Cazaril was uncomfortably conscious that his awareness of Betriz was increasing day by day. Not yet to the point of slipping anonymous bad poetry under her door, thank the gods for the shreds of his sanity. Playing the lute under her window was, perhaps fortunately, no longer within his gift. And yet . . . in the long summer quiet of Valenda, he had begun to dare to think of a life beyond the turning of an hourglass.

Betriz did smile at him—that was true, he did not delude himself. And she was kind. But she smiled at and was kind to her horse, too. Her honest friendly courtesy was hardly ground enough to build a dream mansion upon, let alone bring bed and linens and try to move in. Still . . . she did smile at him.

He stifled the idea repeatedly, but it kept popping up—along with other things, alas, especially during swimming lessons. But he’d sworn off ambition—he didn’t have to make a fool of himself anymore, dammit. His embarrassing arousal might be a sign of returning strength, but what good did it do him? He was as landless and penniless as in his days here as a page, and with far fewer hopes. He was mad to entertain fantasies of either lust or love, and yet . . . Betriz’s father was a landless man of good blood, living a life of service. Surely he could not despise a like sojourner.

Not despise Cazaril, no—dy Ferrej was too wise for that. But he was also wise enough to know his daughter’s beauty and connection with the royesse was a dowry that could bring her something rather better in the way of a husband than fortuneless Cazaril, or even the local petty gentry’s sons who served the Provincara’s household as pages now. Betriz clearly considered the boys to be annoying puppies anyway. But some of them had elder brothers, heirs of their modest estates . . .

Today he sank down in the water to his chin and pretended not to watch through his eyelashes as Betriz scrambled up onto a rock, translucent linen dripping, black hair streaming down over her trembling curves. She stretched her arms to the sun before belly-flopping forward to splash Iselle, who ducked and shrieked and splashed her back. The days were shortening now, the nights were cooling, and likewise the afternoons. The festival of the ascent of the Son of Autumn was at hand. It had been too cool to swim all last week—only a few days were likely left warm enough to make these private wet river excursions tolerable. Fast gallops, and the hunt, would soon entice his ladies to drier delights. And his good sense would return to him like a strayed dog. Wouldn’t it?

THE SLANTING LIGHT AND CHILLING AIR DROVE THE lingering swimming party from the water to dry a while on the stony banks. Cazaril was so drenched in mellow ease that he didn’t even make them conduct their idle chitchat in Darthacan or Roknari. At last he pulled on his heavy riding trousers and boots—good new boots, a gift from the Provincara—and his sword belt. He tightened the browsing horses’ girths and removed their hobbles, and helped the ladies mount. Reluctantly, with many backward glances at the sylvan river glade falling behind, the little cavalcade wound up the hill to the castle.

In a spurt of recklessness, Cazaril pressed his horse forward to match pace with Betriz’s. She glanced across at him, quick fugitive dimple winking. Was it want of courage, or want of wits that turned his tongue to wood in his mouth? Both, he decided. He and the Lady Betriz attended Iselle together daily. If some ponderous attempt of his at dalliance should prove unwelcome, might it damage the precious ease that had grown between them in the royesse’s service? No—he must, he would say something—but her horse broke into a trot at the sight of the castle gate, and the moment was lost.

As they entered the courtyard, the scrape of their horses’ hooves echoing hollowly on the cobbles, Teidez burst from a side door, crying “Iselle! Iselle!”

Cazaril’s hand leapt to his sword hilt in shock—the boy’s tunic and trousers were bespattered with blood—then fell away again at the sight of the dusty and grimy dy Sanda trudging along behind his charge. Teidez’s gory appearance was merely the result of an afternoon training session at Valenda’s butcher’s yard. It wasn’t horror that drove his excited cries, but rapture. The round face he turned up to his sister was shining with joy.

“Iselle, the most wonderful thing has happened! Guess, guess!”

“How am I to guess—” she began, laughing.

Impatiently he waved this away; his news tumbled from his lips. “A courier from Roya Orico just arrived. You and I are ordered to attend upon him this fall at court in Cardegoss! And Mother and Grandmama are not invited! Iselle, we’re going to escape from Valenda!”

“We’re going to the Zangre?” Iselle whooped, and slid from her saddle to grab her brother’s reeking hands and whirl with him around the courtyard. Betriz leaned on her saddlebow and watched, her lips parted in thrilled delight.

Their lady-in-waiting pursed her lips in much less delight. Cazaril caught Ser dy Sanda’s eye. The royse’s tutor’s mouth was set in a grim frown.

Cazaril’s stomach lurched, as the coins of conclusion dropped. The Royesse Iselle was ordered to court; therefore her little household would accompany her to Cardegoss. Including her handmaiden Lady Betriz.

And her secretary.

The royse and royesse’s caravan approached Cardegoss from the south road. They struggled up a rise to find the whole of the plain between the cradling mountains rolling out below their feet.

Cazaril’s nostrils flared as he drew in the sharp wind. Cold rain last night had scoured the air clean. Tumbling banks of slate-blue clouds shredded away to the east, echoing the lines of the wrinkled blue-gray ranges hugging the horizon. Light from the west thrust across the plains like a sword stroke. Rising up on its great rock jutting out above the angle where two streams met, dominating the rivers, the plains, the mountain passes, and the eyes of all beholders, the Zangre caught the light and blazed like molten gold against the dark retreating cloud banks. Its ochre stone towers were crowned and capped with slate roofs the color of the scudding clouds, like an array of iron helmets upon a valiant band of soldiers. Favored seat of the royas of Chalion for generations, the Zangre appeared from this vantage all fortress, no palace, as dedicated to the business of war as any soldier-brother sworn to the holy orders of the gods.

Royse Teidez urged his black horse forward next to Cazaril’s bay and stared eagerly at their goal, his face lit with a kind of awed avarice. Hunger for the promise of a larger life, free of the careful constraints of mothers and grandmothers, Cazaril supposed, certainly. But Teidez would have to be much duller than he appeared not to be wondering right now if this luminous miracle of stone could be his, someday. Why, indeed, had the boy been called to court, if Orico, despairing at last of ever getting heirs of his own body, was not meaning to groom him as his successor?

Iselle halted her dappled gray and stared nearly as eagerly as Teidez. “Strange. I remembered it as larger, somehow.”

“Wait till we get closer,” Cazaril advised dryly.

Ser dy Sanda, in the van, motioned them forward, and the whole train of riders and pack mules started down the muddy road once more: the two royal youths, their secretary-guardians, Lady Betriz, servants, grooms, armed outriders in the green-and-black livery of Baocia, extra horses, Snowflake—who might at this point more aptly be named Mudpot—and all their very considerable baggage. Cazaril, veteran of a number of hair-tearingly aggravating noble ladies’ processions, regarded the progress of the convoy as a wonder of dispatch. It had taken only five days to ride from Valenda, four and a half, really. Royesse Iselle, ably backed by Betriz, had driven her subhousehold with verve and efficiency. Not one of the journey’s inevitable delays could be laid to her feminine caprice.

In fact both Teidez and Iselle had pushed their entourage to its best speed from the moment they’d ridden out of Valenda and galloped ahead to outdistance Ista’s heart-wrenching wails, audible even over the battlements. Iselle had clapped her hands over her ears and steered her horse with her knees till she’d escaped the echo of her mother’s extravagant grief.

The news that her children were ordered from her had thrown the dowager royina, if not into madness outright, into deep distraction and despair. She had wept, and prayed, and argued, and, at length, gone silent, a relief of sorts. Dy Sanda had confided to Cazaril how she’d cornered him and tried to bribe him into flying with Teidez, where and how being unclear. He described her as gibbering, clutching, barely short of foam-flecked.

She had cornered Cazaril, too, in his chamber packing his saddlebags the night before the departure. Their conversation went rather differently; or at least, whatever it had been, it wasn’t gibbering.

She had regarded him for a long, silent, and unnerving moment before saying abruptly, “Are you afraid, Cazaril?”

Cazaril considered his reply, and finally answered simply and truthfully, “Yes, my lady.”

“Dy Sanda is a fool. You, at least, are not.”

Not knowing what to say to this, Cazaril inclined his head politely.

She inhaled, her eyes gone huge, and said, “Protect Iselle. If ever you loved me, or your honor, protect Iselle. Swear it, Cazaril!”

“I swear.”

Her eyes searched him, but rather to his surprise she did not demand more elaborate protestations, or reassuring repetitions.

“From what shall I protect her?” Cazaril asked cautiously. “What do you fear, Lady Ista?”

She stood silent in the candlelight.

Cazaril recalled Palli’s effective entreaty. “Lady, please do not send me blindfolded into battle!”

Her lips puffed, as from a blow to the stomach; but then she shook her head in despair, whirled away, and rushed from the room. Her attendant, obviously worried to the point of exasperation, had blown out her breath and followed her.

Despite the memory of Ista’s infectious agitation, Cazaril found his spirits lifted from their mire of dread by the young people’s excitement as their goal neared. The road met the river that flowed out of Cardegoss, and ran alongside it as they descended into a wooded area. At length, Cardegoss’s second stream joined the main. A chill draft coursed through the shaded valley. On the side of the river opposite the road, three hundred feet of cliff face erupted from the ground and soared aloft. Here and there, little trees clung desperately to crevices, and ferns spilled down over the rocks.

Iselle paused to stare up, and up. Cazaril reined his horse in beside hers. From here, one could not even see the beginnings of the human masons’ puny defensive additions decorating the top of this natural fortress wall.

“Oh,” said Iselle.

“My,” added Betriz, joining them craning in their necks.

“The Zangre,” said Cazaril, “has never in its history been taken by assault.”

“I see,” breathed Betriz.

A few floating yellow leaves, promise of autumn to come, whirled away down the dark stream. The party pressed their horses forward, climbing up out of the valley to where a great stone arch, leading to one of the seven gates of the city, spanned the stream. Cardegoss shared the stream-carved plateau with the fortress. The town ramparts flared back along the tops of the ravines like the shape of a boat with the Zangre at its prow, then turned inward in a long wall forming the stern.

In the clear light of this crisp afternoon, the city failed signally to look sinister. Markets, glimpsed down side streets, were bright with food and flowers, thronged with men and women. Bakers and bankers, weavers and tailors and jewelers and saddlers, together with such trades and crafts that were not required by their need for running water to be down by the riversides, offered their wares. The royal company rode through the misnamed Temple Square, which had five sides, one for each of the big regional mother-houses of the gods’ holy orders. Divines, acolytes, and dedicats strode along, looking more harried and bureaucratic than ascetic. In the square’s vast paved center, the familiar cloverleaf-and-tower shape of Cardegoss’s Temple of the Holy Family bulked, impressively more extensive than the homey little version in Valenda.

To Teidez’s ill-concealed impatience, Iselle demanded a stop here, and sent Cazaril scurrying into the temple’s echoing inner courtyard to lay an offering of coins upon the altar of the Lady of Spring in gratitude for their safe journey. An acolyte took charge of it with thanks and stared curiously at Cazaril; Cazaril mumbled a brief distracted prayer and hurried back out to mount again.

Climbing the long shallow slope toward the Zangre, they passed through streets where houses of the nobility, built of dressed stone and with elaborate iron grilles protecting windows and gates, loomed shoulder to shoulder, high and square. The dowager royina had lived in one such, for a time in her early widowhood. Iselle excitedly identified three possible candidates for her childhood home, until, overcome with confusion, she made Cazaril promise to determine later which had been hers.

At last they rode up to the great gate of the Zangre itself. A natural cleft across the plateau opened just before it into a sharp shadowed crevice, more daunting than any moat. On the far side, huge boulders formed the lowest course of stones in the walls; irregular, but fitting so tightly a knife blade could not have slid between them. Atop them, fine Roknari work, its delicate traceries of geometric decoration seeming sugar rather than stone. Atop that, yet more crisp-cut stone, towering higher and higher as if men competed with the gods who had thrown up the great rock the whole edifice stood upon. The Zangre was the only castle Cazaril had ever been in where he suffered whirling vertigo standing at the bottom looking up.

A horn sounded from above, and soldiers in the livery of Roya Orico saluted as they rode across the drawbridge and through the narrow archway into the courtyard. Lady Betriz clutched her reins and stared around with her lips parted. The courtyard was dominated by a huge high rectangular tower, newest and crispest, the addition of the reign of Roya Ias and Lord dy Lutez. Cazaril had always wondered if its great size was a measure of the men’s strength . . . or their fears. A little beyond it, almost as high, a round tower loomed at one corner of the main block. Its slate roof was tumbled in, and its tall top ragged and broken.

“Dear gods,” said Betriz, staring at the half ruin, “what happened there? Why don’t they repair it?”

“Ah,” said Cazaril, thrown into tutorial mode, considerably more for his own reassurance than Betriz’s. “That’s the tower of Roya Fonsa the Wise.” Known more commonly, after his death, as Fonsa the Fairly-Wise. “They say he used to walk upon it all night, trying to read the will of the gods and the fate of Chalion in the stars. On the night he worked his miracle of death magic upon the Golden General, a great storm and gouts of lightning threw down the roof, and set a fire that didn’t burn out until morning despite the torrents of rain.”

When the Roknari had first invaded from the sea, they had overrun most of Chalion, Ibra, and Brajar in their first violent burst, even past Cardegoss, to the very feet of the southern mountain ranges. Darthaca itself had been threatened by their advance parties. But from the ashes of the weak Old Kingdoms and the harsh cradle of the hills new men had emerged, fighting for generations to regain what had been lost in those first few years. Warrior-thieves, they made an economy of raiding; noble fortunes were not made, but stolen. Turnabout, for the Roknari idea of tax collection was a column of soldiers taking all in their winding path at sword’s point, like locusts in arms. Bribe and counterbribe turned the columns back, until Chalion was become an odd interlocking dance of counting armies and armed accountants. But over time, the Roknari were pushed back north toward the sea again, leaving behind as legacy a residue of castles and brutality. At length the invaders were reduced to the five squabbling princedoms hugging the north coast.

