself Betriz dreamed of, say, dy Rinal, or one of the other courtiers of Cardegoss…eh. Lightweights, the lot of them. Few of the younger men had the wealth or influence, and none the wit, to make her a good match. In fact, now Cazaril came to consider the matter, none of them was good enough for her.
“It was in confidence. But I definitely think you should ask her all about it, when we get to Taryoon.” Palli smiled, and urged his horse forward.
Cazaril considered the implications of Palli’s smile, and of the white fur hat still tucked into his saddlebags. The woman you love, loves you? Had he any real doubt of it? There was, alas, more than enough impediment to twist this joyous suspicion into sorrow. Too late, too late, too late. For her fidelity he could return her only grief; his bier would be too hard and narrow to offer as a wedding bed.
It was a grace note in this lethal tangle nonetheless, like finding a survivor in a shipwreck or a flower blooming in a burned-over field. Well…well, she must simply get over her ill-fated attachment to him. And he must exert the utmost self-control not to encourage it in her. He wondered if he could promote Palli to her if he put it as the last request of a dying man.
Fifteen miles out from Taryoon, they were met by a large Baocian guard company. They had a hand litter, and relays of men to carry it aloft; too far gone by now to be anything but grateful, Cazaril let himself be loaded into it without protest. He even slept for a couple of hours, lumping along wrapped in a feather quilt, his aching head cushioned by pillows. He woke at length and watched the dreary darkening winter landscape wobble past him like a dream.
So, this was dying. It didn’t seem as bad, lying down. But please, just let me live to see this curse lifted from Iselle. It was a great work, one any man might look back on and say, That was my life; it was enough. He asked nothing more now but to be permitted to finish what he’d started. Iselle’s wedding, and Betriz made safe—if the gods would but give him those two gifts, he thought he could go in quiet content. I’m tired.
THEY ENTERED THE GATES OF THE BAOCIAN PROVINCIAL capital of Taryoon an hour after sunset. Curious citizens collected in the path of their little procession, or marched beside it with torches to light the way, or hurried out to watch from balconies as they passed. On three occasions, women tossed down flowers, which after their first uncertain flinch, Bergon’s Ibran companions caught; it helped that the ladies had good aim. The young lords sent hopeful and enthusiastic kisses through the air in return. They left interested murmurs in their wake, especially up on the balconies. Near the city center Bergon and his friends, escorted by Palli, were diverted to the town palace of the wealthy March dy Huesta, one of the provincar’s chief supporters and, not coincidentally, his brother-in-law. The Baocian guard carried Cazaril’s litter on at a smart pace to the provincar’s own new palace, down the street from the cramped and lowering old fortress.
Clutching his precious saddlebags containing the future of two countries, Cazaril was brought by dy Baocia’s castle warder to a fire-warmed bedchamber. Numerous wax lights revealed two waiting man-servants with a hip bath, extra hot water, soap, scissors, scents, and towels. A third man bore in a tray of mild white cheese, fruit cakes, and quantities of hot herb tea. Someone was taking no chances with Cazaril’s wardrobe, and had laid out a change of clothing on the bed, court mourning complete from fresh undergarments through brocades and velvets out to a silver and amethyst belt. The transformation from road wreckage to courtier took barely twenty minutes.
From his filthy saddlebags Cazaril drew his packet of documents, wrapped in oilcloth around silk, and checked them for dirt and bloodstains. Nothing untoward had leaked in. He discarded the grubby oilcloth and tucked the offerings under his arm. The castle warder guided Cazaril through a courtyard where workmen labored by torchlight to lay down the last paving stones, and into an adjoining building. They passed through a series of rooms to a spacious tiled chamber softened with rugs and wall hangings. Man-high iron candelabras holding five lights each, intricately wrought, shed a warming glow. Iselle sat in a large carved chair by the far wall, attended by Betriz and the provincar, also all in court mourning.
They looked up as he entered, the women eagerly, the middle-aged dy Baocia’s expression tempered with caution. Iselle’s uncle bore only a slight resemblance to his younger sister Ista, being solid rather than frail, though he was not overtall either, and he shared Ista’s dun hair color, gone grizzled. Dy Baocia was attended in turn by a stout man Cazaril took for his secretary, and an elderly fellow in the five-colored robes of the archdivine of Taryoon. Cazaril eyed him hopefully for any flicker of god light, but he was only a plain devout.
