Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

"Have them ride in for Teidez's funeral with every man they can muster," said Cazaril. "Especially, we must control the roads between here and Ibra, to guarantee the safety of Royse Bergon."

"Difficult," said the Provincara, sitting back with her lips pursing. "Some of dy Jironal's own lands, and those of his brothers-in-law, lie between here and the border. You should have a troop to ride with you. I will strip Valenda to give you the men."

"No," said Cazaril slowly. "You'll need all your men when Iselle arrives, which may well be before I can return. And if I take a troop to Ibra, our speed will be limited. We cannot hope to obtain remounts on the road for so large a company, and maintaining secrecy would become impossible. Better we should travel outward light and fast and unmarked. Save the troop to meet us coming back. Oh, and beware, your Baocian captain you sent with Teidez sold himself to Dondo—he cannot be trusted. You'll have to find some way to replace him when he returns."

The Provincara swore. "Bastard's demons, I'll have his ears."

They made plans to pass his ciphered letters to Iselle, and hers to him, through Valenda, making it appear to dy Jironal's spies that Cazaril still was in her grandmother's company. The Provincara undertook to pawn some of Iselle's jewelry for him on the morrow, at the best rate, to raise the coin he'd need for the next part of his journey. They settled a dozen other practical details in as many minutes. Her very determination made her god-proof, Cazaril imagined; for all her attention to pious ceremony, no god was going to slip into that iron will even edgewise. The gods had given her less perilous gifts, and he was grateful enough for them.

"You understand," he said at last, "I think this marriage scheme may rescue Iselle. I don't know that it will also save Ista." Neither Ista, drifting sadly about the castle of Valenda, nor Orico, lying blind and bloated in the Zangre. And no exhortation of the Provincara to Ista to bestir herself would be of any use, while this black thing still choked her like a poisoned fog.

"If it only rescues Iselle from the clutches of Chancellor dy Jironal, it will satisfy me. I can't believe Orico made such vile provisions in his will." That legal note had exercised her almost more than the supernatural matters. "Taking my granddaughter from me without even consulting me!"

Cazaril fingered his beard. "You realize, if all this succeeds, your granddaughter will become your liege lord. Royina in her own right of all Chalion, and royina-consort of Ibra."

Her lips screwed up. "That's the maddest part of all. She's just a girl! Not but that she always had more wits than poor Teidez. What can all the gods of Chalion be thinking, to place such a child on the throne at Cardegoss!"

Cazaril said mildly, "Perhaps that the restoration of Chalion is the work of a very long lifetime, and that no one so old as you or I could live to see it through."

She snorted. "You're barely more than a child yourself. Children in charge of the whole world these days, no wonder it's all gone mad. Well... well. We must bustle about tomorrow. Five gods, Cazaril, go sleep, though I doubt I shall. You look like death warmed over, and you haven't my years to excuse you."

Creakily, he clambered to his feet and bowed himself out. The Provincara's bursts of irate energy were fragile. It would take all her retainers' aid to prevent her from exhausting herself dangerously. He found the anxiously waiting Lady dy Hueltar in the next room, and sent her in to attend upon her lady cousin.

THEY GAVE CAZARIL BACK HIS CHILLY, HONORABLE, customary chamber in the main keep. He slid gratefully between heated sheets. It was as much like coming home as anything he'd experienced for years. Yet his new eyes rendered familiar places strange again; the world made strange as he was remade, over and over, and no place to rest at last.

Dondo, in all his motley ghostly glory, scarcely kept Cazaril awake that night. He had become a danger almost too routine to be dreaded. Fresh fears assailed Cazaril now.

Memory of the terrible hope in Ista's eyes unnerved him. And the reflection that tomorrow, he would mount a horse whose every stride would carry him closer to the sea.

Cazaril regretfully gave up use of the Chancellery's courier remounts when they left Valenda, in favor of secrecy. No merit in handing dy Jironal a signed record of their route and destination. Armed with Palli's letter of recommendation, they instead arranged exchanges for fresh horses at local town chapters of the Daughter's Order. At the foot of the mountains on the western frontier, they were obliged to deal with a local horse trader for the sturdy and surefooted mules to carry them over the heights.

The man had clearly been making a fine living for years skinning desperate travelers. Ferda looked over the beasts offered them, and said indignantly, "This one has heaves. And if that one isn't throwing out a splint, my lord, I'll eat your hat!" The horse trader and he fell at once into acrimonious argument.

Cazaril, leaning in exhaustion on the corral rail and thinking only of how much he didn't want to throw a leg over any animal, spavined or not, for the next thousand years, at last straightened and let himself through the gate. He walked out into the herd of milling horses and mules, stirred up by the rough-and-ready capture of their rejected comrades, spread his hands, and closed his eyes. "If it please you, Lady, give us three good mules."

At a nudge at his side, he opened them again. A curious mule, its brown eyes limpid, stared at him. Two more muscled in, their long ears waggling; the tallest one, dark brown with a creamy nose, rested its chin on his shoulder and breathed out a contented-sounding snort, spraying the environs.

"Thank you, Lady," muttered Cazaril. And more loudly, "All right. Follow me." He plodded back through the hoof-pocked muck to the gate. The three mules fell in behind, snuffling with interest.

"We'll take these three," he told the horse trader, who, along with Ferda, had fallen silent and was staring openmouthed.

The horse trader found his voice first. "But—but those are my three best animals!"

"Yes. I know." He let himself back out, leaving the horse trader to hold the gate against the three mules who still tried to follow him, shouldering up heavily against the boards and making anxious mulish noises. "Ferda, come to a price. I'm going to go lie down in that lovely straw stack. Wake me when we're saddled up..."

His mule proved healthy, steady, and bored. There was nothing better, in Cazaril's view, on these treacherous mountain trails than a bored mule. The fiery steeds Ferda favored for making time over the flats could have climbed no faster on these breath-stealing slopes, besides making a menace of themselves with their nervous sidling on the narrow places. And the mule's gentle amble didn't churn his guts. Although if the goddess granted Her saint mules, he didn't know why She didn't also give him better weather.

The dy Gura brothers stopped laughing at Cazaril's hat about halfway up the pass over the Bastard's Teeth range. He folded the fine fur flaps down over his ears and tied their strings under his chin before the sleet, driven by the tumbling updrafts, started stinging their faces. He squinted into the wind between the laid-back ears of his laboring mule at the track winding up through rocks and ice, and mentally measured out the daylight left to them.

After a time, Ferda reined back beside him. "My lord, should we take shelter from this blizzard?"

"Blizzard?" Cazaril brushed ice spicules from his beard, and blinked. Oh. Palliar's winters were mild, sodden rather than snowy, and the brothers had never been out of their province before. "If this were a blizzard, you wouldn't be able to see your mule's ears from where you sit. This isn't unsafe. Merely unpleasant."