The Complete Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Cazaril grinned. “What, just because I was a scaly, scabbed, burnt scarecrow, hairy and stinking?”

  Bergon grinned back. “Something like that,” he admitted sheepishly. “But then you smiled, and said Good evening, young sir, for all the world as if you were inviting me to share a tavern bench and not a rowing bench.”

  “Well, you were a novelty, of which we didn’t get many.”

  “I thought about it a lot, later. I’m sure I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time—”

  “Naturally not. You arrived well roughed-up.”

  “Truly. Kidnapped, frightened—I’d just collected my first real beating—but you helped me. Told me how to go on, what to expect, taught me how to survive. You gave me extra water twice from your own portion—”

  “Eh, only when you really needed it. I was already used to the heat, as desiccated as I was like to get. After a time one can tell the difference between mere discomfort and the feverish look of a man skirting collapse. It was very important that you not faint at your oar, you see.”

  “You were kind.”

  Cazaril shrugged. “Why not? What could it cost me, after all?”

  Bergon shook his head. “Any man can be kind when he is comfortable. I’d always thought kindness a trivial virtue, therefore. But when we were hungry, thirsty, sick, frightened, with our deaths shouting at us, in the heart of horror, you were still as unfailingly courteous as a gentleman at his ease before his own hearth.”

  “Events may be horrible or inescapable. Men have always a choice—if not whether, then how, they may endure.”

  “Yes, but…I hadn’t known that before I saw it. That was when I began to believe it was possible to survive. And I don’t mean just my body.”

  Cazaril smiled wryly. “I was taken for half-cracked by then, you know.”

  Bergon shook his head again, and kicked up a little silver sand with his boot as they paced along. The westering sun picked out the foxy copper highlights in his dark Darthacan hair.

  Bergon’s late mother had been perceived in Chalion as a virago, a Darthacan interloper suspected of fomenting her husband’s strife with his Heir on her son’s behalf. But Bergon seemed to remember her fondly; as a child he’d been through two sieges with her, cut off from his father’s forces in the intermittent war with his half brother. He was clearly accustomed to strong-minded women with a voice in men’s councils. When he and Cazaril had shared the oar bench he had spoken of his dead mother, although in disguised terms, when he’d been trying to encourage himself. Not of his live father. Bergon’s precocious wit and self-control as demonstrated in the dire days on the galley weren’t, Cazaril reflected, entirely the legacy of the Fox.

  Cazaril’s smile broadened. “So let me tell you,” he began, “all about the Royesse Iselle dy Chalion…”

  Bergon hung on Cazaril’s words as he described Iselle’s winding amber hair and her bright gray eyes, her wide and laughing mouth, her horsemanship and her scholarship. Her undaunted, steady nerve, her rapid assessment of emergencies. Selling Iselle to Bergon seemed approximately as difficult as selling food to starving men, water to the parched, or cloaks to the naked in a blizzard, and he hadn’t even touched yet on the part about her being due to inherit a royacy. The boy seemed half in love already. The Fox would be a greater challenge; the Fox would suspect a catch. Cazaril had no intention of confiding the catch to the Fox. Bergon was another matter. For you, the truth.

  “There is a darker urgency to Royesse Iselle’s plea,” Cazaril continued, as they reached the end of the crescent of beach and turned about again. “This is in the deepest confidence, as she prays to have safe confidence in you as her husband. For your ear alone.” He drew in sea air, and all his courage. “It all goes back to the war of Fonsa the Fairly-Wise and the Golden General…”

  They made two more turns along the stretch of sand, crossing back over their own tracks, before Cazaril’s tale was told. The sun, going down in a red ball, was nearly touching the flat sea horizon, and the breaking waves shimmered in dark and wondrous colors, gnawing their way up the beach as the tide turned. Cazaril was as frank and full with Bergon as he’d been with Ista, keeping nothing back save Ista’s confession, not even his own personal haunting by Dondo. Bergon’s face, made ruddy by the light, was set in profound thought when he finished.

  “Lord Cazaril, if this came from any man’s lips but yours, I doubt I would believe it. I’d think him mad.”

  “Although madness may be an effect of these events, Royse, it is not the cause. It’s all real. I’ve seen it. I half think I am drowning in it.” An unfortunate turn of phrase, but the sea growling so close at hand was making Cazaril nervous. He wondered if Bergon had noticed Cazaril always turned so as to put the royse between him and the surf.

  “You would make me like the hero of some nursemaid’s tale, rescuing the fair lady from enchantment with a kiss.”