The Golden General, the Lion of Roknar, had looked to reverse the ebb of his history. By war, guile, and marriage he had in ten blazing years united all five princedoms for almost the first time since the Roknari had landed. Barely thirty, he’d gathered a great tide of men into his hands, preparing to sweep south once more, declaring he would wipe the Quintarian heretics and the worship of the Bastard from the face of the land with fire and sword. Desperate and disunited, Chalion, Ibra, and Brajar were losing against him on every front.

More ordinary forms of assassination failing, death magic was tried upon the golden genius a dozen times and more, without result. Fonsa the Wise, from deep study, reasoned that the Golden General must be the chosen of one of the gods; no sacrifice less than that of a king could balance his thundering destiny. Fonsa had lost five sons and heirs one after another in the wars to the north. Ias, his last and youngest, was locked in bitter struggle with the Roknari for the final mountain passes blocking their invasion routes. One stormy night, taking only a divine of the Bastard who was in his confidence and a loyal young page, Fonsa had mounted his tower, locking its door behind him . . .

The courtiers of Chalion had pulled three charred bodies from the rubble the following morning; only the differing heights allowed them to tell divine from page from roya. Shocked and terrified, the trembling court had awaited its fate. The courier from Cardegoss, galloping north with the news of loss and woe, met the courier galloping south from Ias with news of victory. Funeral and coronation were celebrated simultaneously within the Zangre’s walls.

Cazaril stared around at those walls now. “When Royse—now Roya—Ias returned from the war,” he went on to Betriz, “he ordered the lower windows and doors of his dead father’s tower bricked up, and proclaimed that no one should enter it again.”

A dark, flapping shape launched itself from the tower’s top, and Betriz squeaked and ducked.

“Crows have nested in it ever since,” Cazaril noted, tilting his head back to watch the black silhouette wheel against the intense blue sky. “I believe it’s the same flock of sacred crows the divines of the Bastard feed in the temple yard. Intelligent birds. The acolytes make pets of them and teach them to speak.”

Iselle, who had drawn closer as Cazaril had discoursed upon her royal grandfather’s fate, asked, “What do they say?”

“Not much,” Cazaril admitted, with a quick grin at her. “I never saw one that had a vocabulary of more than three squawks. Although some of the acolytes insisted they were saying more.”

Warned by the outrider dy Sanda had sent on ahead, a swarm of grooms and servants rushed out to assist the arriving guests. The Zangre’s castle warder, with his own hands, positioned a mounting bench for Royesse Iselle. Perhaps thrown into consciousness of her dignity by this gentleman’s bending gray head, she used the step for a change, parting from her horse with ladylike grace. Teidez tossed his reins to a bowing groom and stared about with shining eyes. The warder made rapid conference with dy Sanda and Cazaril of a dozen practical details, from stabling the horses and grooms to—Cazaril grinned briefly—stabling the royse and royesse.

The warder escorted the royal children to their rooms in the left wing of the main block, followed by a parade of servants lugging the baggage. Teidez and his entourage were given half a floor; Iselle and her ladies, the floor above them. Cazaril was assigned a small room on the gentlemen’s floor, but at the very end. He wondered if he was expected to guard the staircase.

“Rest and refresh yourselves,” the warder said. “The roya and royina will receive you at a celebratory banquet this evening, attended by all the court.” A rush of servants bringing wash water, clean linens, bread, fruit, pastries, cheese, and wine assured the visitors from Valenda that they were not abandoned to starve between now and then.

“Where are my royal brother and sister-in-law?” Iselle asked the warder.

The warder made her a little bow. “The royina is resting. The roya is visiting his menagerie, which is a great consolation to him.”

“I’d like to see it,” she said, a little wistfully. “He has often written me of it.”

“Tell him so. He’ll like to show it to you,” the warder assured her with a smile.

The ladies’ party was soon deeply involved in a frantic turning out of luggage to select garments for the banquet, an exercise that quite clearly did not require Cazaril’s inexpert assistance. He directed the servant to place his trunk in his narrow room and depart, dropped his saddlebags on his bed, and rooted through them to find the letter to Orico the Provincara had strictly charged him to deliver, into the roya’s hand and no other, at his earliest possible moment upon arrival. He paused only to wash the road dirt from his hands and spare a quick glance out his window. The deep ravine on this side of the castle seemed to plunge straight down below his sill. A dizzying glint of water from the stream was just visible through the treetops far below.

Cazaril only lost his way once on the way to the menagerie, which was outside the walls and across the gardens, an adjunct of the stables. If nothing else he could identify it by the sharp, acrid smell of strange manures neither human nor equine. Cazaril stared into an arched aisle of the stone building, his eyes adjusting to its cool shade, and diffidently entered.

A couple of former stalls were converted to cages for a pair of wonderfully glossy black bears. One was asleep on a pile of clean golden straw; the other stared up at him, lifting its muzzle and sniffing hopefully as Cazaril passed. On the other side of the aisle stalls housed some very strange beasts that Cazaril could not even put a name to, like tall leggy goats, but with long curving necks, mild and liquid eyes, and thick soft fur. In a room to one side, a dozen large, brilliantly colored birds on perches preened and muttered, and other tiny, equally bright ones twittered and flitted in cages lining the wall. Across from the aviary, in an open bay, he found human occupants at last: a neat groom in the roya’s livery, and a fat man sitting cross-legged on a table, holding a leopard by its jeweled collar. Cazaril gasped and froze as the man ducked his head right next to the great cat’s open jaws.

The man was currying the beast vigorously. A cloud of yellow and black hairs rose from the pair as the leopard writhed on the table in what Cazaril recognized, after a blink, as feline ecstasy. Cazaril’s eye was so locked by the leopard, it took him another moment to recognize the man as Roya Orico.

The dozen years since Cazaril had last glimpsed him had not been kind. Orico had never been a handsome man, even in the vigor of his youth. He was a little below average in height, with a short nose unfortunately broken in a riding accident in his teens and now looking rather like a squashed mushroom in the middle of his face. His hair had been auburn and curly. It was now roan, still curly but much thinner. His hair was the only thing about him that was thinner; his body was grossly broadened. His face was pale and puffy, with baggy eyelids. He chirped at his spotted cat, who rubbed its head against the roya’s tunic, shedding more hairs, then licked the brocade vigorously with a tongue the size of a washcloth, evidently pursuing a large gravy stain that had trailed down over the roya’s impressive paunch. The roya’s sleeves were rolled up, and half a dozen scabbed scratches scored his arms. The great cat caught a bare arm, and held it in its yellow teeth briefly, but did not close its jaws. Cazaril unwound his clutching fingers from his sword hilt, and cleared his throat.

As the roya turned his head, Cazaril fell to one knee. “Sire, I bear you respectful greetings from the Dowager Provincara of Baocia, and this her letter.” He held out the paper, and added, just in case no one had mentioned it to him yet, “Royse Teidez and Royesse Iselle are arrived safely, sire.”

“Oh, yes.” The roya jerked his head at the elderly groom, who went to relieve Cazaril of the letter with a graceful bow.

“Her Grace the Dowager instructed me to deliver it into your hand,” Cazaril added uncertainly.

“Yes, yes—just a moment—” With some effort, Orico bent over his belly to give the cat one quick hug, then clipped a silver chain to its collar. Chirping some more, he urged it to leap lightly from the table. He dismounted more heavily, and said, “Here, Umegat.”

This was evidently the groom’s name, not the cat’s, for the man stepped forward and took the silver leash in exchange for the letter. He led the beast to its cage a little way down the aisle, unceremoniously shoving it in with a knee to its rump when it paused to rub on the bars. Cazaril breathed a little easier when the groom locked the cage.

Orico broke the seal, scattering wax on the swept tiled floor. Absently, he motioned Cazaril to his feet and read slowly down the Provincara’s spidery handwriting, pausing to move the paper closer or farther and squinting now and then. Cazaril, falling easily back into his old courier mode, folded his hands behind his back and waited patiently to be questioned or dismissed at Orico’s will.

Cazaril eyed the groom—head groom?—as he waited. Even without the clue of the name, the man was obviously of Roknari descent. Umegat had been tallish, but was now a little stooped. His skin, which must have been burnished gold in his youth, was leathery, its color faded to ivory. Fine wrinkles wreathed his eyes and mouth. His curly bronze hair, going gray, was tightly bound to his head in two braids that ran from his temples over his crown to meet in the back in a neat queue, an old Roknari style. It made him look pure Roknari, though half-breeds abounded in Chalion; Roya Orico himself had a couple of Roknari princesses up his family tree on both the Chalionese and Brajaran sides, the source of the family hair. The groom wore the service livery of the Zangre, tunic and leggings and a knee-length tabard with the symbol of Chalion, a royal leopard rampant upon a stylized castle, stitched upon it. He looked considerably tidier and more fastidious than his master.

Orico finished the letter, and sighed. “Royina Ista upset, was she?” he said to Cazaril.

“She was naturally disturbed to be parted from her children,” said Cazaril cautiously.

“I was afraid of that. Can’t be helped. As long as she is disturbed in Valenda, and not in Cardegoss. I’ll not have her here, she’s too . . . difficult.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, and sniffed. “Tell Her Grace the Provincara she has all my esteem, and assure her that I have concerned myself with her grandchildren’s good fates. They have their brother’s protection.”

“I plan to write to her tonight, sire, to assure her of our safe arrival. I will convey your words.”

Orico nodded shortly, rubbed his nose again, and squinted at Cazaril. “Do I know you?”

“I . . . shouldn’t think so, sire. I am lately appointed by the Dowager Provincara to be secretary to the Royesse Iselle. I had served the late provincar of Baocia as a page, in my youth,” he added, by way of recommendation. He did not mention his service in dy Guarida’s train, which might well trigger the roya’s more recent memory, not that he had ever been more than one of the crowd of dy Guarida’s men. A little unplanned disguise was surely lent him by his recent beard, his gray-flecked hair, his general debilitation—if Orico didn’t recognize him, was there a chance that others also might not? He wondered how long he could go here at Cardegoss without giving his own name. Too late to change it, alas.

He could remain anonymous a little while longer, it appeared, for Orico nodded in apparent satisfaction and waved his hand in dismissal. “You’ll be at the banquet, then. Tell my fair sister I look forward to seeing her there.”

Cazaril bowed obediently and withdrew.

He chewed worriedly upon his lower lip as he made his way back to the gate of the Zangre. If all the court was to attend tonight’s welcoming banquet, Chancellor the March dy Jironal, Orico’s chief staff and support, would not be absent; and where the march went, his brother Lord Dondo usually attended upon him.

Maybe they won’t remember me either. It had been well over two years since the fall—shameful sale—of Gotorget, and longer than that since the unpleasant incident in mad Prince Olus’s tent. Cazaril’s existence could never have been more than a petty irritation to these powerful lords. They could not know that he had realized his sale to the galleys had been calculated betrayal and not mischance. If he did nothing to draw attention to himself, they would not be reminded of what they had forgotten, and he would be safe.

A fool’s hope.

Cazaril’s shoulders hunched, and his stride lengthened.

BACK IN HIS HIGH CHAMBER, CAZARIL FINGERED HIS SOBER brown wool robe and black vest-cloak longingly. But, obedient to the orders sent down from the floor above via a breathless maidservant, he donned much gaudier garb, an eggshell-blue tunic with turquoise brocade vestments and dark blue trousers from the old provincar’s store, still smelling faintly of the spices they’d been packed with as proof against moths. Boots and sword completed a courtier’s attire, even if it lacked the wealth of rings and chains.

At Teidez’s urgent behest Cazaril stumped upstairs to check if his ladies were ready yet, there to discover that he was part of an ensemble. Iselle was arrayed in her finest favored blue-and-white gown and robes, and Betriz and the lady-in-waiting wore layers featuring turquoise and night-blue respectively. Someone in the party had come down on the side of restraint, and Iselle was decked in jewels befitting a maiden, mere diamond sparks in her ears, a brooch at her cleavage, one enameled belt, and only two rings. Betriz displayed some of the rest of the inventory, on loan. Cazaril stood straighter and regretted his resplendency less, determined to hold up his part for Iselle.

After only some seven or eight delays for last-minute exchanges and adjustments of clothing or decoration, Cazaril herded them all downstairs to join Teidez and his little entourage of rank, consisting of dy Sanda, the Baocian captain who had guarded their journey, and his chief sergeant at arms, the latter pair in their best livery, all with jewel-hilted swords. Swishing and clinking, they followed the royal page who was sent to guide them to Orico’s throne room.

They paused briefly in the antechamber, where they formed up in proper order under the whispered instructions from the castle warder. Doors swung wide, sweet horns sounded, and the warder announced in stentorian breaths, “The Royse Teidez dy Chalion! The Royesse Iselle dy Chalion! Ser dy Sanda—” and on down the pack in strict order of rank, ending with “Lady Betriz dy Ferrej, Castillar Lupe dy Cazaril, Sera Nan dy Vrit!”

Betriz glanced up sideways at Cazaril, her brown eyes suddenly merry, and murmured under her breath, “Lupe? Your first name is Lupe?”

Cazaril considered himself excused from attempting to reply by their situation—just as well, as it would doubtless have come out thoroughly garbled. The room was thronged with courtiers and ladies, glittering and rustling, the air thick with perfume, incense, and excitement. In this crowd, he realized, his garments were modest and unobtrusive—in his austere brown and black, he’d have looked a crow among peacocks. Even the walls were dressed in red brocade.

