The Curse of Chalion

"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."