Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

"Ser dy Ferrej said, and I recall his words precisely, for he uses his words so, that he'd heard it said the judge had taken the duelist's bribe. He did not claim firsthand knowledge of the deed. Did you check with him, after dinner, to find out how he came by his belief?"

"No... If I'd told anyone what I was planning, they would have forbidden me."

"You, ah, told Lady Betriz, though." Cazaril favored the dark-eyed woman with a nod.

Stiffening, Betriz replied warily, "It's why I suggested asking the first flame."

Cazaril shrugged. "The first flame, ah. But your hand is young and strong and steady, Lady Iselle. Are you sure that first flame wasn't all your doing?"

Her frown deepened. "The townsmen applauded..."

"Indeed. On average, one-half of all supplicants to come before a judge's bench must depart angry and disappointed. But not, by that, necessarily wronged."

That one hit the target, by the change in her face. The shift from defiant to stricken was not especially pleasurable to watch. "But... but..."

Cazaril sighed. "I'm not saying you were wrong, Royesse. This time. I'm saying you were running blindfolded. And if it wasn't headlong into a tree, it was only by the mercy of the gods, and not by any care of yours."

"Oh."

"You may have slandered an honest man. Or you may have struck a blow for justice. I don't know. The point is... neither do you ."

Her oh this time was so repressed as to be unvoiced.

The horribly practical part of Cazaril's mind that had eased him through so many scrapes couldn't help adding, "And right or wrong, what I also saw was that you made an enemy, and left him alive behind you. Great charity. Bad tactics." Damn, but that was no remark to make to a gentle maiden... with an effort, he kept from clapping his hands over his mouth, a gesture that would do nothing to prop up his pose as a high-minded and earnest corrector.

Iselle's brows went up and stayed up, for a moment, this time. So did Lady Betriz's.

After an unnervingly long and thoughtful silence, Iselle said quietly, "I thank you for your good counsel, Castillar."

He returned her an approving nod. Good. If he'd got through that sticky one all right, he was halfway home with her. And now, thank the gods, on to the Provincara's generous table...

Iselle sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "You are to be my secretary, as well as my tutor, Cazaril, yes?"

Cazaril sank back. "Yes, my lady? You wish some assistance with a letter?" He almost added suggestively, After dinner?

"Assistance. Yes. But not with a letter. Ser dy Ferrej said you were once a courier, is that right?"

"I once rode for the provincar of Guarida, my lady. When I was younger."

"A courier is a spy." Her regard had grown disquietingly calculating.

"Not necessarily, though it was sometimes hard to... convince people otherwise. We were trusted messengers, first and foremost. Not that we weren't supposed to keep our eyes open and report our observations."

"Good enough." The chin came up. "Then my first task for you, as my secretary, is one of observation. I want you to find out if I made a mistake or not. I can't very well go down into town, or ask around—I have to stay up on top of this hill in my"—she grimaced—"feather bed. But you—you can do it." She gazed across at him with an expression of the most disturbing faith.

His stomach felt suddenly as hollow as a drum, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. Apparently, he had just put on slightly too good a show. "I... I... immediately?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Discreetly. As opportunity presents."

Cazaril swallowed. "I'll try what I can do, my lady."

ON HIS WAY DOWN THE STAIRS TO HIS OWN CHAMBER, one floor below, a vision surfaced in Cazaril's thoughts from his days as a page in this very castle. He'd fancied himself a bit of a swordsman, on account of being a shade better than the half dozen other young highborn louts who'd shared his duties and his training in the provincar's household. One day a new young page had arrived, a short, surly fellow; the provincar's swordmaster had invited Cazaril to step up against him at the next training session. Cazaril had developed himself a pretty thrust or two, including a flourish that, with a real blade, would have neatly nipped the ears off most of his comrades. He'd tried his special pass on the new fellow, coming to a happy halt with the dulled edge flat against the newcomer's head—only to look down and see his opponent's light practice blade bent nearly double against his gut padding.

That page had gone on, Cazaril had heard, to become the swordmaster for the roya of Brajar. In time, Cazaril had to own himself an indifferent swordsman—his interests had always been too broad-scattered for him to maintain the necessary obsession. But he'd never forgotten that moment, looking down in surprise at his mock-death.

It bemused him that his first lesson with the delicate Iselle had churned up that old memory. Odd little flickers of intensity, to burn in such disparate eyes... what had that short page's name been... ?

Cazaril found that a couple more tunics and trousers had arrived on his bed while he was out, relics of the castle warder's younger and thinner days, unless he missed his guess. He went to put them away in the chest at the foot of his bed and was reminded of the dead wool merchant's book, folded inside the black vest-cloak there. He picked it up, thinking to walk it down to the temple this afternoon, but then set it back. Possibly, within its ciphered pages, might lurk some of that moral certainty the royesse sought of him—that he had pricked her to seek of him—some clearer evidence for or against the shamed judge. He would examine it himself, first. Perhaps it would provide some guidance to the secrets of Valenda's local scene.

AFTER DINNER, CAZARIL LAY DOWN FOR A MARVELOUS little nap. He was just coming to luxuriant wakefulness again when Ser dy Ferrej knocked on his door, and delivered to him the books and records of the royesse's chambers. Betriz followed shortly with a box of letters for him to put in order. Cazaril spent the remainder of the afternoon starting to organize the randomly piled lot, and familiarize himself with the matters therein.

The financial records were fairly simple—the purchase of this or that trivial toy or bit of trumpery jewelry; lists of presents given and received; a somewhat more meticulous listing of jewels of genuine value, inheritances, or gifts. Clothing. Iselle's riding horse, the mule Snowflake, and their assorted trappings. Items such as linens or furniture were subsumed, presumably, in the Provincara's accounts, but would in future be Cazaril's charge. A lady of rank was normally sent off to marriage with cartloads—Cazaril hoped not boatloads—of fine goods, and Iselle was surely due to begin the years of accumulation against that future journey. Should he list himself as Item One in that bridal inventory?

He pictured the entry: Sec't'y-tutor, One ea. Gift from Grandmama. Aged thirty-five. Badly damaged in shipping. Value... ?

The bridal procession was a one-way journey, normally, although Iselle's mother the dowager royina had returned... broken , Cazaril tried not to think. The Lady Ista puzzled and disturbed him. It was said that madness ran in some noble families. Not Cazaril's—his family had run to financial fecklessness and unlucky political alliances instead, just as devastating in the long run. Was Iselle at risk... ? Surely not .

Iselle's correspondence was scant but interesting. Some early, kindly little letters from her grandmother, from before the widowed royina had moved her family back home from court, full of advice on the general order of be good, obey your mother, say your prayers, help take care of your little brother . One or two notes from uncles or aunts, the Provincara's other children—Iselle had no other relatives on her father the late Roya Ias's side, Ias having been the only surviving child of his own ill-fated father. A regular series of birthday and holy day letters from her much older half brother, the present roya, Orico.