On a raised dais at the end of the room, sheltered by a red brocade canopy fringed with gold braid, Roya Orico and his royina were seated on gilded chairs, side by side. Orico was looking much better this evening, washed up and in clean clothes, even with a dash of color in his puffy cheeks; very nearly kingly beneath his gold circlet crown, after a stodgy middle-aged fashion. Royina Sara was elegantly dressed in matching scarlet robes and sat very upright, almost prim, in her seat. Now in her mid-thirties, her earlier prettiness was fading and worn. Her expression was a little wooden, and Cazaril wondered how mixed her feelings must be at this royal reception. In her long infertility, she had failed her chief duty to the royacy of Chalion—if the failure was hers. Even when Cazaril had been on the fringes of court years ago, it was whispered that Orico had never got a bastard, though at the time this lack was attributed to an excessive loyalty to his marriage bed. Teidez’s elevation was also the royal couple’s public acknowledgment of a most private despair.

Teidez and Iselle advanced to the dais in turn. They exchanged fraternal kisses of welcome upon the hands with the roya and royina, though the full formal kisses of submission upon forehead, hands, and feet were not required of them tonight. Each member of their entourage was also granted the boon of kneeling and kissing the royal hands. Sara’s was chill as wax, beneath Cazaril’s respectful lips.

Cazaril stood behind Iselle and braced his back to endure, as the royal siblings prepared to receive a long line of courtiers, none of whom could be insulted by being left out or denied a personal introduction or touch. Cazaril’s breath stopped in his throat as he recognized the first and foremost pair of men to advance.

The March dy Jironal was dressed in the full court robes of the general of the holy military order of the Son, in layers of brown, orange, and yellow. Dy Jironal was not much changed from when Cazaril had last seen him three years ago, when Cazaril had accepted the keys of Gotorget and the trust of its command from his hand in his field tent. He was still spare, graying, cool of eye, tense with energy, likely to forget to smile. The broad sword belt that crossed his chest was thick with enamel and jewels in the symbols of the Son, weapons and animals and wine casks. The heavy gold chain of the office of the chancellor of Chalion circled his neck.

Three large seal-rings decorated his hands, that of his own rich house, of Chalion, and of the Son’s Order. No others cluttered his fingers—a wealth of jewels could not possibly have added more impact to that casual display of power.

Lord Dondo dy Jironal also wore the robes of a holy general, in the blue and white of the Daughter’s Order. Stockier than his brother, with an unfortunate tendency to profuse sweat, at forty he still radiated the family dynamism. Except for his new honors he appeared unchanged, unaged, from when Cazaril had last seen him in his brother’s camp. Cazaril realized he’d been hoping Dondo would at least have run to fat like Orico, given his infamous indulgences at table, in bed, and in every other possible pleasure, but he was only a little paunchy. The glitter on his hands, not to mention his ears, neck, arms, and gold-spurred boot heels, made up for whatever display of family wealth his brother disdained.

Dy Jironal’s gaze passed over Cazaril without pause or recognition, but Dondo’s black eyebrows drew down as he waited his turn, and he frowned at Cazaril’s blankly affable features. His frown deepened abruptly. But Dondo’s searching look was torn from Cazaril as his brother motioned a servant to bring forward the gifts he was presenting to Royse Teidez: a silver-mounted saddle and bridle, a fine hunting crossbow, and an ash boar spear with a wickedly gleaming, chased steel point. Teidez’s excited thanks were entirely genuine.

Lord Dondo, after his formal introductions, snapped his fingers, and a servant holding a small casket stepped forward and opened it. With a gesture worthy of theater, he drew from it an enormously long string of pearls which he held high for all to see. “Royesse, I welcome you to Cardegoss in the name of my holy order, my glorious family, and my noble person! May I present you with double your length in pearls”— he brandished the string, which was indeed as long as the surprised Iselle was high— “and give thanks to the gods that you are not a taller lady, or I should be bankrupted!” A chuckle ran through the courtiers at his joke. He smiled engagingly at her, and murmured, “May I?” Without waiting for reply, he bent forward and laid the rope over her head; she flinched a little as his hand briefly touched her cheek, but fingered the gleaming spheres and smiled back in astonishment. She stammered out pretty thanks, and Dondo bowed—too low, Cazaril thought sourly; the gesture seemed tinged with subtle mockery, to his eye.

Only then did Dondo take a moment to murmur in his brother’s ear. Cazaril could not make out the low words, but he thought he saw Dondo’s bearded lips shape the word Gotorget. Dy Jironal’s glance at Cazaril grew startled and sharp, for an instant, but then both men had to make way for the next noble lord in line.

A daunting number of rich or clever welcoming gifts were pressed upon the royse and royesse. Cazaril found himself taking charge of Iselle’s lot, and with Betriz’s help making detailed notes as to their givers, to add to the household inventory later. Courtiers swarmed around the youths, Cazaril thought dryly, like flies around spilled honey. Teidez was elated to the point of giggling; dy Sanda was a little stiff, both gratified and strained. Iselle, though also clearly elated, conducted herself with fair dignity. She took alarm only once, when a Roknari envoy from one of the northern princedoms, tall and golden-skinned with his tawny hair dressed in elaborate braids, was introduced to her. His fine embroidered linen robes fluttered like banners with his sweeping bow. She curtseyed back with unsmiling but controlled courtesy, and thanked him for a beautiful belt of carved corals, jade, and gold links.

Teidez’s gifts were more varied, though running heavily to weapons. Iselle’s were mostly jewelry, although they included no less than three fine music boxes. At length all the gifts not immediately worn were placed on a table for display under the guard of a couple of pages—display of the givers’ wealth, wit, or generosity, after all, being better than half their purpose—and the crowd of Cardegoss’s elite filed into the banqueting hall.

The royse and royesse were conducted to the high table and seated on either side of Orico and his royina. They were flanked in turn by the Jironal brothers, Chancellor dy Jironal smiling a bit tightly at the fourteen-year-old Teidez, Dondo evidently trying to make himself pleasant to Iselle, though it could be seen that he laughed louder at his wit than she did. Cazaril was seated at one of the long tables perpendicular to the room’s front, above the salt and not too far from his charge. He discovered the middle-aged man on his right to be an Ibran envoy.

“The Ibrans treated me well during my last sojourn in your country,” Cazaril ventured politely after their mutual introductions, deciding to avoid mentioning the details. “How came you to Cardegoss, my lord?”

The Ibran smiled in a friendly manner. “You are the Royesse Iselle’s man, eh? Well, besides the undoubted attractions of the hunting in Cardegoss in the fall, the roya of Ibra dispatched me to persuade Roya Orico not to support the Heir’s new rebellion in South Ibra. The Heir accepts aid from Darthaca; I believe he will find it a gift that turns to bite him, in time.”

“His Heir’s rebellion is a painful contretemps for the roya of Ibra,” Cazaril said, truthfully, but with studied neutrality. The old Fox of Ibra had double-dealt with Chalion enough times in the last thirty years to be considered a dubious friend and a dangerous enemy—though if this ghastly stop-and-start war with his son was the retribution of the gods for his slyness, the gods were surely to be feared. “I do not know Roya Orico’s mind, but it seems to me that to back youth against age is to bet on a surety. They must make up again, or time will decide. For the old man to defeat his son is like to defeating himself.”

“Not this time. Ibra has another son.” The envoy glanced around and leaned closer to Cazaril, lowering his voice. “A fact that did not escape the attention of the Heir. To secure himself, he struck last fall at his younger brother, a foul and secret attack—although he claims now it was not ordered by him but was the wild work of minions who misunderstood some careless words. Understood them all too well, I’d say. The attempt to make away with young Royse Bergon was thwarted, thank the gods, and Bergon rescued. But the Heir has finally pushed his father’s mercy over the line. There will be no peace between them this time short of South Ibra’s abject surrender.”

“A sad business,” Cazaril said. “I hope they may all come to their senses.”

“Aye,” agreed the envoy. He smiled in dry appreciation, perhaps, of Cazaril’s neat avoidance of declaring a preference, and let his patent persuasion rest.

The Zangre’s food was wondrous, and left Cazaril close to cross-eyed with repletion. The court removed to the chamber where the dancing was to be held, where Roya Orico promptly fell asleep in his chair, to Cazaril’s envy. The court musicians were excellent as ever. Royina Sara didn’t dance either, but her cold face softened in apparent enjoyment of the music, and her hand kept time on her chair arm. Cazaril took his burdened digestion to a side wall, propped his shoulders comfortably, and watched younger and more vigorous, or less-stuffed-full, folk promenade, turn, and sway gracefully to the delicate strains. Neither Iselle nor Betriz nor even Nan dy Vrit lacked for partners.

Cazaril frowned as Betriz took her place in the figure with her third, no, fifth young lord. Royina Ista hadn’t been the only concerned parent to corner him before he’d left Valenda; so had Ser dy Ferrej. Watch out for my Betriz, he had pleaded. She ought to have her mother, or some older lady who knows the way of the world, but alas . . . Dy Ferrej had been torn between fear of disaster and hope for opportunity. Help her beware of unworthy men, roisterers, landless hangers-on, you know the type. Like himself? Cazaril couldn’t help wondering. On the other hand, should she meet someone solid, honorable, I’d not be averse to her choosing with her heart . . . you know, a nice fellow, like, oh, say, your friend the March dy Palliar . . . That airy example did not sound quite random enough, to Cazaril’s ear. Had Betriz already formed a secret fondness? Palli, alas, was not present here tonight, having returned to his district after the installment of Lord Dondo in his holy generalship. Cazaril could have welcomed a friendly and familiar face in all this crowd.

He glanced aside at a movement, to find a face familiar and coolly smiling, but not one he welcomed. Chancellor dy Jironal gave him a slight bow of greeting; he pushed off the wall and returned it. His wits fought their way through a fog of food and wine to full alertness.

“Dy Cazaril. It is you. We had thought you were dead.”

I’d wager so. “No, my lord. I escaped.”

“Some of your friends feared you had deserted—”

None of my friends would fear any such thing.

“But the Roknari reported you had died.”

“A foul lie, sir.” Cazaril didn’t say whose lie, his only daring. “They sold me to the galleys with the unransomed men.”

“Vile!”

“I thought so.”

“It’s a miracle you survived the ordeal.”

“Yes. It was.” Cazaril blinked, and smiled sweetly. “Did you at least recover your ransom money, as the price of that lie? Or did some thief pocket it? I’d like to think that someone paid for the deception.”

“I don’t recall. It would have been the quartermaster’s business.”

“Well, it was all a dreadful mischance, but it has come right in the end.”

“Indeed. I shall have to hear more of your adventures, sometime.”

“When you will, my lord.”

Dy Jironal nodded austerely, smiling, and moved on, evidently reassured.

Cazaril smiled back, pleased with his self-control—if it wasn’t just his sick fear. He could, it seemed, smile, and smile, and not launch himself at the lying villain’s throat—I’ll make a courtier yet, eh?

His worst fears assuaged, Cazaril abandoned his futile attempt at invisibility, and nerved himself to ask Lady Betriz for one roundel. He knew himself tall and gangling and not graceful, but at least he was not falling-down drunk, which put him ahead of half the young men here by now. Not to mention Lord Dondo dy Jironal, who after monopolizing Iselle in the dance for a time had moved off with his roistering hangers-on to find either rougher pleasures or a quiet corridor to vomit in. Cazaril hoped the latter. Betriz’s eyes sparkled with exhilaration as she swung with him into the figures.

At length, Orico woke up, the musicians flagged, and the evening drew to a close. Cazaril mobilized pages, Lady Betriz, and Sera dy Vrit to help carry off Iselle’s booty and store it safe away. Teidez, scorning the dancing, had indulged in the spectacular array of sweets more than in drink, though dy Sanda might still have to deal with a bout of violent illness before dawn as a result. But it was clear the boy was more drunk on attention than on wine.

“Lord Dondo told me that anyone would have taken me for eighteen!” he told Iselle triumphantly. His growth spurt this past summer that had shot him up above his older sister had been occasion for much crowing on his part, and snorting on Iselle’s. He trod off toward his bedchamber with feet barely touching the floor.

Betriz, her hands full of jewelry, asked Cazaril as they placed the gauds into Iselle’s lockable boxes in her antechamber, “So why don’t you use your name, Lord Caz? What’s so wrong with Lupe? It’s really quite a, a strong man’s name, withal.”

“Early aversion,” he sighed. “My older brother and his friends used to torment me by yipping and howling until they’d driven me to tears of rage, which made me madder still—alas, by the time I’d grown tall enough to beat him, he’d outgrown the game. I thought that was most unfair of him.”

Betriz laughed. “I see!”

Cazaril reeled off to the quiet of his own bedchamber, to realize he had failed to pen his faithfully promised note of reassurance to the Provincara. Torn between bed and duty, he sighed and pulled out his pens and paper and wax, but his account was much shorter than the entertaining report he had planned, a few terse lines ending, All is well in Cardegoss.

He sealed it, found a sleepy page to deliver it to whatever morning courier rode out of the Zangre, and fell into bed.

The first night’s welcoming banquet was followed all too soon by the next day’s breakfast, dinner, and an evening fête that included a masque. More sumptuous meals cascaded down the ensuing days, till Cazaril, instead of thinking Roya Orico sadly run to fat, began to marvel that the man could still walk. At least the initial bombardment of gifts upon the royal siblings slowed. Cazaril caught up on his inventory and began to think about where and upon what occasions some of this largesse should eventually be rebestowed. A royesse was expected to be openhanded.

