The Curse of Chalion

"There will be time for all this shortly. Right now I am on a mission from my wife the royina of Chalion. But tell me first and privately, Lord Caz—do you love the Lady Betriz?"

Cazaril blinked. "I... she... very fond, Royse."

"Good. I mean, I was sure of it, but Iselle insisted I ask first. Now, and very important—are you willing to be shaved?"

"I—what?" Cazaril's hand went to his beard. It was not at all as scraggly as it had started out, it had filled in nicely, he thought, and besides, he kept it neatly trimmed. "Is there some reason you ask me this? Not that it matters greatly, beards grow back, I suppose..."

"But you're not madly attached to it or anything, right?"

"Not madly, no. My hand was shaky for a time after the galleys, and I did not care to carve myself bloody, but I could not afford a barber. Then I just became used to it."

"Good." Bergon returned to the doorway, and thrust his head through to the corridor. "All right, come in."

A barber and a servant holding a can of hot water trooped in at the royse's command. The barber made Cazaril sit, and whipped his cloth around him. Cazaril found himself soaped up before he could make remark. The servant held the basin beneath his chin as the barber, humming under his breath, went to work with his steel. Cazaril stared down cross-eyed over his nose as blobs of soapy gray and black hair splatted into the tin basin. The barber made unsettling little chirping noises, but at last smiled in satisfaction and grandly gestured the basin away. "There, my lord!" Some work with a hot towel and a cold lavender-scented tincture that stung completed his artistic effort. The royse dropped a coin into the barber's hand that made him bow low and, murmuring compliments, retreat backwards through the door again.

Feminine giggles sounded from the hallway. A voice, not quite low enough, whispered, "See, Iselle! He does too have a chin. Told you."

"Yes, you were right. Quite a nice one."

Iselle stalked in with her back straight, trying to be very royal in her elaborate gown from the investiture, but couldn't keep her gravity; she looked at Cazaril and burst into laughter. At her shoulder Betriz, almost as finely dressed, was all dimples and bright brown eyes and a complex hairstyle that seemed to involve a lot of black ringlets framing her face, bouncing in a fascinating ma

"Not old at all," corrected Betriz sturdily.

He had risen at the royesse's entry, and swept them a courtly bow. His hand, unwilled, went to touch his unaccustomedly naked and cool chin. No one had offered him a mirror by which to examine the cause of all this female hilarity.

"All ready," reported Bergon mysteriously.

Iselle, smiling, took Betriz's hand. Bergon grasped Cazaril's. Iselle struck a pose and a

Bergon turned up his hand with Cazaril's in it; Betriz's descended upon it, capped by Iselle's. The royse and royina pressed their hands together, and stood back, both gri

"But, but, but," stammered Cazaril. "But this is very wrong, Iselle—Bergon—to sacrifice this maiden to reward my gray hairs is a repugnant thing!" He did not let go of Betriz's hand.

"We just got rid of your gray hairs," pointed out Iselle. She looked him over judiciously. "It's a vast improvement, I have to agree."

Bergon observed, "And I must say, she doesn't look very repulsed."

Betriz's dimples were as deep as ever Cazaril had seen them, and her merry eyes gleamed up at him through her demurely sweeping lashes.

"But... but..."

"And anyway," Iselle continued briskly, "I'm not sacrificing her to you as a reward for your loyalty. I'm bestowing you on her as a reward for her loyalty. So there."

"Oh. Oh, well, that's better, then..." Cazaril squinted, trying to reorient his spi

"Yes, well, she didn't ask for them. She asked for you. No accounting for taste, eh?" said Bergon, eyes alight.

"And I must quibble with at least part of your estimate, Cazaril," Betriz said breathlessly. "There are no more worthy lords than you in Chalion." Her grip, in his, tightened.

"Wait," said Cazaril, feeling he was sliding down a slope of snow, tractionless. Soft, warm snow. "I have no lands, no money. How can I support a wife?"

"I plan to make the chancellorship a salaried position," said Iselle.

"As the Fox has done in Ibra? Very wise, Royina, to have your principal servants' principal loyalties be to the royacy, and not divided between crown and clan as dy Jironal's was. Who shall you appoint to replace him? I have a few ideas—"

"Cazaril!" Her fond exasperation made familiar cadence with his name. "Of course it's you, who did you think I should appoint? Surely that went without saying! The duty must be yours."

Cazaril sat down heavily in his late barber chair, still not releasing his clutch on Betriz's hand. "Right now?" he said faintly.

Her chin came up. "No, no, of course not! Tonight we feast. Tomorrow will do."

"If you're feeling up to it by then," Bergon put in hastily.

"It's a vast task." Wish for bread, and be handed a banquet... between those who sought to overprotect him and those who sacrificed his comfort mercilessly to their aims without a second thought, Cazaril decided he rather preferred the latter. Chancellor dy Cazaril. My lord Chancellor. His lips moved, as he shaped the syllables, and crooked up.

"We shall do these a

Cazaril snaked his arm around Betriz's waist and pulled her, ruthlessly and not at all shyly, down upon his lap. She squeaked in surprise.

"Lips, eh?" he murmured, and fastened his to hers.

Pausing for breath some time later, she pulled her head back and happily rubbed her chin, then his. "And now your kisses do not make me itch!"

IT WAS LATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING BEFORE Cazaril was at last able to seek out Umegat at the Bastard's house. A respectful acolyte ushered him to a pair of rooms on the third floor; the tongueless groom, Daris, answered the knock and bowed Cazaril inside. Cazaril was not surprised to find him wearing the garb of a lay dedicat of the order, tidy and white. Daris rubbed his chin and gestured at Cazaril's bare face, uttering some smiling remark that Cazaril was just as glad he could not make out. The thumbless man beckoned him through the chamber, furnished up as a sitting room, and out to a little wooden balcony, festooned with twining vines and rose geraniums in pots, overlooking the Temple Square.

Umegat, also dressed in clean white, sat at a tiny table in the cool shade, and Cazaril was thrilled to see paper and quill and ink before him. Daris hastily brought a chair, that Cazaril might sit before Umegat could try to rise. Daris mouthed an inviting hum; Umegat interpreted an offer of hospitality, and Cazaril agreed to tea, which Daris bustled away to fetch.