Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

Cazaril frowned as Betriz took her place in the figure with her third, no, fifth young lord. Royina Ista hadn't been the only concerned parent to corner him before he'd left Valenda; so had Ser dy Ferrej. Watch out for my Betriz, he had pleaded. She ought to have her mother, or some older lady who knows the way of the world, but alas... Dy Ferrej had been torn between fear of disaster and hope for opportunity. Help her beware of unworthy men, roisterers, landless hangers-on, you know the type. Like himself? Cazaril couldn't help wondering. On the other hand, should she meet someone solid, honorable, I'd not be averse to her choosing with her heart... you know, a nice fellow, like, oh, say, your friend the March dy Palliar... That airy example did not sound quite random enough, to Cazaril's ear. Had Betriz already formed a secret fondness? Palli, alas, was not present here tonight, having returned to his district after the installment of Lord Dondo in his holy generalship. Cazaril could have welcomed a friendly and familiar face in all this crowd.

He glanced aside at a movement, to find a face familiar and coolly smiling, but not one he welcomed. Chancellor dy Jironal gave him a slight bow of greeting; he pushed off the wall and returned it. His wits fought their way through a fog of food and wine to full alertness.

"Dy Cazaril. It is you. We had thought you were dead."

I'd wager so. "No, my lord. I escaped."

"Some of your friends feared you had deserted—"

None of my friends would fear any such thing.

"But the Roknari reported you had died."

"A foul lie, sir." Cazaril didn't say whose lie, his only daring. "They sold me to the galleys with the unransomed men."

"Vile!"

"I thought so."

"It's a miracle you survived the ordeal."

"Yes. It was." Cazaril blinked, and smiled sweetly. "Did you at least recover your ransom money, as the price of that lie? Or did some thief pocket it? I'd like to think that someone paid for the deception."

"I don't recall. It would have been the quartermaster's business."

"Well, it was all a dreadful mischance, but it has come right in the end."

"Indeed. I shall have to hear more of your adventures, sometime."

"When you will, my lord."

Dy Jironal nodded austerely, smiling, and moved on, evidently reassured.

Cazaril smiled back, pleased with his self-control—if it wasn't just his sick fear. He could, it seemed, smile, and smile, and not launch himself at the lying villain's throat— I'll make a courtier yet, eh?

His worst fears assuaged, Cazaril abandoned his futile attempt at invisibility, and nerved himself to ask Lady Betriz for one roundel. He knew himself tall and gangling and not graceful, but at least he was not falling-down drunk, which put him ahead of half the young men here by now. Not to mention Lord Dondo dy Jironal, who after monopolizing Iselle in the dance for a time had moved off with his roistering hangers-on to find either rougher pleasures or a quiet corridor to vomit in. Cazaril hoped the latter. Betriz's eyes sparkled with exhilaration as she swung with him into the figures.

At length, Orico woke up, the musicians flagged, and the evening drew to a close. Cazaril mobilized pages, Lady Betriz, and Sera dy Vrit to help carry off Iselle's booty and store it safe away. Teidez, scorning the dancing, had indulged in the spectacular array of sweets more than in drink, though dy Sanda might still have to deal with a bout of violent illness before dawn as a result. But it was clear the boy was more drunk on attention than on wine.

"Lord Dondo told me that anyone would have taken me for eighteen!" he told Iselle triumphantly. His growth spurt this past summer that had shot him up above his older sister had been occasion for much crowing on his part, and snorting on Iselle's. He trod off toward his bedchamber with feet barely touching the floor.

Betriz, her hands full of jewelry, asked Cazaril as they placed the gauds into Iselle's lockable boxes in her antechamber, "So why don't you use your name, Lord Caz? What's so wrong with Lupe? It's really quite a, a strong man's name, withal."

"Early aversion," he sighed. "My older brother and his friends used to torment me by yipping and howling until they'd driven me to tears of rage, which made me madder still—alas, by the time I'd grown tall enough to beat him, he'd outgrown the game. I thought that was most unfair of him."

Betriz laughed. "I see!"

Cazaril reeled off to the quiet of his own bedchamber, to realize he had failed to pen his faithfully promised note of reassurance to the Provincara. Torn between bed and duty, he sighed and pulled out his pens and paper and wax, but his account was much shorter than the entertaining report he had planned, a few terse lines ending, All is well in Cardegoss .

He sealed it, found a sleepy page to deliver it to whatever morning courier rode out of the Zangre, and fell into bed.

The first night's welcoming banquet was followed all too soon by the next day's breakfast, dinner, and an evening fête that included a masque. More sumptuous meals cascaded down the ensuing days, till Cazaril, instead of thinking Roya Orico sadly run to fat, began to marvel that the man could still walk. At least the initial bombardment of gifts upon the royal siblings slowed. Cazaril caught up on his inventory and began to think about where and upon what occasions some of this largesse should eventually be rebestowed. A royesse was expected to be openhanded.

He woke on the fourth morning from a confused dream of running about the Zangre with his hands full of jewelry that he could not get delivered to the right persons at the right times, and which had somehow included a large talking rat that gave him impossible directions. He rubbed away the sand of sleep from his eyes, and considered swearing off either Orico's fortified wines, or sweets that included too much almond paste, he wasn't sure which. He wondered what meals he'd have to face today. And then laughed out loud at himself, remembering siege rations. Still grinning, he rolled out of bed.

He shook out the tunic he'd worn yesterday afternoon, and unlaced the cuff to rescue the drying half loaf of bread that Betriz had bade him tuck in its wide sleeve when the royal picnic down by the river had been cut short by seasonable but unwelcome afternoon rain showers. He wondered bemusedly if harboring provisions was what these courtiers' sleeves had been designed for, back when this garment was new. He peeled off his nightshirt, pulled on his trousers and tied their strings, and went to wash at his basin.

A confused flapping sounded at his open window. Cazaril glanced aside, startled by the noise, to see one of the castle crows land upon the wide stone sill and cock its head at him. It cawed twice, then made some odd little muttering noises. Amused, he wiped his face on his towel, and, picking up the bread, advanced slowly upon the bird to see if it was one of the tame ones that might take food from his hand.

It seemed to spy the bread, for it didn't launch itself again as he approached. He held out a fragment. The glossy bird regarded him intently for a moment, then pecked the crumb rapidly from between his fingers. Cazaril controlled his flinch as the sharp black beak poked, but did not pierce, his hand. The bird shifted and shook its wings, spreading a tail that was missing two feathers. It muttered some more, then cawed again, a shrill harsh noise echoing in the little chamber.

"You shouldn't say caw, caw ," Cazaril told it. "You should say, Caz, Caz! " He entertained himself and, apparently, the bird, for several minutes attempting to instruct it in its new language, even meeting it halfway by trilling Cazaril! Cazaril! in what he fancied a birdish accent, but despite lavish bribes of bread it seemed even more resistant than Iselle to Darthacan.