He woke on the fourth morning from a confused dream of running about the Zangre with his hands full of jewelry that he could not get delivered to the right persons at the right times, and which had somehow included a large talking rat that gave him impossible directions. He rubbed away the sand of sleep from his eyes, and considered swearing off either Orico’s fortified wines, or sweets that included too much almond paste, he wasn’t sure which. He wondered what meals he’d have to face today. And then laughed out loud at himself, remembering siege rations. Still grinning, he rolled out of bed.

He shook out the tunic he’d worn yesterday afternoon, and unlaced the cuff to rescue the drying half loaf of bread that Betriz had bade him tuck in its wide sleeve when the royal picnic down by the river had been cut short by seasonable but unwelcome afternoon rain showers. He wondered bemusedly if harboring provisions was what these courtiers’ sleeves had been designed for, back when this garment was new. He peeled off his nightshirt, pulled on his trousers and tied their strings, and went to wash at his basin.

A confused flapping sounded at his open window. Cazaril glanced aside, startled by the noise, to see one of the castle crows land upon the wide stone sill and cock its head at him. It cawed twice, then made some odd little muttering noises. Amused, he wiped his face on his towel, and, picking up the bread, advanced slowly upon the bird to see if it was one of the tame ones that might take food from his hand.

It seemed to spy the bread, for it didn’t launch itself again as he approached. He held out a fragment. The glossy bird regarded him intently for a moment, then pecked the crumb rapidly from between his fingers. Cazaril controlled his flinch as the sharp black beak poked, but did not pierce, his hand. The bird shifted and shook its wings, spreading a tail that was missing two feathers. It muttered some more, then cawed again, a shrill harsh noise echoing in the little chamber.

“You shouldn’t say caw, caw,” Cazaril told it. “You should say, Caz, Caz!” He entertained himself and, apparently, the bird, for several minutes attempting to instruct it in its new language, even meeting it halfway by trilling Cazaril! Cazaril! in what he fancied a birdish accent, but despite lavish bribes of bread it seemed even more resistant than Iselle to Darthacan.

A knock at his chamber door interrupted the lesson, and he called absently, “Yes?”

The door popped open; the crow flapped backward and fell away through the window. Cazaril leaned out a moment to watch its flight. It plummeted, then spread its wings with a snap and soared again, wheeling away upon some morning updraft rising along the ravine’s steep face.

“My lord dy Cazaril, th—” The voice froze abruptly. Cazaril pushed up from the windowsill and turned to find a shocked-looking page standing in his doorway. Cazaril realized with a cold flush of embarrassment that he had not yet donned his shirt.

“Yes, boy?” Without appearing to hurry, he reached casually for the tunic, shook it out again, and pulled it on. “What is it?” His drawl did not invite comment or query upon the year-old mess on his back.

The page swallowed and found his voice again. “My lord dy Cazaril, the Royesse Iselle bids you attend upon her in the green chamber immediately following breakfast.”

“Thank you,” said Cazaril coolly. He nodded in sober dismissal. The page scampered off.

The morning excursion for which Iselle demanded Cazaril’s escort turned out to be nothing farther afield than the promised tour of Orico’s menagerie. The roya himself was to conduct his sister; entering the green chamber, Cazaril found him dozing in a chair in his postbreakfast nap. Orico snorted awake and rubbed his forehead as if it ached. He brushed sticky crumbs from his broad tunic, gathered up a square of linen wrapping some packet, and led his sister, Betriz, and Cazaril out the castle gate and off across the gardens.

In the stable yard, they encountered Teidez’s morning hunting party forming up. Teidez had been begging for this treat practically since he’d arrived at the Zangre. Lord Dondo, it appeared, had organized the boy’s wish, and now led the group, which included half a dozen other courtiers, grooms and beaters, three braces of dogs, and Ser dy Sanda. Teidez, atop his black horse, saluted his sister and royal brother cheerfully.

“Lord Dondo says it’s likely too early to spot boar,” he told them, “as the leaves are not yet fallen down. But we might get lucky.” Teidez’s groom, following on his own horse, was loaded down with a veritable arsenal of weaponry just in case, including the new crossbow and boar spear. Iselle, who evidently hadn’t been invited, looked on with some envy.

Dy Sanda smiled in contentment, as much as he ever smiled, with this noble sport, as Lord Dondo whooped and guided the cavalcade out of the yard at a smart trot. Cazaril watched them ride off and tried to figure out what about the fine autumn picture they presented made him uneasy. It came to him that not one of the men surrounding Teidez was under thirty. None followed the boy for friendship, or even anticipated friendship; all were there for self-interest. If any of these courtiers had their wits about them, Cazaril decided, they ought to bring their sons to court now and turn them loose and let nature take its course. A vision not without its own perils, but . . .

Orico lumbered on around the stable block, the ladies and Cazaril following. They found the head groom Umegat, evidently forewarned, waiting decorously by the menagerie doors, open wide to the morning sun and breeze. He bowed his neatly braided head to his master and his guests.

“ ‘S Umegat,” said Orico to his sister, by way of introduction. “Runs this place for me. Roknari, but a good man anyway.”

Iselle controlled a visible twinge of alarm and inclined her head graciously. In passable court Roknari, albeit improperly in the grammatical mode of master to warrior rather than master to servant, she said, ~Blessings of the Holy Ones be upon you this day, Umegat.~

Umegat’s eyes widened, and his bow deepened. He returned a ~Blessings of the High Ones upon you too, m’hendi,~ in the purest accent of the Archipelago, in the polite grammatical form of slave to master.

Cazaril’s brows rose. Umegat was no Chalionese half-breed after all, it seemed. Cazaril wondered by what convoluted life’s chances he’d ended up here. Interest roused, he ventured, ~You are a long way from home, Umegat,~ in the mode of servant to lesser servant.

A little smile turned the groom’s lips. ~You have an ear, m’hendi. That is rare, in Chalion.~

~Lord dy Cazaril instructs me,~ Iselle supplied.

~Then you are well served, lady. But,~ turning to Cazaril, he shifted modes, now to that of slave to scholar, even more exquisitely polite than that of slave to master, ~Chalion is my home now, Wisdom.~

“Let us show my sister my creatures,” put in Orico, evidently growing bored with the bilingual amenities. He held up his linen napkin and grinned conspiratorially. “I stole a honeycomb for my bears from the breakfast table, and it will soak through soon if I don’t rid myself of it.”

Umegat smiled back and conducted them into the cool stone building.

The place was even more immaculate this morning than the other day, tidier by far than Orico’s banqueting halls. Orico excused himself and dodged aside at once into one of his bears’ cages. The bear woke up and sat up on his haunches; Orico lowered himself to his haunches on the gleaming straw, and the two regarded one another. Orico was very nearly the same shape as the bear, withal. He unwrapped his napkin and broke off a chunk of honeycomb, and the bear snuffled over and began licking his fingers with a long pink tongue. Iselle and Betriz exclaimed at the bear’s thick and beautiful fur, but made no move to join the roya in the cage.

Umegat directed them to the more obviously herbivorous goat-creatures, and this time the ladies did go into the stalls, to stroke the beasts and compliment them enviously on their big brown eyes and sweeping eyelashes. Umegat explained that they were called vellas, imported from somewhere beyond the Archipelago, and supplied carrots, which the ladies fed to the vellas with much giggling and mutual satisfaction. Iselle wiped the last carrot bits mixed with vella slime on her skirt, and they all followed Umegat toward the aviary. Orico, lingering with his bear, languidly waved them on without him.

A dark shape swooped from the sunlight into the stone-arched aisle and fetched up with a flap and a grumble on Cazaril’s shoulder; he nearly jumped out of his boots. He craned his neck to find it was his crow from his window this morning, judging by the ragged slot in its tail feathers. It flexed its clawed feet in his shoulder and cried, “Caz, Caz!”

Cazaril burst into laughter. “About time, you foolish bird! But it will do you no good now—I’m all out of bread.” He shrugged his shoulder, but the bird clung stubbornly, and cried, “Caz, Caz!” again, right in his ear, painfully loudly.

Betriz laughed, lips parted in amazement. “Who’s your friend, Lord Caz?”

“It came to my window this morning, and I attempted to teach it, um, a few words. I didn’t think I’d succeeded—”

“Caz, Caz!” the crow insisted.

“You should be so attentive to your Darthacan, my lady!” Cazaril finished. “Come, Ser dy Bird, away with you. I have no more bread. Go find yourself a stunned fish below the falls, or a nice smelly dead sheep, or something . . . shoo!” He dipped his shoulder, but the bird clung stubbornly. “They are most greedy birds, these castle crows. Country crows have to fly about and find their own dinners. These lazy creatures expect you to put it in their mouths.”

“Indeed,” said Umegat, with a sly smile, “the birds of the Zangre are veritable courtiers among crows.”

Cazaril swallowed a bark of laughter slightly too late and sneaked another look at the impeccable Roknari—ex-Roknari—groom. Well, if Umegat had worked here long, he’d had plenty of time to study courtiers. “This worship would be more flattering if you were a more savory bird. Shoo!” He pushed the crow from his shoulder, but it only flapped to the top of his head and dug its claws into his scalp. “Ow!”

“Cazaril!” the crow cried shrilly from this new perch.

“You must be a master teacher of tongues indeed, my lord dy Cazaril.” Umegat smiled more broadly. “I hear you,” he assured the crow. “If you will duck your head, my lord, I will endeavor to remove your passenger.”

Cazaril did so. Murmuring something in Roknari, Umegat persuaded the bird onto his arm, carried it to the doors, and flung it into the air. It flapped away, cawing, to Cazaril’s relief, more ordinary caws.

They proceeded to the aviary, where Iselle found herself as popular among the brilliant little birds from the cages as Cazaril was with the ragged crow; they hopped upon her sleeve, and Umegat showed her how to coax them to take grains from between her teeth.

They turned next to the perch birds. Betriz admired a large bright green one with yellow breast feathers and a ruby throat. It clicked its thick yellow beak, wobbled from side to side, and stuck out a narrow black tongue.

“This is a fairly recent arrival,” Umegat told them. “I believe it has had a difficult and wandering life. Tame enough, but it’s taken time and patience to calm it down.”

“Does it speak?” asked Betriz.

“Yes,” said Umegat, “but only rude words. In Roknari, perhaps fortunately. I think it must have once been a sailor’s bird. March dy Jironal brought it back from the north this spring, as war booty.”

Reports and rumors of that inconclusive campaign had come to Valenda. Cazaril wondered if Umegat had ever been war booty—as he had been—and if that was how he’d first been brought to Chalion. He said dryly, “Pretty bird, but it seems a poor trade for three towns and control of a pass.”

“I believe Lord dy Jironal gained rather more movables than that,” Umegat said. “His baggage train, returning to Cardegoss, took an hour to file through the gates.”

“I’ve had to deal with slow mules like that, too,” murmured Cazaril, unimpressed. “Chalion lost more than dy Jironal gained on that ill-conceived venture.”

Iselle’s eyebrows bent. “Was it not a victory?”

“By what definition? We and the Roknari princedoms have been pushing and shoving over that border area for decades. It used to be good land—it’s now a waste. Orchards and olive groves and vineyards burned, farms abandoned, animals turned loose to go wild or starve—it’s peace, not war, that makes wealth for a country. War just transfers possession of the residue from the weaker to the stronger. Worse, what is bought with blood is sold for coin, and then stolen back again.” He brooded, and added bitterly, “Your grandfather Roya Fonsa bought Gotorget with the lives of his sons. It was sold by March dy Jironal for three hundred thousand royals. It’s a wondrous transmutation, where the blood of one man is turned into the money of another. Lead into gold is nothing to it.”

“Can there never be peace in the north?” asked Betriz, startled by his unusual vehemence.

Cazaril shrugged. “Not while there is so much profit in war. The Roknari princes play the same game. It is a universal corruption.”

“Winning the war would end it,” said Iselle thoughtfully.

“Now there’s a dream,” sighed Cazaril. “If the roya could sneak it past his nobles without their noticing they were losing their future livelihoods. But no. It’s just not possible. Chalion alone could not defeat all five princedoms, and even if by some miracle it did, it has no naval expertise to hold the coasts thereafter. If all the Quintarian royacies were to combine, and fight hard for a generation, some immensely strong and determined roya might push it through and unite the whole land. But the cost in men and nerve and money would be vast.”

Iselle said slowly, “Greater than the cost of this endless sucking drain of blood and virtue to the north? Done once—done right once—would be done for all time.”

“But there is none to do it. No man with the nerve and vision and will. The roya of Brajar is an aging drunkard who sports with his court ladies, the Fox of Ibra is tied down with civil strife, Chalion . . .” Cazaril hesitated, realizing his stirred emotions were luring him into impolitic frankness.

“Teidez,” Iselle began, and took a breath. “Maybe it will be Teidez’s gift, when he comes to full manhood.”

Not a gift Cazaril would wish on any man, and yet the boy did seem to have some nascent talents in that direction, if only his education in the next few years could bring them into sharp and directed focus.

“Conquest isn’t the only way to unite peoples,” Betriz pointed out. “There’s marriage.”

“Yes, but no one can marry three royacies and five princedoms,” Iselle said, wrinkling her nose. “Not all at once, anyway.”

The green bird, perhaps irritated at losing the attention of its audience, chose this moment to vent a remarkably lewd phrase in rude Roknari. Sailor’s bird, indeed—a galley-man’s bird, Cazaril judged. Umegat smiled dryly at Cazaril’s involuntary snort but raised his brows slightly as Betriz and Iselle clamped their lips shut and turned a suffused pink, caught each other’s gazes, and nearly lost their gravity. Smoothly, he reached for a hood and popped it over the bird’s head. “Good night, my green friend,” he told it. “I think you are not quite ready for polite society, here. Perhaps Lord dy Cazaril should stop in and teach you court Roknari too, eh?”