The dark cloud still hung thickly about Iselle in Cazaril’s second sight, though, roiling in a sluggish and sullen fashion. But not for much longer, by the Lady’s grace.
“Welcome home, Castillar,” said Iselle. The warmth of her voice was like a caress on his brow, her use of his title a covert warning.
Cazaril signed himself. “Five gods, Royesse, all is well.”
“You have the treaties?” dy Baocia asked, his gaze fixing on the packets under Cazaril’s arm. He held out an anxious hand. “There has been much concern over them in our councils.”
Cazaril smiled slightly and walked past him to kneel at Iselle’s feet, managing with careful effort not to grunt with pain, or pitch over in unseemly clumsiness. He brushed his lips across the backs of the hands she held out to him, and pressed the packet of documents in them, and them alone, as they turned palm up. “All is as you commanded.”
Her eyes were bright with appreciation. “I thank you, Cazaril.” She glanced up at her uncle’s secretary. “Fetch a chair for my ambassador, please. He has ridden long and hard, with little rest.” She began folding back the silk.
The secretary brought up a chair with a wool-stuffed cushion. Cazaril smiled rather fixedly in thanks and considered the problem of getting up again gracefully. Rather to his embarrassment, Betriz knelt to his side, and after a second more, the archdivine to his other, and both contrived to hoist him up. Betriz’s dark eyes searched him, lingering briefly and fearfully on his tumor-distended midsection, but she could do no more here than smile in encouragement.
Iselle was reading the marriage contract, though she spared a moment as Cazaril seated himself to cast a small smile in his direction. Cazaril watched and waited. As she finished each page she handed the rectangle of calligraphed and ink-stamped parchment up to her hovering uncle, who had them fairly snatched in turn by the archdivine. The secretary was last in line, but no less intent in his perusal. He collected the pages reverently back into order as they came to him.
Dy Baocia clutched his hands together and watched as the archdivine’s eyes sped down the last page. He held the parchment out silently to the stout secretary.
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“Well?” said the provincar.
“She hasn’t sold Chalion.” The archdivine signed himself and opened both hands palm out in thanks to the gods. “She’s bought Ibra! My congratulations, Royesse, to your ambassador—and to you.”
“To us all,” said dy Baocia. All three men were looking vastly more cheerful.
Cazaril cleared his throat. “Indeed, but I trust you will not say as much to Royse Bergon. The treaties are potentially advantageous to both sides, after all.” He glanced at dy Baocia’s secretary. “Though perhaps it would allay people’s fears to have the articles copied out in a large fair hand and posted on the wall beside your palace doors, for everyone to read.”
Dy Baocia frowned uncertainly, but the archdivine nodded, and said, “A very wise suggestion, Castillar.”
“It would please me very much,” said Iselle in a soft voice. “I pray you, Uncle, have it seen to.”
A breathless page burst into the chamber, to skid to a stop before dy Baocia and blurt, “Your lady says Royse Bergon’s party ‘proaches at the gate, and you are to ‘tend on her at once to welcome him.”
“I’m on my way.” The provincar took a breath and smiled at his niece. “And so we bring your lover to you. Remember now, you must demand all the kisses of submission, brow, hands, and feet. Chalion must be seen to rule Ibra. Guard the pride and honor of your House. We must not let him put himself above you, or he will quickly become overweening. You must start as you mean to go on.”
Iselle’s eyes narrowed. Around her, the shadow darkened, seeming to tighten its grip.
Cazaril sat up, and shot her a look of alarm and a tiny headshake. “Royse Bergon has pride also, no less honorable than your own, Royesse. And he will stand before his own lords here, too.”
She hesitated; then her lips firmed. “I shall start as I mean to go on.” Her voice was suddenly not soft at all, but steel-edged. She gestured at the contract. “The substance of our equality is there, Uncle. My pride demands no greater show. We shall exchange the kisses of welcome, each to each, upon our hands alone.” The darkness uncurled a little; Cazaril felt an odd shiver, as though some predatory shadow had passed over his head and flown on, thwarted.