  Cazaril cleared his throat. “Well, rather more than a kiss, I think. A marriage must be consummated to be legally binding. Theologically binding, likewise, I would assume.”

  The royse gave him an indecipherable glance. He didn’t speak for a few more paces. Then he said, “I’ve seen your integrity in action. It…widened my world. I’d been raised by my father, who is a prudent, cautious man, always looking for men’s hidden, selfish motivations. No one can cheat him. But I’ve seen him cheat himself. If you understand what I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was very foolish of you, to attack that vile Roknari galley-man.”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet, I think, given the same circumstances, you would do it again.”

  “Knowing what I know now…it would be harder. But I would hope…I would pray, Royse, that the gods would still lend me such foolishness in my need.”

  “What is this astonishing foolishness, that shines brighter than all my father’s gold? Can you teach me to be such a fool too, Caz?”

  “Oh,” breathed Cazaril, “I’m sure of it.”

  CAZARIL MET WITH THE FOX IN THE COOL OF THE following morning. He was escorted again to the high, bright chamber overlooking the sea, but this time for a more private conference, just himself, the roya, and the roya’s secretary. The secretary sat at the end of the table, along with a pile of paper, new quills, and a ready supply of ink. The Fox sat on the long side, fiddling with a game of castles and riders, its pieces exquisitely carved of coral and jade, the board fashioned of polished malachite, onyx, and white marble. Cazaril bowed, and, at the roya’s wave of invitation, seated himself across from him.

  “Do you play?” the Fox inquired.

  “No, my lord,” said Cazaril regretfully. “Or only very indifferently.”

  “Ah. Pity.” The Fox pushed the board a little to one side. “Bergon is very warmed with your description of this paragon of Chalion. You do your job well, Ambassador.”

  “That is all my hope.”

  The roya touched Iselle’s letter of credential, lying on the glossy wood. “Extraordinary document. You know it binds the royesse to whatever you sign in her name.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Her authority to charge you so is questionable, you know. There is the matter of her age, for one thing.”

  “Well, sir, if you do not recognize her right to make her own marriage treaty, I suppose there’s nothing for me to do but mount my horse and ride back to Chalion.”

  “No, no, I didn’t say I questioned it!” A slight panic tinged the old roya’s voice.

  Cazaril suppressed a smile. “Indeed, sir, to treat with us is public acknowledgment of her authority.”

  “Hm. Indeed, indeed. Young people, so trusting. It’s why we old people must guard their interests.” He picked up the other list Cazaril had given him last night. “I’ve studied your suggested clauses for the marriage contract. We have much to discuss.”

  “Excuse me, sir. Those are not suggested. Those are required. If you wish to propose additional items, I will hear you.”<
br />
  The roya arched his brows at him. “Surely not. Just taking one—this matter of inheritance during the minority of their heir, if they are so blessed. One accident with a horse, and the royina of Chalion becomes regent of Ibra! It won’t do. Bergon bears the risks of the battlefield, which his wife will not.”

  “Well, which we hope she will not. Or else I am curiously poorly informed of the history of Ibra, my lord. I thought the royse’s mother won two sieges?”

  The Fox cleared his throat.

  “In any case,” Cazaril continued, “we maintain that the risk is reciprocal, and so must be the clause. Iselle bears the risks of childbirth, which Bergon never will. One breech birth, and he could become regent of Chalion. How many of your wives have outlived you, sir?”

  The Fox took a breath, paused, and went on, “And then there’s this naming clause!”

  A few minutes of gentle argument determined that Bergon dy Ibra-Chalion was no more euphonious than Bergon dy Chalion-Ibra, and that clause, too, was allowed to stand.

  The Fox pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “I understand you are a landless man, Lord Cazaril. How is it that the royesse does not reward you as befits your rank?”

  “She rewards me as befits hers. Iselle is not royina of Chalion—yet.”

  “Huh. I, on the other hand, am the present roya of Ibra, and have the power to dispense…much.”

  Cazaril merely smiled.

  Encouraged, the Fox spoke of an elegant villa overlooking the sea, and placed a coral castle piece upon the table between them. Fascinated to see where this was going, Cazaril refrained from observing how little he cared for the sight of the sea. The Fox spoke of fine horses, and an estate to graze them upon, and how inappropriate he found Clause Three. Some riders were added. Cazaril made neutral noises. The Fox breathed delicately of the money whereby a man might dress himself as befit an Ibran rank rather higher than castillar, and how Clause Six might profitably be rewritten. A jade castle piece joined the growing set. The secretary made notes. With each wordless murmur from Cazaril, both respect and contempt grew in the Fox’s eyes, though as the pile grew he remarked in a tone of some pain, “You play better than I expected, Castillar.”