Cazaril’s thought that Umegat seemed perfectly capable of teaching court Roknari all by himself was interrupted when a surprisingly brisk step at the door of the aviary proved to be Orico, wiping bear spittle on his trousers and smiling. Cazaril decided the castle warder’s comment that first day was right: his menagerie did seem to be a consolation to the roya. His eye was clear, and color brightened his face again, visibly improved from the soggy exhaustion he’d evidenced immediately after breakfast.

“You must come see my cats,” he told the ladies. They all followed him into the stone aisle, where he proudly showed off cages containing a pair of fine golden cats with tufted ears from the mountains of south Chalion, and a rare blue-eyed albino mountain cat of the same breed with striking black ear tufts. This end of the aisle also held a cage containing a pair of what Umegat named Archipelago sand foxes, looking like skinny, half-sized wolves, but with enormous triangular ears and cynical expressions.

With a flourish, Orico turned finally to his obvious favorite, the leopard. Let out on its silver chain, it rubbed itself around the roya’s legs and made odd little growly noises. Cazaril held his breath as, encouraged by her brother, Iselle knelt to pet it, her face right next to those powerful jaws. Those round, pellucid amber eyes looked anything but friendly to him, but their lids did half close in evident enjoyment, and the broad brick-colored nose quivered as Iselle scratched the beast vigorously under the chin, and ran her spread fingers through its fabulous spotted coat. When Cazaril knelt, however, its growl took what seemed to his ear a decidedly hostile edge, and its distant amber stare encouraged no such liberties. Cazaril prudently kept his hands to himself.

The roya choosing to linger to consult with his head groom, Cazaril walked his ladies back to the Zangre, as they argued amiably over which had been the most interesting beast in the menagerie.

“What did you think the most curious creature there?” Betriz charged him.

Cazaril took a moment before replying, but in the end decided on the truth. “Umegat.”

Her mouth opened to object to this supposed levity, but then closed again as Iselle cast him a sharp look. A thoughtful silence descended, which reigned all the way to the castle doors.

THE SHORTENING OF THE DAYLIGHT RUNNING ON INTO autumn was felt to be no loss by the inhabitants of the Zangre, for the lengthening nights continued to be made brilliant by candlelight, feasting, and fêtes. The courtiers took turns outdoing one another providing the entertainments, freely spending money and wit. Teidez and Iselle were dazzled, Iselle, fortunately, not totally; with the aid of Cazaril’s undervoiced running commentary, she began to look for hidden meanings and messages, watch for intents, calculate expenditures and expectations.

Teidez, as nearly as Cazaril could tell, swallowed it all down whole. Signs of indigestion showed themselves. Teidez and dy Sanda began to clash more and more openly, as dy Sanda fought a losing battle to maintain the disciplines he’d imposed on the boy in the Provincara’s careful household. Even Iselle began to worry about the heightening tensions between her brother and his tutor, as Cazaril quickly deduced when Betriz cornered him one morning, apparently casually, in a window nook overlooking the confluence of the rivers and half the hinterland of Cardegoss.

After a few remarks upon the weather, which was seasonable, and the hunting, which was too, she swerved abruptly to the matter that brought her to him, lowering her voice and asking, “What was that dreadful row between Teidez and poor dy Sanda in your corridor last night? We could hear the uproar through the windows and through the floor.”

“Um . . .” Five gods, how was he to handle this one? Maidens. He half wished Iselle had sent Nan dy Vrit. Well, surely that sensible widow was in on whatever distaff discussions went on overhead. Yes, and better to be blunt than misunderstood. And far better to be blunt with Betriz than with Iselle herself. Betriz, no child, and most of all not Teidez’s only sister, could decide what was fit to pass on to Iselle’s ears better than he could. “Dondo dy Jironal brought Teidez a drab for his bed last night. Dy Sanda threw her back out. Teidez was infuriated.” Infuriated, embarrassed, possibly secretly relieved, and, later in the evening, sick on wine. Ah, the glorious courtly life.

“Oh,” said Betriz. He’d shocked her a little, but not excessively, he was relieved to see. “Oh.” She fell into a thoughtful silence for a few moments, staring out over the rolling golden plains beyond the river and its widening valley. The harvest was almost all in. She bit her lower lip and looked back at him in narrow-eyed concern. “It’s not . . . it’s surely not . . . there is something very odd in the spectacle of a forty-year-old man like Lord Dondo hanging on a fourteen-year-old boy’s sleeve.”

“To hang on a boy? Odd indeed. To hang on a royse, his future roya, future dispenser of position, wealth, preferment, military opportunity—well, there you have it. Grant you, if Dondo were to let go his space on that sleeve it would instantly be seized by three other men. It’s the . . . the manner that’s the matter.”

Her lips twisted in disgust. “Indeed. A drab, ugh. And Lord Dondo . . . that’s what is called a procurer, is it not?”

“Mm, and ruder names. Not that . . . not that Teidez is not on the brink of full manhood, and every man must learn sometime—”

“Their wedding night isn’t good enough? We must learn it all then.”

“Men . . . usually marry later,” he attempted, deciding this was an argument he’d best stay away from and, besides, embarrassed by the memory of how late his own apprenticeship had been. “Yet normally, a man will have a friend, a brother, or at least a father or an uncle, to introduce him to, um. How to go on. With ladies. But Dondo dy Jironal is none of these things to Teidez.”

Betriz frowned. “Teidez has none of those. Well, except . . . except Roya Orico, who is both father and brother, in a way.”

Their eyes met, and Cazaril realized he didn’t have to add aloud, But not in a very useful way.

She added, after an even more thoughtful moment, “And I can’t imagine Ser dy Sanda . . .”

Cazaril muffled a snort. “Oh, poor Teidez. Nor can I.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s an awkward age. If Teidez had been at court all along, he would be used to this atmosphere, not be so . . . impressed. Or if he’d been brought here when he was older, he might have a more settled character, a firmer mind. Not that court isn’t dazzling at any age, especially if you’re suddenly plopped down in the center of the whole wheel. And yet, if Teidez is to be Orico’s heir, it’s time he began training up to it. How to handle pleasures as well as duties with proper balance.”

“Is he being so trained? I do not see it. Dy Sanda tries, desperately, but . . .”

“He’s outnumbered,” Cazaril finished for her glumly. “That is the root of the trouble.” His brow wrinkled, as he thought it through. “In the Provincara’s household, dy Sanda had her backing, her authority to complete his own. Here in Cardegoss Roya Orico should take that part, but takes no interest. Dy Sanda has been left to struggle on his own against impossible odds.”

“Does this court . . .” Betriz frowned, clearly trying to frame unfamiliar thoughts. “Does this court have a center?”

Cazaril vented a wary sigh. “A well-conducted court always has someone in moral authority. If not the roya, perhaps his royina, someone like the Provincara to set the tone, keep the standards. Orico is . . .” he could not say weak, dared not say ill, “not doing so, and Royina Sara . . .” Royina Sara seemed a ghost to Cazaril, pale and drifting, nearly invisible. “Doesn’t either. That brings us to Chancellor dy Jironal. Who is much absorbed by the affairs of state, and does not take it upon himself to curb his brother.”

Betriz’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying he sets Dondo on?”

Cazaril touched his finger warningly to his lips. “Do you remember Umegat’s little joke about the Zangre’s courtly crows? Try it in reverse. Have you ever watched a mob of crows combine to rob another bird’s nest? One will draw off the parent birds, while another darts in to take the eggs or chicks . . .” His voice went dry. “Fortunately, most of the courtiers of Cardegoss don’t work together as cleverly as a flock of crows.”

Betriz sighed. “I’m not even sure Teidez realizes it’s not all for his own sake.”

“I’m afraid dy Sanda, for all his very real concern, has not laid it all out in blunt enough terms. Grant you he’d need to be pretty blunt to get through the fog of flattery Teidez floats in right now.”

“But you do it for Iselle, all the time,” Betriz objected. “You say, watch this man, see what he does next, see why he moves so—the seventh or eighth time you turn out to be dead on the target, we cannot help but listen—and the tenth or twelfth time, to begin to see it, too. Can’t dy Sanda do that for Royse Teidez?”

“It’s easier to see the smudge on another’s face than on one’s own. This flock of courtiers is not pressing Iselle nearly so hard as they are Teidez. Thank the gods. They all know she must be sold out of court, probably out of Chalion altogether, and is not meat for them. Teidez will be their future livelihood.”

On that inconclusive and unsatisfactory note, they were forced to leave it for a time, but Cazaril was glad to know Betriz and Iselle were growing alive to the subtler hazards of court life. The gaiety was dazzling, seductive, a feast to the eye that could leave the reason as drunk and reeling as the body. For some courtiers and ladies, Cazaril supposed, it actually was the cheerful, innocent—albeit expensive—game it seemed. For others, it was a dance of display, ciphered message, thrust and counterthrust as serious, if not so instantly deadly, as a duel. To stay afoot, one had to distinguish the players from the played. Dondo dy Jironal was a major player in his own right, and yet . . . if not every move he made was directed by his older brother, it was surely safe to say his every move was permitted by him.

No. Not safe to say. Merely true to think.

* * *

HOWEVER DIM HIS VIEW OF THE MORALS OF COURT, he had to grant that Orico’s musicians were very good, Cazaril reflected, opening his ear greedily to them at the next evening dance. If Royina Sara had a consolation to match Orico’s menagerie, it was surely the Zangre’s minstrels and singers. She never danced, she rarely smiled, but she never missed a fête where music was played, either sitting next to her sodden and sleepy spouse, or, if Orico staggered off to bed early, lingering behind a carved screen with her ladies on the gallery opposite the musicians. Cazaril thought he understood her hunger for this solace, as he leaned against the chamber wall in what was becoming his usual spot, tapping his foot and benignly watching his ladies twirl about on the polished wooden floor.

Musicians and dancers stopped for breath after a brisk roundel, and Cazaril joined the smattering of applause led by the royina from behind her screen. A completely unexpected voice spoke next to his ear.

“Well, Castillar. You’re looking more your old self!”

“Palli!” Cazaril controlled his surge forward, turning it into a sweeping bow instead. Palli, formally dressed in the blue trousers and tunic and white tabard of the Daughter’s military order, boots polished and sword glittering at his waist, laughed and returned an equally ceremonious bow, though he followed it up with a firm, if brief, grip of Cazaril’s hands. “What brings you to Cardegoss?” Cazaril asked eagerly.

“Justice, by the goddess! And a good job of it, too, a year in the making. I rode up in support of the lord dedicat the provincar dy Yarrin, on a little holy quest of his. I’ll tell you more, but, ah”—Palli glanced around the crowded chamber, where the dancers were forming up again—“maybe not here. You seem to have survived your trip to court—you’re over that little burst of nerves now, I trust?”

Cazaril’s lips twisted. “So far. I’ll tell you more, but—not here.” A glance around assured him neither Lord Dondo nor his elder brother were present at the moment, though some half dozen men he knew to be their creatures were just as certain to report this meeting and greeting. So be it. “Let us find a cooler spot, then.”

They strolled out casually together into the next chamber, and Cazaril led Palli to a window embrasure that overlooked a moonlit courtyard. On the courtyard’s far side, a couple sat closely together, but Cazaril judged them out of both earshot and caring.

“So what is old dy Yarrin about that brings him hot to court?” asked Cazaril curiously. The provincar of Yarrin was the highest-ranking lord of Chalion to have chosen allegiance to the holy military order of the Daughter. Most young men with military leanings dedicated themselves to the far more glamorous Order of the Son, with its glorious tradition of battle against the Roknari invaders. Even Cazaril had sworn himself a lay dedicat to the Son, in his youth—and unsworn himself, when . . . let it go. The far smaller holy military order of the Daughter concerned itself with more domestic challenges, guarding the temples, patrolling the roads to the pilgrimage shrines; by extension, controlling banditry, pursuing horse and cattle thieves, assisting in the capture of murderers. Granted, what the goddess’s soldiers lacked in numbers they frequently made up in romantic dedication to her. Palli was a natural, Cazaril thought with a grin, and had surely found his calling at last.

“Spring cleaning.” Palli smiled like one of Umegat’s sand foxes for a moment. “A smelly little mess inside the temple walls is going to get washed out at last. Dy Yarrin had suspected for some time that, with the old general sick and dying for so long, the order’s comptroller here in Cardegoss was filtering the order’s funds as they flowed through his fingers.” Palli wiggled his, in illustration. “Into his personal purse.”

Cazaril grunted. “Unfortunate.”

Palli cocked an eyebrow at him. “This doesn’t take you by surprise?”

Cazaril shrugged. “Not in the main. Such things happen now and then, when men are tempted beyond their strength. I’d not heard anything specific said against the Daughter’s comptroller though, no, beyond the usual slanders against every official in Cardegoss, be he honest or not, that every fool repeats.”

Palli nodded. “Dy Yarrin’s been over a year, quietly collecting the evidence and the witnesses. We took the comptroller—and his books—by surprise about two hours ago. He’s locked down now in the Daughter’s house’s own cellar, under guard. Dy Yarrin will present the whole case to the order’s council tomorrow morning. The comptroller will be stripped of his post and rank by tomorrow afternoon and delivered to the Chancellery of Cardegoss for punishment by tomorrow night. Ha!” His fist closed in anticipated triumph.

“Well done! Will you stay on, after that?”

“I hope to stay a week or two, for the hunting.”

“Oh, excellent!” Time to talk, and a man of wit and certain honor to talk with—double luxury.

“I’m lodging in town at Yarrin Palace—I can’t linger long here tonight, though. I just came up to the Zangre with dy Yarrin while he made his bow—and his report—to Roya Orico and General Lord Dondo dy Jironal.” Palli paused. “I take it by your very healthy appearance that your worries about the Jironals turned out to be groundless?”

