The Provincara tsked tsked. Cazaril dared to swallow, and say, "Do go on."

Encouraged, the castle warder continued, "The merchant was a widower, and the boy not just an only son, but an only child. Just about to be married, too, to turn the knife. Death magic is an ugly business, true, but I can't help having a spot of sympathy for the poor merchant. Well, rich merchant, I suppose, but in any case, far too old to train up to the degree of swordsmanship required to remove someone like dy Naoza. So he fell back on what he thought was his only recourse. Spent the next year studying the black arts-where he found all his lore is a good puzzle for the Temple, mind you-letting his business go, I was told-and then, last night, took himself off to an abandoned mill about seven miles from Valenda, and tried to call up a demon. And, by the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, succeeded! His His body was found there this morning." body was found there this morning."

The Father of Winter was the G.o.d of all deaths in good season, and of justice; but in addition to all the other disasters in his gift the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was the G.o.d of executioners. And, indeed, G.o.d of a whole purseful of other dirty jobs. It seems the merchant went to the right store for his miracle. It seems the merchant went to the right store for his miracle. The notebook in Cazaril's vest suddenly seemed to weigh ten pounds; but it was only in his imagination that it felt as though it might scorch through the cloth and burst into flame. The notebook in Cazaril's vest suddenly seemed to weigh ten pounds; but it was only in his imagination that it felt as though it might scorch through the cloth and burst into flame.

"Well, I I don't have any sympathy for him," said Royse Teidez. "That was cowardly!" don't have any sympathy for him," said Royse Teidez. "That was cowardly!"

"Yes, but what can you expect of a merchant?" observed his tutor, from down the table. "Men of that cla.s.s are not trained up in the kind of code of honor a true gentleman learns."

"But it's so sad," protested Iselle. "I mean, about the son about to be wed."

Teidez snorted. "Girls. All you can think about is getting married. But which is the greater loss to the royacy? Some moneygrubbing wool-man, or a swordsman? Any duelist that skilled must be a good soldier for the roya!"

"Not in my experience," Cazaril said dryly.

"What do you mean?" Teidez promptly challenged him.

Abashed, Cazaril mumbled, "Excuse me. I spoke out of turn."

"What's the difference?" Teidez pressed.

The Provincara tapped a finger on the tablecloth and shot him an indecipherable look. "Do expand, Castillar."

Cazaril shrugged, and offered a slight, apologetic bow in the boy's direction. "The difference, Royse, is that a skilled soldier kills your enemies, but a skilled duelist kills your allies. I leave you to guess which a wise commander prefers to have in his camp."

"Oh," said Teidez. He fell silent, looking thoughtful.

There was, apparently, no rush to return the merchant's notebook to the proper authorities, and also no difficulty. Cazaril might search out the divine at the Temple of the Holy Family here in Valenda tomorrow at his leisure, and turn it over to be pa.s.sed along. It would have to be decoded; some men found that sort of puzzle difficult or tedious, but Cazaril had always found it restful. He wondered if he ought, as a courtesy, to offer to decipher it. He touched his soft wool robe, and was glad he'd prayed for the man at his hurried burning.

Betriz, her dark brows crimping, asked, "Who was the judge, Papa?"

Dy Ferrej hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "The Honorable Vrese."

"Ah," said the Provincara. "Him." Her nose twitched, as though she'd sniffed a bad smell.

"Did the duelist threaten him, then?" asked Royesse Iselle. "Shouldn't he-couldn't he have called for help, or had dy Naoza arrested?"

"I doubt that even dy Naoza was foolish enough to threaten a justiciar of the province," said dy Ferrej. "Though it was probable he intimidated the witnesses. Vrese was, hm, likely handled by more peaceful means." He popped a fragment of bread into his mouth and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, miming a man warming a coin.

"If the judge had done his job honestly and bravely, the merchant would never have been driven to use death magic," said Iselle slowly. "Two men are dead and d.a.m.ned, where it might have only been one...and even if he'd been executed, dy Naoza might have had time to clean his soul before facing the G.o.ds. If this is known, why is the man still a judge? Grandmama, can't you do something about it?"

