Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

The vision was at once enticing and appalling. "Couldn't you give me a fortress under siege, instead?"

The humor faded in her face. She leaned forward, and tapped him on the knee; her voice dropped, and she breathed, "She will be, soon enough." She paused, and studied him. "You asked if there was anything you could do to ease my burdens. For the most part, the answer is no. You can't make me young, you can't make... many things better." Cazaril wondered anew how the strange fragile health of her daughter weighed upon her. "But can't you give me this one little yes?"

She begged him. She begged him . That was all wrong. "I am yours to command, of course, lady, of course. It's just... it's just that... are you sure?"

"You are not a stranger here, Cazaril. And I am in the most desperate need of a man I can trust."

His heart melted. Or maybe it was his wits. He bowed his head. "Then I am yours."

"Iselle's."

Cazaril, his elbows on his knees, glanced up and across at her, at the thoughtfully frowning dy Ferrej, and back at the old woman's intent face. "I... see."

"I believe you do. And that, Cazaril, is why I shall have you for her."

So it was Cazaril found himself, the next morning, introduced into the young ladies' schoolroom by the Provincara herself. This sunny little chamber was on the east side of the keep, on the top floor occupied by Royesse Iselle, Lady Betriz, their waiting woman, and a maid. Royse Teidez had chambers for his similar subhousehold in the new building across the courtyard, rather more generously proportioned, Cazaril suspected, and with better fireplaces. Iselle's schoolroom was simply furnished with a pair of small tables, chairs, a single bookcase half-empty, and a couple of chests. With the addition of Cazaril, feeling overtall and awkward under the low-beamed ceiling, and the two young women, it was as full as it would hold. The perpetual waiting woman had to take her sewing into the next chamber, though the doors were left propped open between them.

It seemed Cazaril was to have a class, not just a pupil. A maiden of Iselle's rank would almost never be left alone, and certainly not with a man, even a prematurely aged and convalescent one of her own household. Cazaril didn't know how the two ladies felt about this tacit arrangement, but he was secretly relieved. Never had he felt more repulsively male—uncouth, clumsy, and degraded. In all, this cheerful, peaceful feminine atmosphere was about as far from a Roknari galley rower's bench as it was possible for Cazaril to imagine, and he had to swallow a lump of delirious joy at the contrast as he ducked his head under the lintel and stepped inside.

The Provincara announced him briskly as Iselle's new secretary-tutor, "Just as your brother has," a clearly unexpected gift that Iselle, after a blink of surprise, accepted without the least demur. By her calculating look, the novelty and increased status of being instructed by a man was quite pleasing to her. Lady Betriz, too, Cazaril was heartened to note, looked alert and interested rather than wary or hostile.

Cazaril trusted he appeared scholarly enough to fool the young ladies, the wool merchant's neat brown gown secured today by the castle warder's silver-studded belt without the sword. He'd had the forethought to supply himself with all the books in Darthacan that a fast rummage through the remains of the late provincar's library could supply, some half dozen random volumes. He dropped them with an impressive thump upon one of the little tables and favored both new pupils with a deliberately sinister smile. If this was to be anything like training young soldiers, young horses, or young hawks, the key was to take the initiative from the first moment, and keep it thereafter. He could be as hollow as a drum, so long as he was as loud.

The Provincara departed as briskly as she'd arrived. In the interest of pretending he had a plan while devising one, Cazaril started right in by testing the royesse's command of Darthacan. He had her read a random page from one of the volumes, as it chanced on a topic that Cazaril knew well: mining and sapping fortified lines during sieges. With much help and prompting, Iselle stumbled through three laborious paragraphs. Two or three questions Cazaril put to her in Darthacan challenging her to explicate the contents of what she'd just read left her sputtering and floundering.

"Your accent is terrible," he told her frankly. "A Darthacan would find you nearly unintelligible."

Her head came up, and she glared at him. "My governess said I was quite good. She said that I had a very melodic intonation."

"Yes; you speak like a South Ibran fishwoman hawking her wares. They are very melodic, too. But any Darthacan lordling, and they are all arrogant as wasps about their dreadful tongue, would laugh in your face." At least, they had in Cazaril's, once. "Your governess flattered you, Royesse."

She frowned across at him. "I take it you do not fancy yourself a flatterer, Castillar?"

Her tone and terms were a bit more double-leveled than he'd expected. His ironic return bow, from his seat on a chest drawn up to her table's other side, was pulled shorter and a little less apologetic than he'd intended by the yank of his adhesions. "I trust I am not a complete lout. But if you desire a man to tell you comfortable lies about your prowess, and so fetter any hope of true excellence, I'm sure you may find one anywhere. Not all prisons are made of iron bars. Some are made of feather beds. Royesse."

Her nostrils flared; her lips thinned. Belatedly, it occurred to Cazaril that perhaps this was the wrong approach. She was a tender young thing, barely more than a girl—perhaps he ought to soften—and if she complained of him to the Provincara, he might lose—

She turned the page. "Let us," she said in an icy voice, "go on."

Five gods, he'd seen exactly that same look of frustrated fury in the eyes of the young men who'd picked themselves up, spat the dirt from their mouths, and gone on to become his best lieutenants. Maybe this wasn't going to be so difficult after all. With great effort, he cranked a broad grin downward into a grave frown and nodded august tutorly permission. "Continue."

An hour flew by in this pleasant, easy employment. Well, easy for him. When he noticed the royesse rubbing her temples, and lines deepening between her brows that had nothing to do with mere offense, he desisted and took the book back from her.

Lady Betriz had followed along at Iselle's side, her lips moving silently. Cazaril had her repeat the exercise. With Iselle's example before her, she was quicker, but alas she suffered from the same broad South Ibran accent, probably from the same South Ibran prior instructress, as Iselle. Iselle listened intently as they waded through corrections.

They had all earned their noon dinner by that time, Cazaril felt; but he had one more displeasing task to accomplish, strictly charged to him by the Provincara. He leaned back, as the girls stirred and made to rise, and cleared his throat.

"That was quite a spectacular gesture you brought off yesterday at the temple, Royesse."

Her wide mouth curved up; her curiously thick eyelids narrowed in pleasure. "Thank you, Castillar."

He let his own smile grow astringent. "A most showy insult, to put upon a man constrained to stand and not answer back. At least the idlers were vastly amused, judging by their laughter."

Her lips constricted into an uneasy purse. "There is much ill done in Chalion that I can do nothing about. It was little enough."

"If it was well, it was well-done," he conceded with a deceptively cordial nod. "Tell me, Royesse, what steps did you take beforehand, to assure yourself of the man's guilt?"

Her chin stopped in mid-rise. "Ser dy Ferrej... said it of him. And I know him to be honest."