Cazaril fell silent. The breeze through the embrasure was growing chill. Even the lovers across the courtyard had gone in. He finally said, “I take care not to cross either of the Jironals. In any way.”

Palli frowned, and seemed to hold some speech jostling just behind his lips.

A pair of servants wheeled a cart holding a crock of hot mulled wine, redolent of spices and sugar, through the antechamber toward the dancing chamber. A giggling young lady exited, closely pursued by a laughing young courtier; they both vanished out the other side, though their blended laughter lingered in the air. Strains of music sounded again, floating down from the gallery like flowers.

Palli’s frown quirked away. “Did Lady Betriz dy Ferrej also accompany Royesse Iselle from Valenda?”

“Didn’t you see her, among the dancers?”

“No—I saw you first, long stick that you are, propping up the walls. When I’d heard the royesse was here, I came looking in the chance you would be, too, though from the way you talked when last we met I couldn’t be sure I’d find you. Do you think I might seize a dance before dy Yarrin is done closeting himself with Orico?”

“If you think you have the strength to fight your way through the mob that surrounds her, perhaps,” said Cazaril dryly, waving him on. “They usually defeat me.”

Palli managed this without apparent effort, and soon was handing a surprised and laughing Betriz in and out of the figures with cheery panache. He took a turn with Royesse Iselle as well. Both ladies seemed delighted to meet him again. Drawing breath afterward, he was greeted by some four or five other lords he apparently knew, until a page approached and touched him on the elbow, and murmured some message in his ear. Palli made his bows and left, presumably to join his fellow lord dedicat dy Yarrin and escort him back to his mansion.

Cazaril hoped the Daughter’s new holy general, Lord Dondo dy Jironal, would be glad and grateful to have his house cleaned for him tomorrow. He hoped it fervently.

Cazaril spent the following day in smiling anticipation of the delight Palli’s visit to court would bring to his routine. Betriz and Iselle also spoke in praise of the young march, which gave Cazaril brief pause. Palli would show to his best in this splendid setting.

And what of it? Palli was a landed man, with money, looks, charm, honorable responsibilities. Suppose he and the Lady Betriz were to hit it off. Was either of them less than what the other deserved? Nevertheless, Cazaril found his mind, unwilled, revolving plans for pleasures with Palli that somehow did not include his ladies.

But to his disappointment, Palli did not appear at court that evening—nor did the provincar of Yarrin. Cazaril supposed their wearing day of presenting evidence at the Daughter’s house to whatever committee of justice had assembled there had run into complexities, and stretched past dinner. If the case took longer than Palli’s first optimistic estimate, well, it would at least extend his visit to Cardegoss.

He did not see Palli again until the next morning, when the march appeared abruptly at the open door of Cazaril’s office, which was an antechamber to the succession of rooms occupied by Royesse Iselle and her ladies. Cazaril stared up from his writing desk in surprise. Palli had discarded his court attire, and was dressed for the road in well-worn tall boots, thick tunic, and a short cloak for riding.

“Palli! Sit down—” Cazaril gestured to a stool.

Palli pulled it up across from him and lowered himself with a tired grunt. “Only for a moment, old friend. I could not leave without bidding you farewell. I, dy Yarrin, and our troops are commanded to be quit of Cardegoss before noon today, under pain of expulsion from the Daughter’s holy order.” His smile was tight as a stretched hawser.

“What? What has happened?” Cazaril laid down his quill, and pushed aside the book of Iselle’s increasingly complex household accounts.

Palli ran a hand through his dark hair and shook his head as if in disbelief. “I’m not sure I can speak of it without bursting. It was all I could do last night not to pull out my sword and run the smirking son of a bitch through his soft guts on the spot. Caz, they threw out dy Yarrin’s case! Confiscated all his evidence, dismissed all his witnesses—uncalled! unheard!—let that lying, thieving worm of a comptroller out of the cellar—”

“Who has?”

“Our holy general, Dondo dy Jironal, and his, his, his creatures on the Daughter’s council, his cowed dogs—goddess blind me if I’ve ever before seen such a set of cringing curs—a disgrace to her pure colors!” Palli clenched his fist upon his knees, sputtering. “We all knew the order’s house in Cardegoss has been in disarray for some time. I suppose we should have petitioned the roya to dismiss the old general when he first grew too ill to keep it all in hand, but no one had the heart to kick him so—we all thought a new, younger, vigorous man would turn it all out again and start fresh. But this, this, this is worse than neglect. It’s active malfeasance! Caz, they cleared the comptroller and dismissed dy Yarrin—they scarcely glanced at his letters and ledgers, dear goddess the papers filled two trunks—I swear the decision was made before the meeting was called!”

Cazaril had not heard Palli stammer with rage like this since the day the news of the sale of Gotorget had been delivered to the starving, battered garrison by the roya’s stout courier, passed through the Roknari lines. He sat back and pulled his beard.

“I suspect—no, I’m certain in my heart—Lord Dondo was paid off for his judgment. If he is not simply the comptroller’s new master—and two trunks of evidence now being used to feed the fires on the Lady’s altar—Caz, our new holy general is running the Daughter’s Order as his personal milch cow. I was told by an acolyte yesterday—on the stairs, and the man shook as he whispered it to me—he’s placed out six troops of the Daughter’s men to the Heir of Ibra in South Ibra—as plain paid mercenaries. That’s not their mandate, that’s not the goddess’s work—it’s worse than stealing money, it’s stealing blood!”

A rustle, and an indrawn breath, drew both men’s glances to the inner doorway. Lady Betriz stood there with her hand upon the frame, and the Royesse Iselle peeked over her shoulder. Both ladies’ eyes were round.

Palli opened and shut his mouth, swallowed, then jumped to his feet and bowed to them. “Royesse. Lady Betriz. Alas that I must take my leave of you. I return to Palliar this morning.”

“We shall regret the loss of your company, March,” said the royesse faintly.

Palli wheeled to Cazaril. “Caz—” He gave an apologetic little nod. “I’m sorry I disbelieved you about the Jironals. You weren’t crazed after all. You were right on every point.”

Cazaril blinked, nonplussed. “I thought you had believed me . . .”

“Old dy Yarrin was as canny as you. He suspected this trouble from the first. I’d asked him why he thought we needed to bring so large a troop to enter Cardegoss—he murmured, ‘No boy—it is to leave Cardegoss.’ I didn’t understand his joke. Till now.” Palli vented a bitter laugh.

“Will you be—will you not be returning here?” asked Betriz in a rather breathy voice. Her hand went to her lips.

“I swear before the goddess—” Palli touched his hand to forehead, lip, navel, and groin, and then spread it flat over his heart in the fivefold sacred gesture, “I will not return to Cardegoss except it be to Dondo dy Jironal’s funeral. Ladies—” He stood at attention and gave them a bow. “Caz—” He grasped Cazaril’s hands across the table and bent to kiss them; hastily, Cazaril returned the honor. “Farewell.” Palli turned and strode from the room.

The space he had vacated seemed to collapse around his absence, as if four men had just left. Betriz and Iselle were drawn into it; Betriz tiptoed to the outer door and peered around it, to spy the last of his clomping retreat down the corridor.

Cazaril picked up his quill and drew the feather end nervously through his fingers. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked the ladies.

Betriz glanced back at Iselle, and replied, “All of it, I think. His voice was not pitched low.” She returned slowly across the antechamber, her face troubled.

Cazaril groped for some way to caution these unintended auditors. “It was the business of a closed council of a holy military order. Palli should not have spoken of it outside the Daughter’s house.”

Iselle said, “But isn’t he a lord dedicat, a member of that council—doesn’t he have as much right—duty!—to speak as any of them?”

“Yes, but . . . in the heat of his temper, he has made serious accusations against his own holy general that he has not the . . . power to prove.”

Iselle gave him a sharp look. “Do you believe him?”

“My belief is not the issue.”

“But—if it’s true—it’s a crime, and worse than a crime. An insulting impiety, and a violation of the trust not only of the roya and the goddess above, but of all who are sworn to obey in their names below.”

She sees the consequences in both directions! Good! No, wait, no. “We haven’t seen the evidence. Maybe the council was justified in discarding it. We cannot know.”

“If we can’t see the evidence as March dy Palliar has, can we judge the men and reason backward to it?”

“No,” said Cazaril firmly. “Even a habitual liar may tell the truth from time to time, or an honest man be tempted to lie by some extraordinary need.”

Betriz, startled, said, “Do you think your friend was lying?”

“As he is my friend, no, of course not, but . . . but he might be mistaken.”

“This is all too murky,” said Iselle decisively. “I shall pray to the goddess for guidance.”

Cazaril, remembering the last time she’d done that, said hastily, “You need not reach that high for guidance, Royesse. You inadvertently overheard a confidence. You have a plain duty not to repeat it. In word or deed.”

“But if it’s true, it matters. It matters greatly, Lord Caz!”

“Nevertheless, liking and disliking do not constitute proof any more than hearsay does.”

Iselle frowned thoughtfully. “It’s true I do not like Lord Dondo. He smells odd, and his hands are always hot and sweaty.”

Betriz added, with a grimace of distaste, “Yes, and he’s always touching one with them. Ugh!”

The quill snapped in Cazaril’s hand, spraying a small spatter of ink drops on his sleeve. He set the pieces aside. “Oh?” he said, in what he trusted was a neutral tone. “When was this?”

“Oh, everywhere, at the dances, at dinner, in the halls. I mean, many gentlemen here flirt, some quite agreeably, but Lord Dondo . . . presses. There are enough fine ladies here at court nearer his own age. I don’t know why he doesn’t go try to charm them.”

Cazaril almost asked her if thirty-five seemed as ancient to her as forty, but bit it short, and said instead, “He desires influence over Royse Teidez, of course. And therefore desires whatever good grace he can obtain from Teidez’s sister, directly or through her attendants.”

Betriz’s breath puffed out in relief. “Oh, do you think that’s so? It made me quite ill to think he might really be in love with me. But if he’s only flattering me for his advantage, that’s all right.”

Cazaril was still laboring to work this through when Iselle said, “He has a very odd idea of my character if he thinks seducing my attendants will gain my good graces! And I do not think he needs any more influence over Teidez, if what I’ve seen so far is a sample. I mean—if it were good influence, shouldn’t we see good results? We ought to see Teidez growing firmer in his studies, clearer in health, opening his mind to a wider world of some kind.”

Cazaril also bit back the observation that Teidez was certainly getting that last from Lord Dondo, in a way.

Iselle went on with growing passion, “Shouldn’t Teidez be apprenticing statecraft? At least seeing the Chancellery work, sitting in on councils, listening to envoys? Or if not statecraft, real warcraft? Hunting is fine, but shouldn’t he be learning military drill with men? His spiritual diet seems all candy and no meat. What kind of roya do they mean to train him to be?”

Possibly, one just like Orico—sodden and sickly—who will not compete with Chancellor dy Jironal for power in Chalion. But what Cazaril said aloud was, “I do not know, Royesse.”

“How can I know? How can I know anything?” She stepped back and forth across the chamber, her spine tense with frustration, her skirts swishing. “Mama and Grandmama would wish me to watch out for him. Cazaril, can you at least find out if it’s true about selling the Daughter’s men to the Heir of Ibra? That at least can’t be any kind of subtle secret!”

She was right about that. Cazaril swallowed. “I’ll try, my lady. But—then what?” He made his voice stern, for emphasis. “Dondo dy Jironal is a power you dare not treat with anything but strictest courtesy.”

Iselle swirled round, and stared intently at him. “No matter how corrupt that power is?”

“The more corrupt, the less safe.”

Iselle raised her chin. “So, Castillar, tell me—how safe, in your judgment, is Dondo dy Jironal?”

He was caught out, his mouth at half cock. So say it—Dondo dy Jironal is the second-most-dangerous man in Chalion, after his brother. Instead, he picked up a new quill from the clay jar and began shaping its tip with the penknife. After a moment or two he got out, “I do not like his sweaty hands either.”

Iselle snorted. But Cazaril was saved from further cross-examination by a call from Nan dy Vrit, some vital little matter of scarves and straying seed pearls, and the two ladies went back into their chambers.

ON COOL AFTERNOONS WHEN NO MORE-EXCITING hunting party went out, Royesse Iselle vented her restless energy by gathering up her little household and going for rides in the oak woods near Cardegoss. Cazaril, along with Lady Betriz and a couple of wheezing grooms, was cantering in the wake of her dappled mare down a green ride, the crisp air spangled with golden falling leaves, when his ear picked up a thunder of new hooves gaining ground behind them. He glanced over his shoulder, and his stomach lurched; a cavalcade of masked men was pelting down the track. The yelling crew overtook them. He had his sword half-out before he recognized the horses and equipage as belonging to some of the Zangre’s younger courtiers. The men were dressed in an amazing array of rags, bare arms and legs smeared with a dirt suspiciously reminiscent of boot blacking.

Cazaril drew a long breath, and bent briefly over his saddlebow, willing his heart to slow, as the grinning mob “captured” the royesse and Lady Betriz, and tied their prisoners, including Cazaril, with silk ribands. He wished fervently someone would warn him, at least, about these pranks in advance. The laughing Lord dy Rinal had come, though he apparently did not realize it, to within a fraction of a reflex of receiving a length of razor steel across his throat. His sturdy page, galloping up on Cazaril’s other side, might have died on the backstroke, and Cazaril’s sword sheathed itself in a third man’s belly before, had they been real bandits, they could have combined to take him down. And all before Cazaril’s brain had formulated his first clear thought, or his mouth opened to scream warning. They all laughed heartily at the look of terror they’d surprised on his face, and teased him about drawing steel; he smiled sheepishly, and decided not to explain just what aspect of it all had drained the blood from his face.