The Provincara pressed her lips together. "The appointment of provincial justiciars is not within my gift, dear one. Nor their removal. Or their department would be rather more orderly run, I a.s.sure you." She took a sip of her wine and added to her granddaughter's frowning look, "I have great privilege in Baocia, child. I do not have great powers."

Iselle glanced at Teidez, and at Cazaril, before echoing her brother's question, in a voice gone serious: "What's the difference?"

"One is the right to rule-and the duty to protect! T' other is the right to receive protection," replied the Provincara. "There is alas more difference between a provincar and a provincara than just the one letter."

Teidez smirked. "Oh, like the difference between a royse and a royesse?"

Iselle turned on him and raised her brows. "Oh? And how do you propose to remove the corrupt judge-privileged boy?"

"That's enough, you two," said the Provincara sternly, in a voice that was pure grandmother. Cazaril hid a smile. Within Within these walls, she ruled, right enough, by an older code than Chalion's. Hers was a sufficient little state. these walls, she ruled, right enough, by an older code than Chalion's. Hers was a sufficient little state.

The conversation turned to less lurid matters as the servants brought cakes, cheese, and a wine from Brajar. Cazaril had, surrept.i.tiously he hoped, stuffed himself. If he didn't stop soon, he would make himself sick. But the golden dessert wine almost sent him into tears at the table; that one, he drank unwatered, though he managed to limit himself to one gla.s.s.

At the end of the meal prayers were offered again, and Royse Teidez was dragged off by his tutor for studies. Iselle and Betriz were sent to do needlework. They departed at a gallop, followed at a more sedate pace by dy Ferrej.

"Will they actually sit still for needlework?" Cazaril asked the Provincara, watching the departing flurry of skirts.

"They gossip and giggle till I can't bear it, but yes, they're very handy," said the Provincara, the disapproving purse of her lips belied by the warmth of her eyes.

"Your granddaughter is a delightful young lady."

"To a man of a certain age, Cazaril, all young ladies start to look delightful. It's the first symptom of senility."

"True, my lady." His lips twitched up.

"She's worn out two governesses and looks to be bent on destroying a third, by the way the woman complains of her. And yet..." the Provincara's tart voice grew slower, "she needs to be strong. Someday, inevitably, she will be sent far from me. And I will no longer be able to help her...protect her..."

An attractive, fresh young royesse was a p.a.w.n, not a player, in the politics of Chalion. Her bride-price would come high, but a politically and financially favorable marriage might not necessarily prove a good one in more intimate senses. The Dowager Provincara had been fortunate in her personal life, but in her long years had doubtless had opportunity to observe the whole range of marital fates awaiting highborn women. Would Iselle be sent to far Darthaca? Married off to some cousin in the too-close-related royacy of Brajar? G.o.ds forbid she should be bartered away to the Roknari to seal some temporary peace, exiled to the Archipelago.

She studied him sidelong, in the light from the lavish branches of candles she had always favored. "How old are you now, Castillar? I thought you were about thirteen when your father sent you to serve my dear Provincar."

"About that, yes, Your Grace. I'm thirty-five."

"Ha. You should shave off that nasty mess growing out of your face, then. It makes you look fifteen years older than you are."

Cazaril considered some quip about a turn in the Roknari galleys being very aging to a man, but he wasn't quite up to it. Instead he said, "I hope I did not annoy the royse with my maunderings, my lady."

"I believe you actually made young Teidez stop and think. A rare event. I wish his tutor could manage it more often." She drummed her thin fingers briefly on the cloth and drained the last of her tiny gla.s.s of wine. She set it down, and added, "I don't know what flea-ridden inn you've put up at down in town, Castillar, but I'll dispatch a page for your things. You'll lodge here tonight."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I accept with grat.i.tude." And alacrity. And alacrity. Thank the G.o.ds, oh, five times five, he was gathered in, at least temporarily. He hesitated, embarra.s.sed. "But, ah...it won't be necessary to trouble your page." Thank the G.o.ds, oh, five times five, he was gathered in, at least temporarily. He hesitated, embarra.s.sed. "But, ah...it won't be necessary to trouble your page."

