The Curse of Chalion

The dubious page arrived much quicker than Cazaril had thought he might, with a wriggling bag. Cazaril checked its contents—the snapping, hissing rat must have weighed a pound and a half—and paid up. The page pocketed his coin and walked off, staring over his shoulder. Cazaril fastened the mouth of the bag tight and locked it in his chest to prevent the condemned prisoner's escape.

He put off his courtier's garb and put on the robe and vest-cloak the wool merchant had died in, just for luck. Boots, shoes, barefoot? Which would be more secure, upon the slippery stones and slates? Barefoot, he decided. But he slipped on his shoes for one last, practical expedition.

"Betriz?" he whispered loudly through the door of his office antechamber. "Lady Betriz? I know it's late—can you come out to me?"

She was still fully dressed for the day, still pale and exhausted. She let him grip her hands, and leaned her forehead briefly against his chest. The warm scent of her hair took him back for a dizzy instant to his second day in Valenda, standing by her in the Temple crowd. The only thing unchanged from that happy hour was her loyalty.

"How does the Royesse?" Cazaril asked her.

She looked up, in the dim candlelight. "She prays unceasingly to the Daughter. She has not eaten or drunk since yesterday. I don't know where the gods are, nor why they have abandoned us."

"I couldn't kill Dondo today. I couldn't get near him."

"I'd guessed as much. Or we would have heard something."

"I have one more thing to try. If it doesn't work... I'll return in the morning, and we'll see what we can do with your knife. But I just wanted you to know... if I don't come back in the morning, I'm all right. And not to worry about me, or look for me."

"You're not abandoning us?" Her hands spasmed around his.

"No, never."

She blinked. "I don't understand."

"That's all right. Take care of Iselle. Don't trust the Chancellor dy Jironal, ever."

"I don't need you to tell me that."

"There's more. My friend Palli, the March dy Palliar, knows the true story of how I was betrayed after Gotorget. How I came to be enemies with Dondo... won't matter, but Iselle should know, his elder brother deliberately struck me from the list of men to be ransomed, to betray me to the galleys and my death. There's no doubt. I saw the list, in his own hand, which I knew well from his military orders."

She hissed through clenched teeth. "Can nothing be done?"

"I doubt it. If it could be proved, some half the lords of Chalion would likely refuse to ride under his banner thereafter. Maybe it would be enough to topple him. Or not. It's a quarrel Iselle can store up in her quiver; someday she may be able to fire it." He stared down at her face, turned up to his, ivory and coral and deep, deep ebony eyes, huge in the dim light. Awkwardly, he bent and kissed her.

Her breath stopped, then she laughed in startlement and put her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry. Your beard scratches."

"I... forgive me. Palli would make you a most honorable husband, if you're inclined to him. He's very true. As true as you. Tell him I said so."

"Cazaril, what are you—"

Nan dy Vrit called from the Royesse's chambers, "Betriz? Come here, please?"

He must part with everything now, even regret. He kissed her hands, and fled.

THE NIGHT SCRAMBLE OVER THE ROOF OF THE ZANGRE, from main block to Fonsa's Tower, was every bit as stomach-churning as Cazaril had anticipated. It was still raining. The moon shone fitfully behind the clouds, but its gloomy radiance didn't help much. The footing was either gritty or breath-catchingly slippery under his naked soles, and numbingly cold. The worst part was the final little jump across about six feet to the top of the round tower. Fortunately, the leap was angled down and not up, and he didn't end a simple suicide, wasted, spattered on the cobbles far below.

Bag jerking in his hand, breath whistling past his cold lips, he half squatted, trembling, after the jump, leaning into a bank of roof slates slick with rain beneath his hands. He pictured one working loose, shattering on the stones below, drawing the guards' attention upward... . Slowly, he worked his way around until the dark gap of the open roof yawned beside him. He sat on the edge, and felt with his feet. He could touch no solid surface. He waited for a little moonlight; was that a floor, down there? Or a bit of rail? A crow muttered, in the dark.

He spent the next ten minutes, teetering, hands shaking, trying to light the candle stub from his pocket, by feel, with flint and tinder in his lap. He burned himself, but won a little flame at last.