They rode to their “bandit camp,” a large clearing in the forest where a number of servants from the Zangre, also dressed in artistic rags, roasted deer and lesser game on spits over open fires. Bandit ladies, shepherdesses, and some rather stately beggar girls hailed the kidnappers’ return. Iselle squeaked in laughing outrage when the bandit king dy Rinal clipped a lock of her curling hair and held it up for ransom. The masque was not yet finished, for upon this cue a troop of “rescuers” in blue and white, led by Lord Dondo dy Jironal, galloped into the camp. Vigorous mock swordplay ensued, including some alarming and messy moments involving pig’s bladders filled with blood, before all the bandits were slain—some still complaining about the unfairness of it—and the lock of hair rescued by Dondo. A mock divine of the Brother then went about miraculously raising the bandits back to life with a skin of wine, and the entire company settled down upon cloths spread on the ground for some serious feasting and drinking.

Cazaril found himself sharing a cloth with Iselle, Betriz, and Lord Dondo. He sat cross-legged toward the edge, nibbled venison and bread, and watched and listened as Dondo entertained the royesse with what was, to his ear, heavy-handed wit. Dondo begged Iselle to award him her shorn lock as his prize for her daring rescue, and offered up in return, with a snap of his fingers to his hovering page, a tooled leather case containing two beautiful jeweled tortoiseshell combs.

“A treasure for a treasure, and all is quits,” Dondo told her, and ostentatiously tucked the curl of hair away in an inner pocket of his vest-cloak, over his heart.

“It’s a cruel gift, though,” Iselle parried, “to give me combs but leave me no hair to hold with them.” She held a comb up and turned it, glittering and translucent, in the sunlight.

“But you may grow new hair, Royesse.”

“But can you grow new treasure?”

“As easily as you can grow new hair, I assure you.” He leaned on his elbow by her side, and grinned up at her, his head nearly in her lap.

Iselle’s amused smile faded. “Do you find your new post so profitable, then, Holy General?”

“Indeed.”

“You are miscast, then. Perhaps you should have played the bandit king today.”

Dondo’s smile thinned. “If the world were not so, how could I ever buy enough pearls to please the pretty ladies?”

Spots of color flared in Iselle’s cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. Dondo’s smile grew satisfied. Cazaril, his tongue clamped between his teeth, reached for a silver flagon of wine, with an eye to accidentally in this emergency spilling it down the back of Iselle’s neck. Alas, the flagon was empty. But to his intense relief, Iselle took a bite of bread and meat next, and chewed instead on it. It was notable, though, that she drew her skirts aside from Lord Dondo when next she shifted position.

The chill of the autumn evening was rising with the shadows from the low places when the replete company rode slowly back to the Zangre after the bandits’ picnic. Iselle reined in her dappled mare and fell back beside Cazaril for a moment.

“Castillar. Did you ever discover for me the truth of the rumor of the Daughter’s troops being sold for mercenaries?”

“One or two other men have said so, but it is not what I would call confirmed news.” It was, in fact, quite thoroughly confirmed, but Cazaril judged it imprudent to say so to Iselle just at this moment.

She frowned silently, then spurred her horse forward to catch up with Lady Betriz again.

THAT NIGHT THE SPARER-THAN-USUAL EVENING BANQUET broke up without dancing, and tired courtiers and ladies went off to an early bed or private pleasures. Cazaril found Dondo dy Jironal falling into step beside him in an antechamber.

“Walk with me a little, Castillar. I think we need to talk.”

Cazaril shrugged obligingly, and followed Dondo, feigning not to notice the two choice young bravos, a couple of Dondo’s riper friends, who padded along a few paces behind them. They exited the tower block at the narrow end of the fortress, onto an irregular little quadrangle of a courtyard overlooking the confluence of the rivers. At a hand signal from Dondo, his two friends waited by the door, leaning against the stone wall like bored and tired sentries.

Cazaril calculated the odds. He had reach on Dondo, and despite his subsequent illness, his months pulling the oar on the galleys had left his wiry arms much stronger than they looked. Dondo was doubtless better trained. The bravos were young. A little drunk, but young. At three-to-one, swordplay might not even be required. An unagile secretary, too full of wine after supper, taking a walk on the battlements, could slip and fall in the dark, bouncing off the rock face three hundred feet down to the water below; his broken body might be found next day without a single telltale stab wound in it.

A few lanterns in wall brackets cast flickering orange light across the paving stones. Dondo gestured invitingly to a carved granite bench against the outer wall. The stone was gritty and chill against Cazaril’s legs as he sat, the night breeze dank on his neck. With a little grunt, Dondo seated himself, too, automatically flipping his vest-cloak aside to free his sword hilt.

“So, Cazaril,” Dondo began. “I see you are quite close in the confidence of the Royesse Iselle, these days.”

“The post of her secretary is one of great responsibility. Of her tutor, even more so. I take it quite seriously.”

“No surprise there—you always took everything too seriously. Too much of a good thing can be a fault in a man, you know.”

Cazaril shrugged.

Dondo sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles, as if making himself comfortable for a chat with some intimate. “For example”—he waved a hand toward the tower block now rising before them—“a girl of her age and style should be just starting to warm to men, and yet I find her strangely chill. A mare like that is made for breeding—she has good wide hips, to cradle a man.” He gave his own a little double jerk, for illustration. “One hopes she has escaped that unfortunate taint in the blood, and it’s not an early sign of the sort of, ah, difficulties of mind that overset her poor mother.”

Cazaril decided not to touch this one. “Mm,” he said.

“One hopes. And yet, if that is not the case, one is almost led to wonder if some . . . overserious person has taken to poisoning her mind against me.”

“This court is full of gossip. And gossipers.”

“Indeed. And, ah . . . just how do you speak of me to her, Cazaril?”

“Carefully.”

Dondo sat back, and folded his arms. “Good. That’s good.” He paused for a time. “And yet, withal, I think that I should prefer warmly. Warmly would be better.”

Cazaril moistened his lips. “Iselle is a very clever and sensitive girl. I’m sure she could sense if I were lying. Better to leave it as it is.”

Dondo snorted. “Ah, here we come to it. I suspected you might still be holding a grudge against me for that evil little game of mad Olus’s.”

Cazaril made a little negating gesture. “No. It is forgotten, my lord.” The proximity of Dondo, as close as in Olus’s tent, his slightly peculiar scent, brought it back in intense detail, blaring through Cazaril’s memory, the panting despair, the skree, the heavy blow . . . “It was a long time ago.”

“Huh. I do like a man with a malleable memory, and yet . . . I still feel you need more heat. I suppose you’re still a poor man, as ever. Some fellows never catch the tricks of getting on in the world.” Dondo unfolded his arms, and, with some little difficulty, twisted a ring off one of his thick, damp fingers. Its gold was thin, but a large bevel-cut flat green stone gleamed in its setting. He held it out to Cazaril. “Let this warm your heart to me. And your tongue.”

Cazaril didn’t move. “I have all I need from the royesse, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Dondo’s black brows knotted; his dark eyes glittered in the lanternlight between his narrowed lids. “Your position does give you considerable opportunity to fill your pockets, I suppose.”

Cazaril closed his teeth, hiding his tremble of outrage. “If you decline to believe in my probity, my lord, you might at least reflect upon Royesse Iselle’s future, and believe I still possess the wits the gods gave me. Today she has a household. Another day, it may be some royacy, or a princedom.”

“Indeed, think you so?” Dondo sat back with a strange grin, then laughed aloud. “Ah, poor Cazaril. If a man neglects his bird in the hand for the flock he sees in the tree, he’s very like to end with no bird at all. How clever is that?” He set the ring coyly down on the stone between them.

Cazaril opened both his hands and held them out palm up in front of his chest in a gesture of release. He returned them firmly to his knees, and said with undeceptive mildness, “Save your treasure, my lord, to buy yourself a man with a lower price. I’m sure you can find one.”

Dondo scooped his ring back up and frowned fiercely at Cazaril. “You haven’t changed. Still the same sanctimonious prig. You and that fool dy Sanda are much alike. No wonder, I suppose, considering that old woman in Valenda who chose you both.” He rose and stalked indoors, shoving the ring back on his finger. The two men waiting glanced across curiously at Cazaril and turned to follow.

Cazaril sighed, and wondered if his moment of furious satisfaction had been bought at too high a price. It might have been wiser to take the bribe and leave Lord Dondo calm, happy in the belief that he’d bought another man, one just like himself, easy to understand, certain of control. Feeling very tired, he pushed himself to his feet and went back inside to mount the stairs to his bedchamber.

He was just putting his key in his lock when dy Sanda passed him in the corridor, yawning. They exchanged cordial-enough murmurs of greeting.

“Stay a moment, dy Sanda.”

Dy Sanda glanced back over his shoulder. “Castillar?”

“Are you careful to keep your door locked these days, and your key about your person?”

Dy Sanda’s brows rose, and he turned. “I have a trunk with a good, stout lock, that serves for all I have to guard.”

“That’s not enough. You need to block your whole room.”

“So that nothing can be stolen? I have little enough that—”

“No. So that nothing stolen can be placed therein.”

Dy Sanda’s lips parted; he stood a moment, as this sank in, and raised his eyes to meet Cazaril’s. “Oh,” he said at last. He gave Cazaril a slow nod, almost a bow. “Thank you, Castillar. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Cazaril returned the nod, and went inside.

Cazaril sat in his bedchamber with a profligacy of candles and the classic Brajaran verse romance The Legend of the Green Tree, and sighed in contentment. The Zangre’s library had been famous in the days of Fonsa the Wise but neglected ever since—this volume, judging by the dust, hadn’t been pulled off the shelves since the end of Fonsa’s reign. But it was the luxury of enough candles to make reading late at night a pleasure and not a strain, as much as Behar’s versifying, that gave his heart joy. And a little guilt—the charges for good wax candles upon Iselle’s household accounts were going to add up after a time, and look a trifle odd. Behar’s thundering cadences echoing in his head, he moistened his finger and turned a page.

Behar’s stanzas weren’t the only things around here thundering and echoing. He glanced upward, as rapid thumps and scrapes and the muffled sounds of laughter and calling voices penetrated from the ceiling. Well, enforcing reasonable bedtimes in Iselle’s household was Nan dy Vrit’s job, not his, thank the gods. He returned his eye to the poet’s theologically symbolic visions, and ignored the clatter, till the pig squealed shrilly.

Even the great Behar could not compete with that mystery. His lips drawing back in a grin, Cazaril set the volume down on his coverlet and swung his still-trousered legs out of bed, fastened his tunic, wriggled his feet into his shoes, and picked up the candle with the glass chimney to light his way up the back stairs.

He met Dondo dy Jironal coming down. Dondo was dressed in his usual courtier’s attire, blue brocade tunic and linen-woolen trousers, though his white vest-cloak swung from his hand, along with his sword in its scabbard and sword belt. His face was set and flushed. Cazaril’s mouth opened to give some polite greeting, but his words died on his lips at Dondo’s murderous glare. Dondo stormed on past him without a word.

Cazaril swung into the upstairs corridor to find all its wall sconces lit and an inexplicable array of people gathered. Not only Betriz, Iselle, and Nan dy Vrit, but Lord dy Rinal, one of his friends and another lady, and Ser dy Sanda were all crowded around laughing. They scattered to the walls as Teidez and a page blasted through their midst, in hot pursuit of a scrubbed and beribboned young pig trailing a length of scarf. The page tackled the animal at Cazaril’s feet, and Teidez hooted triumph.

“In the bag, in the bag!” dy Sanda called.

He and Lady Betriz came up as Teidez and the page collaborated on inserting the squealing creature into a large canvas sack, where it clearly didn’t want to go. Betriz bent to give the struggling animal a quick scratch behind its flapping ears. “My thanks, Lady Pig! You played your part superbly. But it’s time to go back to your home now.”

The page hoisted the heavy sack up over his shoulder, saluted the assembled company, and staggered off, grinning.

“What is going on up here?” demanded Cazaril, torn between laughter and alarm.

“Oh, it was the greatest jest!” cried Teidez. “You should have seen the look on Lord Dondo’s face!”

Cazaril just had, and it hadn’t inspired him with mirth. His stomach sank. “What have you done?”

Iselle tossed her head. “Neither my hints not Lady Betriz’s plain words having served to discourage Lord Dondo’s attentions, or to convince him they were unwelcome, we conspired to make him the assignation of love he desired. Teidez undertook to secure our player from the stable. So, instead of the virgin Lord Dondo was confidently expecting to find waiting when he went tiptoeing up to Betriz’s bed in the dark, he found—Lady Pig!”

“Oh, you traduce the poor pig, Royesse!” cried Lord dy Rinal. “She may have been a virgin, too, after all!”

“I’m sure she was, or she would not have squealed so,” the laughing lady on his arm put in.

“It’s only too bad,” said dy Sanda acidly, “she was not to Lord Dondo’s taste. I confess I’m surprised. From all reports of the man, I’d have thought he’d lie down with anything.” His eyes flicked sideways, to check the effect of these words on the grinning Teidez.

“And after we’d doused her with my best Darthacan perfume, too,” sighed Betriz hugely. The merriment in her eyes was underscored by a glittering rage and sharp satisfaction.

“You should have told me,” Cazaril began. Told him what? Of this prank? It was clear enough they knew he would have suppressed it. Of Dondo’s continued pressings? Just how vile had they been? His fingernails bit into his palm. And what could he have done about them, eh? Gone to Orico, or Royina Sara? Futile . . .

