Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

"It's quickly enough told. I first met Dondo dy Jironal to speak to four, no, it's five now, five years ago. I was in Guarida's train in that little border war against the mad Roknari prince Olus—you know, the fellow who made a habit of burying his enemies up to the waist in excrement and burning them alive?—the one who was murdered about a year later by his own bodyguards?"

"Oh, yes. I'd heard of him. Ended head down in the excrement, they say."

"There are several versions. But he was still in control at that time. Lord dy Guarida had cornered Olus's army—well, rabble—up in the hills at the edge of his princedom. Lord Dondo and I were sent as the envoys, under the flag of parley, to deliver an ultimatum to Olus and arrange the terms and ransoms. Things went... badly, in the conference, and Olus decided he only required one messenger to return his defiance to the assembled lords of Chalion. So he stood us up, Dondo and me, in his tent surrounded by four of his monster guards with swords and gave us a choice. Whichever of us would cut off the other's head would be permitted to ride with it back to our lines. If we both refused, we both would die, and he'd return both our heads by catapult."

Palli opened his mouth, but the only comment he managed was, "Ah."

Cazaril took a breath. "I was given the first chance. I refused the sword. Olus whispered to me, in this weird oily voice, ‘You cannot win this game, Lord Cazaril.' I said, ‘I know, m'hendi. But I can make you lose it.' He was quiet for a little, but then he just laughed. Then he turned round and gave the chance to Dondo, who was green as a corpse by then..."

Palli stirred, but didn't interrupt; he signaled Cazaril mutely to go on.

"One of the guards knocked me to my knees and stretched my head, by the hair, over a footstool. Dondo—took his cut."

"On the guard's arm?" said Palli eagerly.

Cazaril hesitated. "No," he said at last. "But Olus, at the last moment, thrust his sword between us, and Dondo's sword came down on its flat, and slid—" Cazaril could still hear the sharp scraping skree of metal on metal, in his memory's ear. "I ended up with a bruise across the back of my neck that was black for a month. Two of the other guards wrestled the sword back from Dondo. And then we were both mounted up on our horses and sent back to dy Guarida's camp. As my hands were being tied to my saddle, Olus came up to me again, and whispered, ‘Now we shall see who loses.'

"It was a very silent ride back. Until we were in sight of camp. And Dondo turned and looked at me for the first time, and said, ‘If you ever tell this tale, I will kill you.' And I said, "Don't worry, Lord Dondo. I only tell amusing tales at table.' I should have just sworn silence. I know better now, and yet... maybe even that would not have been enough."

"He owes you his life!"

Cazaril shook his head, and looked away. "I've seen his soul stripped naked. I doubt he can ever forgive me for that. Well, I didn't speak of it, of course, and he let it lie. I thought that was the end of it. But then came Gotorget, and then came... well. What came after Gotorget. And now I am doubly damned. If Dondo ever learns, if he ever realizes that I know exactly how I came to be sold to the galleys, what do you think my life will be worth then? But if I say nothing, do nothing, nothing to remind him... perhaps he has forgotten, by now. I just want to be left alone, in this quiet place. He surely has more pressing enemies these days." He turned his face back to Palli, and said tensely, "Don't you ever mention me to either of the Jironals. Ever. You never heard this story. You scarcely know me. If you ever loved me, Palli, leave it be ."

Palli's lips were pressed together; his oath would hold him, Cazaril thought. But he made a little unhappy gesture nonetheless. "As you will, but, but... damn. Damn." He stared for long across the dim chamber at Cazaril, as if searching for who-knew-what in his face. "It's not just that dreadful excuse for a beard. You are much changed."

"Am I? Well, so."

"How..." Palli looked away, looked back. "How bad was it? Really? In the galleys."

Cazaril shrugged. "I was fortunate in my misfortunes. I survived. Some did not."

"One hears all sorts of horrific stories, how the slaves are terrorized, or... misused..."

Cazaril scratched his slandered beard. It was too filling in, a bit, he fancied. "The stories are not so much untrue as twisted, exaggerated—exceptional events mistaken as daily bread. The best captains treated us as a good farmer treats his animals, with a sort of impersonal kindness. Food, water—heh—exercise—enough cleanliness to keep us free of disease and in good condition. Beating a man senseless makes him unfit to pull his oar, you know. Anyway, that sort of physical... discipline was only required in port. Once at sea, the sea supplied all."

"I don't understand."

Cazaril's brows flicked up. "Why break a man's skin, or his head, when you can break his heart simply by putting him overboard, in the water with his legs dangling down like worms for the great fishes? The Roknari only had to wait a very little to have us swim after and beg and plead and weep for our slavery again."

"You were always a strong swimmer. Surely that helped you bear it better than most?" Palli's voice was hopeful.

"The opposite, I'm afraid. The men who sank like stones went mercifully quickly. Think about it, Palli. I did." He still did, sitting up bolt upright in the dark in this bed from some nightmare of the water, closing over his head. Or worse... not. Once, the wind had come up unexpectedly while the oar-master had been playing this little game with a certain recalcitrant Ibran, and the captain, anxious for port before the storm, had refused to circle back. The Ibran's fading screams had echoed over the water as the ship drew away, growing fainter and fainter... . The captain had docked the oar-master the cost of the slave's replacement, as punishment for his misjudgment, which had made him surly for weeks.

After a moment Palli said, "Oh."

Oh indeed. "Grant you, my pride—and my mouth—did win me one beating when I first went aboard, but I still fancied myself a lord of Chalion then. I was broken of that... later."

"But... you weren't... they didn't make you an object of... I mean, use you after a degrading... um."

The light was too dim to tell if Palli reddened, but it finally dawned on Cazaril that he was trying to inquire in this worried and tongue-tumbled fashion if Cazaril had been raped. Cazaril's lips twisted in sympathy. "You are confusing the Roknari fleets with those of Darthaca, I think. I'm afraid those legends represent wishful thinking on someone's part. The Roknari heresy of the four gods makes a crime of the sort of odd loves the Bastard rules, here. The Roknari theologians say the Bastard is a demon, like his father, and not a god, after his holy mother, and so call us all devil worshippers—which is a deep offense to the Lady of Summer, I think, as well as to the poor Bastard himself, for did he ask to be born? They torture and hang men caught in sodomy, and the better Roknari shipmasters do not tolerate it aboard in either men or slaves."

"Ah." Palli settled in relief. But then, being Palli, thought to ask, "And the worse Roknari shipmasters?"

"Their discretion could become deadly. It didn't happen to me—I fancy I was too bony—but a few of the young men, the softer boys... We slaves knew they were our sacrifice, and we tried to be kind to them when they were returned to the benches. Some cried. Some learned to use the mischance for favors... few of us begrudged them the extra rations or trivial treats so dearly bought. It was a dangerous game, for the Roknari inclined to them in secret were like to turn on them at any moment, and slay them as if they could so slay their own sin."