The Curse of Chalion

"Assistance. Yes. But not with a letter. Ser dy Ferrej said you were once a courier, is that right?"

"I once rode for the provincar of Guarida, my lady. When I was younger."

"A courier is a spy." Her regard had grown disquietingly calculating.

"Not necessarily, though it was sometimes hard to... convince people otherwise. We were trusted messengers, first and foremost. Not that we weren't supposed to keep our eyes open and report our observations."

"Good enough." The chin came up. "Then my first task for you, as my secretary, is one of observation. I want you to find out if I made a mistake or not. I can't very well go down into town, or ask around—I have to stay up on top of this hill in my"—she grimaced—"feather bed. But you—you can do it." She gazed across at him with an expression of the most disturbing faith.

His stomach felt suddenly as hollow as a drum, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. Apparently, he had just put on slightly too good a show. "I... I... immediately?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Discreetly. As opportunity presents."

Cazaril swallowed. "I'll try what I can do, my lady."

ON HIS WAY DOWN THE STAIRS TO HIS OWN CHAMBER, one floor below, a vision surfaced in Cazaril's thoughts from his days as a page in this very castle. He'd fancied himself a bit of a swordsman, on account of being a shade better than the half dozen other young highborn louts who'd shared his duties and his training in the provincar's household. One day a new young page had arrived, a short, surly fellow; the provincar's swordmaster had invited Cazaril to step up against him at the next training session. Cazaril had developed himself a pretty thrust or two, including a flourish that, with a real blade, would have neatly nipped the ears off most of his comrades. He'd tried his special pass on the new fellow, coming to a happy halt with the dulled edge flat against the newcomer's head—only to look down and see his opponent's light practice blade bent nearly double against his gut padding.

That page had gone on, Cazaril had heard, to become the swordmaster for the roya of Brajar. In time, Cazaril had to own himself an indifferent swordsman—his interests had always been too broad-scattered for him to maintain the necessary obsession. But he'd never forgotten that moment, looking down in surprise at his mock-death.

It bemused him that his first lesson with the delicate Iselle had churned up that old memory. Odd little flickers of intensity, to burn in such disparate eyes... what had that short page's name been... ?

Cazaril found that a couple more tunics and trousers had arrived on his bed while he was out, relics of the castle warder's younger and thi

AFTER DINNER, CAZARIL LAY DOWN FOR A MARVELOUS little nap. He was just coming to luxuriant wakefulness again when Ser dy Ferrej knocked on his door, and delivered to him the books and records of the royesse's chambers. Betriz followed shortly with a box of letters for him to put in order. Cazaril spent the remainder of the afternoon starting to organize the randomly piled lot, and familiarize himself with the matters therein.

The financial records were fairly simple—the purchase of this or that trivial toy or bit of trumpery jewelry; lists of presents given and received; a somewhat more meticulous listing of jewels of genuine value, inheritances, or gifts. Clothing. Iselle's riding horse, the mule Snowflake, and their assorted trappings. Items such as linens or furniture were subsumed, presumably, in the Provincara's accounts, but would in future be Cazaril's charge. A lady of rank was normally sent off to marriage with cartloads—Cazaril hoped not boatloads—of fine goods, and Iselle was surely due to begin the years of accumulation against that future journey. Should he list himself as Item One in that bridal inventory?

He pictured the entry: Sec't'y-tutor, One ea. Gift from Grandmama. Aged thirty-five. Badly damaged in shipping. Value... ?

The bridal procession was a one-way journey, normally, although Iselle's mother the dowager royina had returned... broken, Cazaril tried not to think. The Lady Ista puzzled and disturbed him. It was said that madness ran in some noble families. Not Cazaril's—his family had run to financial fecklessness and unlucky political alliances instead, just as devastating in the long run. Was Iselle at risk... ? Surely not.

Iselle's correspondence was scant but interesting. Some early, kindly little letters from her grandmother, from before the widowed royina had moved her family back home from court, full of advice on the general order of be good, obey your mother, say your prayers, help take care of your little brother. One or two notes from uncles or aunts, the Provincara's other children—Iselle had no other relatives on her father the late Roya Ias's side, Ias having been the only surviving child of his own ill-fated father. A regular series of birthday and holy day letters from her much older half brother, the present roya, Orico.

Those were in the roya's own hand, Cazaril noted with approval, or at least, he trusted the roya did not employ any secretary with such a crabbed and difficult fist. They were for the most part stiff little missives, the effort of a man full-grown attempting to be kindly to a child, except when they broke into descriptions of Orico's beloved menagerie. Then they became spontaneous and flowing for the space of a paragraph or two, in enthusiasm and, perhaps, trust that here at least was an interest the two half siblings might share on the same level.

This pleasant task was interrupted in turn late in the afternoon with the word, brought by a page, that Cazaril's presence was now required to ride out with the royesse and Lady Betriz. He hastily do

And then supper, and then to his chamber, where he pottered about trying on his new old clothing, and folding it away, and attempting the first few pages of deciphering the poor dead fool of a wool merchant's book. But Cazaril's eyes grew heavy over this task, and he slept like a block till morning.