She raised a brow at him. "That's what they exist for. As you may recall."

"Yes, but"-he smiled briefly, and gestured down himself-"these are my things."

At her pained look, he added weakly, "I had less, when I fell off the Ibran galley in Zagosur." He'd been dressed in a breechclout of surpa.s.sing filthiness, and scabs. The acolytes had burned the rag at their first opportunity.

"Then my page," said the Provincara in a precise voice, still regarding him levelly, "will escort you to your chamber. My lord Castillar."

She added, as she made to rise, and her cousin-companion hastened to a.s.sist her, "We'll speak again tomorrow."

THE CHAMBER WAS ONE IN THE OLD KEEP RESERVED for honored guests, more on account of having been slept in by several historical royas than for its absolute comfort; Cazaril had served its guests himself a hundred times. The bed had three mattresses, straw, feather, and down, and was dressed in the softest washed linen and a coverlet worked by ladies of the household. Before the page had left him, two maids arrived, bearing wash water, drinking water, towels, soap, a tooth-stick, and an embroidered nightgown, cap, and slippers. Cazaril had been planning to sleep in the dead man's shirt. for honored guests, more on account of having been slept in by several historical royas than for its absolute comfort; Cazaril had served its guests himself a hundred times. The bed had three mattresses, straw, feather, and down, and was dressed in the softest washed linen and a coverlet worked by ladies of the household. Before the page had left him, two maids arrived, bearing wash water, drinking water, towels, soap, a tooth-stick, and an embroidered nightgown, cap, and slippers. Cazaril had been planning to sleep in the dead man's shirt.

It was abruptly all too much. Cazaril sat down on the edge of the bed with the nightgown in his hands and burst into wracking sobs. Gulping, he gestured the unnerved-looking servitors to leave him.

"What's the matter with him him?" he heard the maid's voice, as their footsteps trailed off down the corridor, and the tears trailed down the inside of his nose.

The page answered disgustedly, "A madman, I suppose."

After a short pause, the maid's voice floated back faintly, "Well, he'll fit right in here, then, won't he..."

3.

The sounds of the household stirring-calls from the courtyard, the distant clank of pots-woke Cazaril in the predawn gray. He opened his eyes to a moment of panicked disorientation, but the rea.s.suring embrace of the feather bed drew him down again into drowsy repose. Not a hard bench. Not moving up and down. Not moving at all, oh five G.o.ds, that was very heaven. So warm, on his knotted back. stirring-calls from the courtyard, the distant clank of pots-woke Cazaril in the predawn gray. He opened his eyes to a moment of panicked disorientation, but the rea.s.suring embrace of the feather bed drew him down again into drowsy repose. Not a hard bench. Not moving up and down. Not moving at all, oh five G.o.ds, that was very heaven. So warm, on his knotted back.

The Daughter's Day celebrations would run from dawn till dark. Perhaps he would lie slugabed till the household had departed for the procession, then get up late. Creep around un.o.btrusively, lie in the sun with the castle cats. When he grew hungry, dredge up old memories from his days as a page-he'd used to know how to charm the cook for an extra tidbit...

A crisp knock on the door interrupted these pleasant meditations. Cazaril jerked, then relaxed again as Lady Betriz's voice followed: "My lord dy Cazaril? Are you awake? Castillar?"

"A moment, my lady," Cazaril called back. He wallowed to the bed's edge and tore himself from the loving clutch of the mattress. A woven rush mat on the floor kept the morning cold of the stone from nipping his bare feet. He shook the generous linen of the nightgown down over his legs, shuffled to the door, and opened it a crack. "Yes?"

She stood in the corridor with a candle shielded by a blown-gla.s.s lantern in one hand and a pile of cloth, leather straps, and something that clanked wedged awkwardly under her other arm. She was fully dressed for the day in a blue gown with a white vest-cloak that fell from shoulder to ankle. Her dark hair was braided up on her head with flowers and leaves. Her velvet brown eyes were merry, glinting in the candle's glow. Cazaril could not help but smile back.

