The Curse of Chalion

It was not a name Cazaril recognized, but the Provincara sniffed. "About time. Ghastly man. I did not receive him, though I suppose there were fools enough who did. Did he finally underestimate a victim—I mean, opponent?"

"That's where the story gets interesting. He was apparently assassinated by death magic." No bad raconteur, dy Ferrej quaffed wine while the shocked murmur ran around the table. Cazaril froze in mid-chew.

"Is the Temple going to try to solve the mystery?" asked Royesse Iselle.

"No mystery to it, though I gather it was rather a tragedy. About a year ago, dy Naoza was jostled in the street by the only son of a provincial wool merchant, with the usual result. Well, dy Naoza claimed it for a duel, of course, but there were those on the scene who said it was bloody murder. Somehow, none of them could be found to testify when the boy's father tried to take dy Naoza to justice. There was some question about the probity of the judge, too, it was rumored."

The Provincara tsked. Cazaril dared to swallow, and say, "Do go on."

Encouraged, the castle warder continued, "The merchant was a widower, and the boy not just an only son, but an only child. Just about to be married, too, to turn the knife. Death magic is an ugly business, true, but I can't help having a spot of sympathy for the poor merchant. Well, rich merchant, I suppose, but in any case, far too old to train up to the degree of swordsmanship required to remove someone like dy Naoza. So he fell back on what he thought was his only recourse. Spent the next year studying the black arts—where he found all his lore is a good puzzle for the Temple, mind you—letting his business go, I was told—and then, last night, took himself off to an abandoned mill about seven miles from Valenda, and tried to call up a demon. And, by the Bastard, succeeded! His body was found there this morning."

The Father of Winter was the god of all deaths in good season, and of justice; but in addition to all the other disasters in his gift the Bastard was the god of executioners. And, indeed, god of a whole purseful of other dirty jobs. It seems the merchant went to the right store for his miracle. The notebook in Cazaril's vest suddenly seemed to weigh ten pounds; but it was only in his imagination that it felt as though it might scorch through the cloth and burst into flame.

"Well, I don't have any sympathy for him," said Royse Teidez. "That was cowardly!"

"Yes, but what can you expect of a merchant?" observed his tutor, from down the table. "Men of that class are not trained up in the kind of code of honor a true gentleman learns."

"But it's so sad," protested Iselle. "I mean, about the son about to be wed."

Teidez snorted. "Girls. All you can think about is getting married. But which is the greater loss to the royacy? Some moneygrubbing wool-man, or a swordsman? Any duelist that skilled must be a good soldier for the roya!"

"Not in my experience," Cazaril said dryly.

"What do you mean?" Teidez promptly challenged him.

Abashed, Cazaril mumbled, "Excuse me. I spoke out of turn."

"What's the difference?" Teidez pressed.

The Provincara tapped a finger on the tablecloth and shot him an indecipherable look. "Do expand, Castillar."

Cazaril shrugged, and offered a slight, apologetic bow in the boy's direction. "The difference, Royse, is that a skilled soldier kills your enemies, but a skilled duelist kills your allies. I leave you to guess which a wise commander prefers to have in his camp."

"Oh," said Teidez. He fell silent, looking thoughtful.

There was, apparently, no rush to return the merchant's notebook to the proper authorities, and also no difficulty. Cazaril might search out the divine at the Temple of the Holy Family here in Valenda tomorrow at his leisure, and turn it over to be passed along. It would have to be decoded; some men found that sort of puzzle difficult or tedious, but Cazaril had always found it restful. He wondered if he ought, as a courtesy, to offer to decipher it. He touched his soft wool robe, and was glad he'd prayed for the man at his hurried burning.

Betriz, her dark brows crimping, asked, "Who was the judge, Papa?"

Dy Ferrej hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "The Honorable Vrese."

"Ah," said the Provincara. "Him." Her nose twitched, as though she'd sniffed a bad smell.

"Did the duelist threaten him, then?" asked Royesse Iselle. "Shouldn't he—couldn't he have called for help, or had dy Naoza arrested?"

"I doubt that even dy Naoza was foolish enough to threaten a justiciar of the province," said dy Ferrej. "Though it was probable he intimidated the witnesses. Vrese was, hm, likely handled by more peaceful means." He popped a fragment of bread into his mouth and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, miming a man warming a coin.