Lord dy Rinal said, “It will be the best tale of the week in all of Cardegoss—and the best tail, too, if a curly one. Lord Dondo hasn’t played the butt for years, and I do think it was past his turn. I can hear the oinking already. The man won’t sit to a pork dinner for months without hearing it. Royesse, Lady Betriz”—he swept them a bow—“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

The two courtiers and the lady took themselves off, presumably to spread the jest to whatever of their friends were still awake.

Cazaril, suppressing the first several remarks trying to rip from his lips, finally ground out, “Royesse, that was not wise.”

Iselle frowned back, undaunted. “The man wears the robes of a holy general of the Lady of Spring yet undertakes to rob women of their virginity, sacred to Her, just as he robs . . . well, so you say we have no proof of what else he robs. We had proof enough of this, by the goddess! At least this may teach him the unwisdom of attempting to steal from my household. The Zangre is supposed to be a royal court, not a barnyard!”

“Cheer up, Cazaril,” dy Sanda advised him. “The man cannot revenge his outraged vanity upon the royse and royesse, after all.” He glanced around; Teidez had gone off up the corridor to collect the trampled ribbons the pig had shed in its attempted flight. He lowered his voice, and added, “And it was well worth the trouble for Teidez to see his, ah, hero in a less flattering light. When the amorous Lord Dondo stumbled out of Betriz’s bedchamber with the strings of his trousers in his hands, he found all our witnesses lined up waiting. Lady Pig nearly knocked him down, escaping between his legs. He looked an utter fool. It’s the best lesson I’ve been able to bring off all this month we’ve been here. Maybe we can start to regain some lost ground in that direction, eh?”

“I pray you may be right,” said Cazaril carefully. He did not say aloud his reflection that the royse and the royesse were the only people Dondo could not revenge himself upon.

Nevertheless, there was no sign of retaliation in the next several days. Lord Dondo took the raillery of dy Rinal and his friends with a thin smile, but a smile nonetheless. Cazaril sat to every meal in the expectation of, at the very least, a certain pig served up roasted with ribbons round its neck to the royesse’s table, but the dish did not appear. Betriz, at first infected by Cazaril’s nerves, was reassured. Cazaril was not. For all his hot temper, Dondo had amply demonstrated just how long he could wait for his opportunities without forgetting his wounds.

To Cazaril’s relief, the oinking about the castle corridors died down in less than a fortnight as new fêtes and pranks and gossip took its place. Cazaril began to hope Lord Dondo was going to swallow his so publicly administered medicine without spitting. Perhaps his elder brother, with larger horizons in view than the little society inside the Zangre’s walls, had undertaken to suppress any inappropriate response. There was news enough from the outside world to absorb grown men’s attention: sharpening of the civil war in South Ibra, banditry in the provinces, bad weather closing down the high passes unseasonably early.

In light of these last reports, Cazaril gave an eye to the logistics of transporting the royesse’s household, should the court decide to leave the Zangre early and remove to its traditional winter quarters before the Father’s Day. He was sitting in his office totting up horses and mules when one of Orico’s pages appeared at the antechamber door.

“My lord dy Cazaril, the roya bids you attend upon him in Ias’s Tower.”

Cazaril raised his eyebrows, set down his quill, and followed the boy, wondering what service the roya desired of him. Orico’s sudden fancies could be a trifle eccentric. Twice he had ordered Cazaril to accompany him on expeditions to his menagerie, there to perform no offices more complex than what a page or groom might well have done, holding his animals’ chains or fetching brushes or feed. Well, no—the roya had also asked leading questions about his sister Iselle’s doings, in an apparently desultory fashion. Cazaril had seized the opportunity to convey Iselle’s horror of being bartered to the Archipelago, or to any other Roknari prince, and had hoped the roya’s ear was more open than his sleepy demeanor would indicate.

The page guided him to the long room on the second floor of Ias’s Tower that dy Jironal used for his Chancellery when the court was resident in the Zangre. It was lined with shelves crammed with books, parchments, files, and a row of the seal-locked saddlebags used by the royal couriers. The two liveried guards standing at attention followed them within and took up their posts inside the door. Cazaril felt their eyes follow him.

Roya Orico was seated with the chancellor behind a large table scattered about with papers. Orico looked weary. Dy Jironal was spare and intense, dressed today in ordinary court garb, but with his chain of office around his neck. A courtier, whom Cazaril recognized as Ser dy Maroc, master of the roya’s armor and wardrobe, stood at one end of the table. One of Orico’s pages, looking very worried, stood at the other.

Cazaril’s escort announced, “The Castillar dy Cazaril, sire,” and then, after a glance at his fellow page, backed away to make himself invisible by the far wall.

Cazaril bowed. “Sire, my lord Chancellor?”

Dy Jironal stroked his steel-streaked beard, glanced at Orico, who shrugged, and said quietly, “Castillar, you will oblige His Majesty, please, by removing your tunic, and turning around.”

Cold unease knotted the words in his throat. Cazaril closed his lips, gave a single nod, and undid the frogs of his tunic. Tunic and vest-cloak he slipped off together and folded neatly over his arm. Face set, he made a military about-face, and stood still. Behind him, he heard two men stifle gasps, and a young voice mutter, “It was so. I did see.” Oh. That page. Yes.

Someone cleared his throat; Cazaril waited for the hot flush to die from his cheeks, then wheeled around again. He said steadily, “Was that all, sire?”

Orico fidgeted, and said, “Castillar, it is whispered . . . you are accused . . . an accusation has been made . . . that you were convicted of the crime of rape in Ibra, and flogged in the stocks.”

“That is a lie, sire. Who has said it?” He glanced at Ser dy Maroc, who had grown a trifle pale while Cazaril’s back was turned. Dy Maroc was not in either of the Jironal brothers’ direct employ, and he was not, so far as Cazaril knew, one of Dondo’s riper creatures . . . might he have been bribed? Or was he an honest gull?

A clear voice rang from the corridor. “I will too see my brother, and at once! I have the right!”

Orico’s guards surged forward, then hastily back again, as Royesse Iselle, trailed by a very pale Lady Betriz and Ser dy Sanda, burst into the chamber.

Iselle’s quick glance took in the tableau of men. She raised her chin, and cried, “What is this, Orico? Dy Sanda tells me you have arrested my secretary! Without even warning me!”

By the peeved ripple of Chancellor dy Jironal’s mouth, this intrusion had not been in his plans. Orico waved his thick hands. “No, no, not arrested. No one has arrested anyone. We are gathered to investigate an accusation.”

“What accusation?”

“A very serious one, Royesse, and not for your ears,” said dy Jironal. “You should withdraw.”

Pointedly ignoring him, she pulled up a chair and plunked down into it, folding her arms. “If it’s a serious accusation against the most trusted servant of my household, it is very much for my ears. Cazaril, what is this about?”

Cazaril gave her a slight bow. “A slander has apparently been circulated, by persons not yet named, that the scars on my back were punishment for a crime.”

“Last fall,” dy Maroc put in nervously. “In Ibra.”

By Betriz’s widening stare and caught breath, she had obtained a good close view of the ropy mess as she’d followed Iselle around Cazaril. Ser dy Sanda’s lips too pursed in a wince.

“May I put my tunic back on, sire?” Cazaril added stiffly.

“Yes, yes.” Orico waved a hasty assent.

“The nature of the crime, Royesse,” dy Jironal put in smoothly, “is such as to cast very serious doubts on whether the man should be a trusted servant of your, or indeed, any lady’s household.”

“What, rape?” said Iselle scornfully. “Cazaril? That is the most absurd lie I have ever heard.”

“And yet,” said dy Jironal, “there are the flogging scars.”

“The gift,” said Cazaril through his teeth, “of a Roknari oar-master, in return for a certain ill-considered defiance. Last fall, and off the coast of Ibra, that much is true.”

“Plausible, and yet . . . odd,” said dy Jironal in a judicious tone. “The cruelties of the galleys are legendary, but one would not think a competent oar-master would damage a slave past use.”

Cazaril half smiled. “I provoked him.”

“How so, Cazaril?” asked Orico, leaning back and squeezing the fat of his chin with one hand.

“Wrapped my oar-chain around his throat and did my best to strangle him. I almost succeeded, too. But they pulled me off him a trifle too soon.”

“Dear gods,” said the roya. “Were you trying to commit suicide?”

“I . . . am not quite sure. I’d thought I was past fury, but . . . I had been given a new benchmate, an Ibran boy, maybe fifteen years old. Kidnapped, he said, and I believed him. You could tell he was of good family, soft, well-spoken, not used to rough places—he blistered dreadfully in the sun, and his hands bled on the oars. Scared, defiant, ashamed . . . he said his name was Danni, but he never told me his surname. The oar-master made to use him after a manner forbidden to Roknari, and Danni struck out at him. Before I could stop him. It was insanely foolish, but the boy didn’t realize. . . . I thought—well, I wasn’t thinking very clearly, but I thought if I struck harder I could distract the oar-master from retaliating upon him.”

“By retaliating against you instead?” said Betriz wonderingly.

Cazaril shrugged. He’d kneed the oar-master hard enough in the groin, before wrapping the chain around his neck, to assure he wouldn’t be amorous again for a week, but a week would have passed soon enough, and then what? “It was a futile gesture. Would have been futile, but for the chance of the Ibran naval flotilla crossing our bows the next morning, and rescuing us all.”

Dy Sanda said encouragingly, “You have witnesses, then. Quite a large number of them, it sounds like. The boy, the galley slaves, the Ibran sailors . . . what became of the boy, after?”

“I don’t know. I lay ill in the Temple Hospital of the Mother’s Mercy in Zagosur for, for a while, and everyone was scattered and gone by the time I, um, left.”

“A very heroic tale,” said dy Jironal, in a dry tone well calculated to remind his listeners that this was Cazaril’s version. He frowned judiciously and glanced around the assembled company, his gaze lingering for a moment upon dy Sanda, and the outraged Iselle. “Still . . . I suppose you might ask the royesse to give you a month’s leave to ride to Ibra, and locate some of these, ah, conveniently scattered witnesses. If you can.”

Leave his ladies unguarded for a month, here? And would he survive the trip? Or be slain and buried in a shallow grave in the woods two hours’ ride out of Cardegoss, leaving the court to construe his guilt from his supposed flight? Betriz pressed her hand to whitened lips, but her glare was wholly for dy Jironal. Here, at least, was one who believed Cazaril’s word and not his back. He stood a little straighter.

“No,” he said at last. “I am slandered. My sworn word stands against hearsay. Unless you have some better support than castle gossip, I defy the lie. Or—where did you have the tale? Have you traced it to its source? Who accuses me—is it you, dy Maroc?” He frowned at the courtier.

“Explain it, dy Maroc,” dy Jironal invited, with a careless wave.

De Maroc took a breath. “I had it from an Ibran silk merchant that I dealt with for the roya’s wardrobe—he recognized the castillar, he said, from the flogging block in Zagosur, and was very shocked to see him here. He said it was an ugly case—that the castillar had ravished the daughter of a man who took him in and gave him shelter, and he remembered it very well, therefore, because it was so vile.”

Cazaril scratched his beard. “Are you sure he didn’t simply mistake me for another man?”

Dy Maroc replied stiffly, “No, for he had your name.”

Cazaril’s eyes narrowed. No mistake here—it was a lie outright, bought and paid for. But whose tongue had been bought? The courtier’s, or the merchant’s?

“Where is this merchant now?” dy Sanda broke in.

“Led his pack train back to Ibra, before the snows.”

Cazaril said, in a mild voice, “Just exactly when did you have this tale?”

Dy Maroc hesitated, apparently casting back, for his fingers twitched down by his side as if counting. “Three weeks gone, he rode out. It was just before he left that we talked.”

I know who’s lying now, yes. Cazaril’s lip turned up, without humor. That there was a real silk merchant, who had really ridden out of Cardegoss on that date, he had no doubt. But the Ibran had departed well before Dondo’s emerald bribe, and Dondo would not have troubled to invent this indirect route for getting rid of Cazaril until after he’d failed to purchase him direct. Unfortunately, this was not a line of reasoning Cazaril could adduce in his defense.

“The silk merchant,” dy Maroc added, “could have had no reason to lie.”

But you do. I wonder what it is? “You’ve known of this serious charge for over three weeks, yet only now have brought it to your lord’s attention? How very odd of you, dy Maroc.”

Dy Maroc glowered at him.

“If the Ibran’s gone,” said Orico querulously, “it’s impossible to find out who is telling the truth.”

“Then my lord dy Cazaril should surely be given the benefit of the doubt,” said dy Sanda, standing sternly upright. “You may not know him, but the Provincara dy Baocia, who gave him this trust, did; he’d served her late husband some six or seven years, in all.”

“In his youth,” said dy Jironal. “Men do change, you know. Especially in the brutality of war. If there is any doubt of the man, he should not be trusted in such a critical and, dare I say it”—he glanced pointedly at Betriz—“tempting post.”

Betriz’s long, incensed inhalation was, perhaps fortunately, cut across by Iselle, who cried, “Oh, rubbish! In the midst of the brutality of war, you yourself gave this man the keys to the fortress of Gotorget, which was the anchor of Chalion’s whole battle line in the north. You clearly trusted him enough then, March! Nor did he betray that trust.”

Dy Jironal’s jaw tightened, and he smiled thinly. “Why, how militant Chalion is grown, that our very maidens seek to give us better advice upon our strategies.”

“They could hardly give us worse,” growled Orico under his breath. Only a slight sideways flick of the eyes betrayed that dy Jironal had heard him.

Dy Sanda said, in a puzzled voice, “Yes, and why wasn’t the castillar ransomed with the rest of his officers when you surrendered Gotorget, dy Jironal?”

Cazaril clenched his teeth. Shut up, dy Sanda.