Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

Cazaril eyed the groom—head groom?—as he waited. Even without the clue of the name, the man was obviously of Roknari descent. Umegat had been tallish, but was now a little stooped. His skin, which must have been burnished gold in his youth, was leathery, its color faded to ivory. Fine wrinkles wreathed his eyes and mouth. His curly bronze hair, going gray, was tightly bound to his head in two braids that ran from his temples over his crown to meet in the back in a neat queue, an old Roknari style. It made him look pure Roknari, though half-breeds abounded in Chalion; Roya Orico himself had a couple of Roknari princesses up his family tree on both the Chalionese and Brajaran sides, the source of the family hair. The groom wore the service livery of the Zangre, tunic and leggings and a knee-length tabard with the symbol of Chalion, a royal leopard rampant upon a stylized castle, stitched upon it. He looked considerably tidier and more fastidious than his master.

Orico finished the letter, and sighed. "Royina Ista upset, was she?" he said to Cazaril.

"She was naturally disturbed to be parted from her children," said Cazaril cautiously.

"I was afraid of that. Can't be helped. As long as she is disturbed in Valenda, and not in Cardegoss. I'll not have her here, she's too... difficult." He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, and sniffed. "Tell Her Grace the Provincara she has all my esteem, and assure her that I have concerned myself with her grandchildren's good fates. They have their brother's protection."

"I plan to write to her tonight, sire, to assure her of our safe arrival. I will convey your words."

Orico nodded shortly, rubbed his nose again, and squinted at Cazaril. "Do I know you?"

"I... shouldn't think so, sire. I am lately appointed by the Dowager Provincara to be secretary to the Royesse Iselle. I had served the late provincar of Baocia as a page, in my youth," he added, by way of recommendation. He did not mention his service in dy Guarida's train, which might well trigger the roya's more recent memory, not that he had ever been more than one of the crowd of dy Guarida's men. A little unplanned disguise was surely lent him by his recent beard, his gray-flecked hair, his general debilitation—if Orico didn't recognize him, was there a chance that others also might not? He wondered how long he could go here at Cardegoss without giving his own name. Too late to change it, alas.

He could remain anonymous a little while longer, it appeared, for Orico nodded in apparent satisfaction and waved his hand in dismissal. "You'll be at the banquet, then. Tell my fair sister I look forward to seeing her there."

Cazaril bowed obediently and withdrew.

He chewed worriedly upon his lower lip as he made his way back to the gate of the Zangre. If all the court was to attend tonight's welcoming banquet, Chancellor the March dy Jironal, Orico's chief staff and support, would not be absent; and where the march went, his brother Lord Dondo usually attended upon him.

Maybe they won't remember me either. It had been well over two years since the fall— shameful sale —of Gotorget, and longer than that since the unpleasant incident in mad Prince Olus's tent. Cazaril's existence could never have been more than a petty irritation to these powerful lords. They could not know that he had realized his sale to the galleys had been calculated betrayal and not mischance. If he did nothing to draw attention to himself, they would not be reminded of what they had forgotten, and he would be safe.

A fool's hope.

Cazaril's shoulders hunched, and his stride lengthened.

BACK IN HIS HIGH CHAMBER, CAZARIL FINGERED HIS SOBER brown wool robe and black vest-cloak longingly. But, obedient to the orders sent down from the floor above via a breathless maidservant, he donned much gaudier garb, an eggshell-blue tunic with turquoise brocade vestments and dark blue trousers from the old provincar's store, still smelling faintly of the spices they'd been packed with as proof against moths. Boots and sword completed a courtier's attire, even if it lacked the wealth of rings and chains.

At Teidez's urgent behest Cazaril stumped upstairs to check if his ladies were ready yet, there to discover that he was part of an ensemble. Iselle was arrayed in her finest favored blue-and-white gown and robes, and Betriz and the lady-in-waiting wore layers featuring turquoise and night-blue respectively. Someone in the party had come down on the side of restraint, and Iselle was decked in jewels befitting a maiden, mere diamond sparks in her ears, a brooch at her cleavage, one enameled belt, and only two rings. Betriz displayed some of the rest of the inventory, on loan. Cazaril stood straighter and regretted his resplendency less, determined to hold up his part for Iselle.

After only some seven or eight delays for last-minute exchanges and adjustments of clothing or decoration, Cazaril herded them all downstairs to join Teidez and his little entourage of rank, consisting of dy Sanda, the Baocian captain who had guarded their journey, and his chief sergeant at arms, the latter pair in their best livery, all with jewel-hilted swords. Swishing and clinking, they followed the royal page who was sent to guide them to Orico's throne room.

They paused briefly in the antechamber, where they formed up in proper order under the whispered instructions from the castle warder. Doors swung wide, sweet horns sounded, and the warder announced in stentorian breaths, "The Royse Teidez dy Chalion! The Royesse Iselle dy Chalion! Ser dy Sanda—" and on down the pack in strict order of rank, ending with "Lady Betriz dy Ferrej, Castillar Lupe dy Cazaril, Sera Nan dy Vrit!"

Betriz glanced up sideways at Cazaril, her brown eyes suddenly merry, and murmured under her breath, "Lupe? Your first name is Lupe ?"

Cazaril considered himself excused from attempting to reply by their situation—just as well, as it would doubtless have come out thoroughly garbled. The room was thronged with courtiers and ladies, glittering and rustling, the air thick with perfume, incense, and excitement. In this crowd, he realized, his garments were modest and unobtrusive—in his austere brown and black, he'd have looked a crow among peacocks. Even the walls were dressed in red brocade.

On a raised dais at the end of the room, sheltered by a red brocade canopy fringed with gold braid, Roya Orico and his royina were seated on gilded chairs, side by side. Orico was looking much better this evening, washed up and in clean clothes, even with a dash of color in his puffy cheeks; very nearly kingly beneath his gold circlet crown, after a stodgy middle-aged fashion. Royina Sara was elegantly dressed in matching scarlet robes and sat very upright, almost prim, in her seat. Now in her mid-thirties, her earlier prettiness was fading and worn. Her expression was a little wooden, and Cazaril wondered how mixed her feelings must be at this royal reception. In her long infertility, she had failed her chief duty to the royacy of Chalion—if the failure was hers. Even when Cazaril had been on the fringes of court years ago, it was whispered that Orico had never got a bastard, though at the time this lack was attributed to an excessive loyalty to his marriage bed. Teidez's elevation was also the royal couple's public acknowledgment of a most private despair.

Teidez and Iselle advanced to the dais in turn. They exchanged fraternal kisses of welcome upon the hands with the roya and royina, though the full formal kisses of submission upon forehead, hands, and feet were not required of them tonight. Each member of their entourage was also granted the boon of kneeling and kissing the royal hands. Sara's was chill as wax, beneath Cazaril's respectful lips.

Cazaril stood behind Iselle and braced his back to endure, as the royal siblings prepared to receive a long line of courtiers, none of whom could be insulted by being left out or denied a personal introduction or touch. Cazaril's breath stopped in his throat as he recognized the first and foremost pair of men to advance.