"Her Grace the Provincara bids you a blessed Daughter's Day," she announced, and startled Cazaril into jumping backward by firmly kicking the door open. She rocked her loaded hips through, handed off the candle holder to him with a Here, take this Here, take this, and dumped her burden on the edge of the bed: piles of blue and white cloth, and a sword with a belt. Cazaril set the candle down on the chest at the foot of the bed. "She sends you these to wear, and if it please you bids you join the household in the ancestors' hall for the dawn prayers. After which we will break our fast, which, she says, you know well where to find."

"Indeed, my lady."

"Actually, I asked Papa for the sword. It's his second-best one. He said it would be an honor to loan it to you." She turned a highly interested gaze upon him. "Is it true you were in the late war?"

"Uh...which one?"

"You've been in more than one?" Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

All of them for the last seventeen years, I think. Well, no. He'd sat out the most recent abortive campaign against Ibra in the dungeons of Brajar, and missed that foolish expedition the roya had sent in support of Darthaca because he'd been busy being inventively tormented by the Roknari general with whom the provincar of Guarida was bargaining so ineptly. Besides those two, he didn't think there had been a defeat in the last decade he'd missed. "Here and there, over the years," he answered vaguely. He was suddenly horridly conscious that there was nothing between his nakedness and her maiden eyes but a thin layer of linen. He twitched inward, clutching his arms across his belly, and smiled weakly. Well, no. He'd sat out the most recent abortive campaign against Ibra in the dungeons of Brajar, and missed that foolish expedition the roya had sent in support of Darthaca because he'd been busy being inventively tormented by the Roknari general with whom the provincar of Guarida was bargaining so ineptly. Besides those two, he didn't think there had been a defeat in the last decade he'd missed. "Here and there, over the years," he answered vaguely. He was suddenly horridly conscious that there was nothing between his nakedness and her maiden eyes but a thin layer of linen. He twitched inward, clutching his arms across his belly, and smiled weakly.

"Oh," she said, following his gesture. "Have I embarra.s.sed you? But Papa says soldiers have no modesty, on account of having to live all together in the field."

She returned her eyes to his face, which was heating. Cazaril got out, "I was thinking of your modesty, my lady."

"That's all right," she said cheerfully.

She didn't go away.

He nodded toward the pile of clothes. "I didn't wish to intrude upon the family during celebration. Are you sure...?"

She clasped her hands together earnestly and intensified her gaze. "But you must come to the procession, and you must, you must, you must must come to the Daughter's Day quarter-gifting at the temple. The Royesse Iselle is going to play the part of the Lady of Spring this year." She bounced on her toes in her importunity. come to the Daughter's Day quarter-gifting at the temple. The Royesse Iselle is going to play the part of the Lady of Spring this year." She bounced on her toes in her importunity.

Cazaril smiled sheepishly. "Very well, if it please you." How could he resist all this urgent delight? Royesse Iselle must be rising sixteen; he wondered how old Lady Betriz was. Too young for you, old fellow Too young for you, old fellow. But surely he might watch her with a purely aesthetic appreciation, and thank the G.o.ddesses for her gifts of youth, beauty, and verve howsoever they were scattered. Brightening the world like flowers.

"And besides," Lady Betriz cinched it, "the Provincara bids you."

Cazaril seized the opportunity to light his candle from hers and, by way of a hint that it was time for her to go away and let him dress, handed the gla.s.s-globed flame back to her. The doubled light that made her more lovely doubtless made him less so. She'd just turned to go when he bethought him of his prudent question, unanswered last night.

"Wait, lady-"

She turned back with a look of bright inquiry.

"I didn't want to trouble the Provincara, or ask in front of the royse or royesse, but what grieves the Royina Ista? I don't want to say or do something wrong, out of ignorance..."

The light in her eyes died a little. She shrugged. "She's...weary. And nervous. Nothing more. We hope she will feel better, with the coming of the sun. She always seems to do better, in the summertime."

"How long has she been living here with her mother?"

"These six years, sir." She gave him a little half curtsey. "Now I have to go to Royesse Iselle. Don't be late, Castillar!" Her smile dimpled at him again, and she darted out.

He could not imagine that young lady being late anywhere. Her energy was appalling. Shaking his head, though the smile she'd left him still lingered on his lips, he turned to examine the new largesse.

