The Curse of Chalion

Palli nodded. He continued to Cazaril, "We plan to rest the horses overnight and go on tomorrow at a leisurely pace—the weather's too fine to be in a rush. There are pilgrims on the roads to every shrine and temple—and those who prey on 'em, alas—there were bandits reported in the hill passes, but we didn't find 'em."

"You looked?" said Cazaril, bemused. Not finding bandits had been all his desire, on the road.

"Hey! I am the lord dedicat of the Daughter's Order at Palliar now, I'll have you know—in my father's shoes. I have duties."

"You ride with the soldier-brothers?"

"More like with the baggage train. It's all keeping the books, and collecting rents, and chasing the damned equipment, and logistics. The joys of command—well, you know. You taught them to me. One part glory to ten parts shoveling manure."

Cazaril grinned. "That good a ratio? You're blessed."

Palli grinned back and accepted cheese and cakes from the servant. "I lodged my troop down in town. But you, Caz! As soon as I said, Gotorget, they asked me if we'd met—you could have knocked me over with a straw when m'lady said you'd turned up here, having walked—walked!—from Ibra, and looking like something the cat hawked up."

The Provincara gave a small, unrepentant shrug at Cazaril's faintly reproachful glance her way.

"I've been telling them war stories for the past half hour," Palli went on. "How's your hand?"

Cazaril curled it in his lap. "Much recovered." He hastened to change the subject. "What's forward at court, for you?"

"Well, I'd not had the chance to make formal oath to Orico since m'father died, and also, I'm to represent the Daughter's Order of Palliar at the investiture."

"Investiture?" said Cazaril blankly.

"Ah, has Orico finally given out the generalship of the Daughter's Order?" asked dy Ferrej. "Since the old general died, I hear every high family in Chalion has been badgering him for the gift."

"I should imagine," said the Provincara. "Lucrative and powerful enough, even if it is smaller than the Son's."

"Oh, aye," said Palli. "It's not been announced yet, but it's known—it's to be Dondo dy Jironal, the younger brother of the Chancellor."

Cazaril stiffened, and sipped wine to hide his dismay.

After a rather long pause, the Provincara said, "What an odd choice. One usually expects the general of a holy military order to be more... personally austere."

"But, but," said dy Ferrej, "Chancellor Martou dy Jironal holds the generalship of the Order of the Son! Two, in one family? It's a dangerous concentration of power."

The Provincara murmured, "Martou is also to become the Provincar dy Jironal, if rumor is true. As soon as old dy Ildar stops lingering."

"I hadn't heard that," said Palli, sounding startled.

"Yes," said the Provincara dryly. "The Ildar family is not too happy. I believe they'd been counting on the provincarship for one of the nephews."

Palli shrugged. "The brothers Jironal certainly ride high in Chalion, by Orico's favor. I suppose if I were clever, I would find some way of grabbing on to their cloak-hems, and riding along."

Cazaril frowned into his wine and groped for a way to divert the topic. "What other news do you hear?"

"Well, these two weeks gone, the Heir of Ibra has raised his banner in South Ibra—again—against the old fox, his father. Everyone had thought last summer's treaty would hold, but it seems they had some secret falling-out, last autumn, and the roya repudiated it. Again."

"The Heir," said the Provincara, "presumes. Ibra does have another son, after all."

"Orico supported the Heir the last time," observed Palli.

"To Chalion's cost," murmured Cazaril.

"It seemed to me Orico was taking the long view. In the end," said Palli, "surely the Heir must win. One way or another."

"It will be a joyless victory for the old man if his son loses," said dy Ferrej in a tone of slow consideration. "No, I wager they'll spend more men's lives, and then make it up again between them over the bodies."

"A sad business," said the Provincara, tightening her lips. "No good can come of it. Eh, dy Palliar. Tell me some good news. Tell me Orico's royina is with child."

Palli shook his head ruefully. "Not as I've heard, lady."

"Well, then, let us go to our supper and talk no more politics. It makes my old head ache."

His muscles had seized up while he was sitting, despite the wine; Cazaril almost fell over, trying to rise from his chair. Palli caught him by the elbow and steadied him, and frowned deeply. Cazaril gave him a tiny shake of his head and went off to wash and change. And examine his bruises in private.