Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

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.

SUPPER WAS A CHEERFUL MEAL, ATTENDED BY MOST of the household. Dy Palliar, no slouch at table when it came to either food or talk, held the attention of everyone, from the Lord Teidez and Lady Iselle down to the youngest page, with his tales. Despite the wine he kept his head in the high company, and told only the merry stories, with himself more as butt than hero. The account of how he'd followed Cazaril on a night sortie against the Roknari sappers, and so discouraged them for a month thereafter, drew wide-eyed stares upon Cazaril as well as himself. They clearly had a hard time picturing the royesse's timid, soft-spoken secretary grinning in the dirt and the soot, scrambling through the burning rubble with a dirk in his hand. Cazaril realized he disliked the stares. He wanted to be... invisible, here. Twice Palli tried to toss the conversational ball to him, to take a turn at the entertaining, and twice he fielded it back to Palli or to dy Ferrej. After the second attempt fell flat, Palli desisted from trying to draw him out.

The meal ran very late, but at last came the hour Cazaril had been both longing for and dreading, when all parted for the night, and Palli knocked on his chamber door. Cazaril bade him enter, pushed the trunk to the wall, tossed a cushion upon it for his guest, and settled himself upon his bed; both he and it creaked audibly. Palli sat and stared across at him in the dim double candlelight, and began with a directness that revealed the trend of his mind all too clearly.

"Error, Caz? Have you thought about that?"

Cazaril sighed. "I had nineteen months to think of it, Palli. I rubbed every possibility as thin as an old coin in my brain. I thought of it till I was sick to death of the thinking, and called it done. It's done."

This time, Palli brushed the hint firmly aside. "Do you think it was the Roknari taking revenge upon you, by hiding you from us and saying you died?"

"That's one." Except that I saw the list.

"Or did someone leave you off the list on purpose?" Palli persisted.

The list was in Martou dy Jironal's own hand . "That was my final conclusion."

Palli's breath blew out. "Vile! A vile betrayal, after what we suffered—dammit, Caz! When I get up to court, I am going to tell March dy Jironal of this. He's the most powerful lord in Chalion, the gods know. Together, I wager we can get to the bottom of—"

"No!" Cazaril lurched upright from his cushions, terrified. "Don't, Palli! Don't even tell dy Jironal I exist! Don't discuss it, don't mention me—if the world thinks I'm dead, so much the better. If I'd realized that was so, I would have stayed in Ibra. Just... drop it."

Palli stared. "But... Valenda is hardly the end of the world. Of course people will learn you're alive."

"It's a quiet, peaceful place. I'm not bothering anyone here."

Other men were as brave, some were stronger; it was Palli's wits that had made him Cazaril's favorite lieutenant at Gotorget. It only needed the one thread to start him unraveling... his eyes narrowed, glinting in the soft candlelight. " Dy Jironal? Himself? Five gods, what did you ever do to him ?"

Cazaril shifted uncomfortably. "I think it was not personal. I think it was just a little... favor, for someone. A little, easy favor."

"Then two men must know the truth. Gods, Caz, which two?"

Palli would go nosing in—Cazaril must either tell him nothing—too late already—or else enough to stop him. Nothing halfway, Palli's brain would keep plucking at the puzzle—it was doing so even now.

"Who would hate you so? You were always the most agreeable man—you were downright famous for refusing duels, and leaving the bullroarers to look like the fools they were—for making peace, for wheedling out the most amazing treaty terms, for avoiding faction—Bastard's hell, you didn't even make bets on games! Little, easy favor! What could possibly drive such an implacable cruel hatred of you ?"

Cazaril rubbed his brow, which was beginning to ache, and not from tonight's wine. "Fear. I think."

Palli's lips screwed up in astonishment.

"And if it becomes known you know, they'll fear you too. It's not something I wish to see fall on you, Palli. I want you to steer clear."

"If it's that degree of fear, the fact that we've even talked together will make me suspect. Their fear, plus my ignorance—gods, Caz! Don't send me blindfolded into battle!"

"I want never to send any man into battle again!" The fierceness in his own voice took even Cazaril by surprise. Palli's eyes widened. But the solution, the way to use Palli's own ravenous curiosity against him, came to Cazaril in that moment. "If I tell you what I know, and how I know it, will you give me your word—your word!—to drop it? Don't pursue it, don't mention it, don't mention me—no dark hints, no dancing about the issue—"

"What, as you are doing now?" said Palli dryly.

Cazaril grunted, half in amusement, half in pain. "Just so."

Palli sat back against the wall, and rubbed his lips. "Merchant," he said amiably. "To make me buy a pig in a bag, without ever seeing the animal."

"Oink," murmured Cazaril.

"I only want to buy the squeal, y'know—damn, all right. I never knew you to lead us over wet ground unknowing, nor into ambush. I'll trust your judgment—to the exact extent you trust my discretion. My word on that ."

A neat counterthrust. Cazaril could not but admire it. He sighed. "Very well." He sat silent for a moment after this—welcome—dual surrender, marshaling his thoughts. Where to begin? Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't gone over it, and over it, and over it in his mind. A most polished tale, for all it had never crossed his lips before.