He was certainly moving up to a better grade of castoffs. The tunic was blue silk brocade, the trousers heavy dark blue linen, and the knee-length vest-cloak white wool, all clean, the little mends and stains quite un.o.btrusive; dy Ferrej's festival gear outgrown, perhaps, or possibly even something packed away from the late provincar. The loose fit was forgiving of this change in ownership. With the sword hung at his left hip, familiar/unfamiliar weight, Cazaril hurried down out of the keep and across the gray courtyard to the household's ancestors' hall.

The air of the courtyard was chill and damp, the cobbles slippery under his thin boot soles. Overhead, a few stars still lingered. Cazaril eased open the big plank door to the hall and peered inside. Candles, figures; was he late? He slipped within, his eyes adjusting.

Not late but early. The tiers of little family memori boards at the front of the room had half a dozen old candle stubs burning before them. Two women, huddled into shawls, sat on the front bench watching over a third.

The Dowager Royina Ista lay before the altar in the att.i.tude of deepest supplication, p.r.o.ne upon the floor, her arms outflung. Her fingers curled and uncurled; the nails were bitten down to the red. A muddle of nightgowns and shawls puddled around her. Her ma.s.ses of crinkly hair, once gold, now darkened by age to a dull dun, spread out around her head like a fan. For a moment, Cazaril wondered if she had fallen asleep, so still did she lie. But in her pale face, turned sideways with her soft cheek resting directly on the floor, her eyes were open, gray and unblinking, filled with unshed tears.

It was a face of the most profound grief; Cazaril was put in mind of men's looks that he had seen, broken in not just body but soul by the dungeon or the horrors of the galleys. Or of his own, seen dimly in a polished steel mirror in the Mother's house in Ibra, when the acolytes had shaved his nerveless face and encouraged him to look, see, wasn't that better? Yet he was quite certain the royina had never been within smelling distance of a dungeon in her life, never felt the bite of the lash, never, perhaps, even felt a man's hand raised against her in anger. What, then? What, then? He stood still, lips parted, afraid to speak. He stood still, lips parted, afraid to speak.

At a creak and a bustle behind him, he glanced round to see the Dowager Provincara, attended by her cousin, slip inside. She flicked an eyebrow at him in pa.s.sing; he jerked a little bow. The waiting women attending upon the royina started, and rose, offering ghostly curtseys.

The Provincara strode up the aisle between the benches and studied her daughter expressionlessly. "Oh, dear. How long has she been here?"

One of the waiting women half curtseyed again. "She rose in the night, Your Grace. We thought it better to let her come down than to fight her. As you instructed..."

"Yes, yes." The Provincara waved away this nervous excuse. "Did she get any sleep at all?"

"One or two hours, I think, my lady."

The Provincara sighed, and knelt by her daughter. Her voice went gentle, all the tartness drained out; for the first time, Cazaril heard the age in it.

"Ista, heart. Rise and go back to bed. Others will take over the praying today."

The p.r.o.ne woman's lips moved, twice, before words whispered out. "If the G.o.ds hear. If they hear, they do not speak. Their faces are turned from me, Mother."

Almost awkwardly, the old woman stroked her hair. "Others will pray today. We'll light all the candles new, and try again. Let your ladies put you back to bed. Up, now."

The royina sniffed, blinked, and, reluctantly, rose. At a jerk of the Provincara's head, the waiting ladies hurried forward to guide the royina out of the hall, gathering up her dropping shawls behind her. Cazaril searched her face anxiously as she pa.s.sed, but found no signs of wasting illness, no yellow tinge to her skin or eyes, no emaciation. She scarcely seemed to see Cazaril; no recognition flickered in her eyes for the bearded stranger. Well, there was no reason she should remember him, merely one of dozens of pages in and out of dy Baocia's household over the years.

The Provincara's head turned back as the door closed behind her daughter. Cazaril was close enough to see her quiet sigh.

He made her a deeper bow. "I thank you for these festival garments, Your Grace. If..." he hesitated. "If there's anything I can do to ease your burdens, lady, or those of the royina, just ask."