  At last the Fox sat back and waved at his little pile of offering symbols. “How does it suit you, Cazaril? What do you think this girl can give you that I cannot better, eh?”

  Cazaril’s smile broadened to a cheerful grin. “Why, sir. I believe she will give me an estate in Chalion that will suit me perfectly. One pace wide and two paces long, to be mine in perpetuity.” Gently, so as not to imply an insult either given or taken, he stretched out his hand and pushed the pieces back toward the Fox. “I should probably explain, I bear a tumor in my gut, that I expect to kill me shortly. These prizes are for living men, I think. Not dying ones.”

  The Fox’s lips moved; astonishment and dismay flickered in his face, and the faintest flash of unaccustomed shame, quickly suppressed. A brief bark of laughter escaped him. “Five gods! The girl has wit and ruthlessness enough to teach me my trade! No wonder she gave you such powers. By the Bastard’s balls, she’s sent me an unbribeable ambassador!”

  Three thoughts marched across Cazaril’s mind: first, that Iselle had no such crafty plan, second, that were it to be pointed out to her, she would say Hm! and file the notion away against some future need, and third, that the Fox did not need to know about the first.

  The Fox sobered, staring more closely at Cazaril. “I am sorry for your affliction, Castillar. It is no laughing matter. Bergon’s mother died of a tumor in her breast, taken untimely young—just thirty-six, she was. All the grief she married in me could not daunt her, but at the end…ah, well.”

  “I’m thirty-six,” Cazaril couldn’t help observing rather sadly.

  The Fox blinked. “You don’t look well, then.”

  “No,” Cazaril agreed. He picked up the list of clauses. “Now, sir, about this marriage contract…”

  In the end, Cazaril gave away nothing on his list, and obtained agreement to it all. The Fox, rueful and reeling, offered some intelligent additions to the contingency clauses to which Cazaril happily agreed. The Fox whined a little, for form’s sake, and made frequent reference to the submission due a husband from a wife—also not a prominent feature of recent Ibran history, Cazaril diplomatically did not point out—and to the unnatural strong-mindedness of women who rode too much.

  “Take heart, sir,” Cazaril consoled him. “It is not your destiny today to win a royacy for your son. It is to win an empire for your grandson.”

  The Fox brightened. Even his secretary smiled.

  Finally, the Fox offered him the castles and riders set, for a personal memento.

  “For myself, I think I shall decline,” said Cazaril, eyeing the elegant pieces regretfully. A better thought struck him. “But if you care to have them packaged up, I should be pleased to carry them back to Chalion as your personal betrothal gift to your future daughter-in-law.”

  The Fox laughed and shook his head. “Would that I had a courtier who offered me so much loyalty for so little reward. Do you truly want nothing for yourself, Cazaril?”

  “I want time.”

  The Fox snorted regretfully. “Don’t we all. For that, you must apply to the gods, not the roya of Ibra.”

  Cazaril let this one pass, though his lips twitched. “I’d at least like to live to see Iselle safely wed. This is a gift you can indeed give me, sir, by hastening these matters along.” He added, “And it is truly urgent that Bergon become royse-consort of Chalion before Martou dy Jironal can become regent of Chalion.”

  Even the Fox was forced to nod judiciously at this.

  THAT NIGHT AFTER THE ROYA’S CUSTOMARY BANQUET, and after he’d shaken off Bergon who, if he could not stuff him with the honors Cazaril steadfastly declined, seemed to want to stuff him at least with food, Cazaril stopped in at the temple. Its high round halls were quiet and somber at this hour, nearly empty of worshippers, though the wall lights as well as the central fire burned steadily, and a couple of acolytes kept night watch. He returned their cordial good evenings, and walked through the tile-decorated archway into the Daughter’s court.

  Beautiful prayer rugs were woven by the maidens and ladies of Ibra, who donated them to the temples as a pious act, saving the knees and bodies of petitioners from the marble chill of the floors. Cazaril thought that if the custom were imported to Chalion along with Bergon, it could well improve the rate of winter worship there. Mats of all sizes, colors, and designs were ranged around the Lady’s altar. Cazaril chose a broad thick one, dense with wool and slightly blurry representations of spring flowers, and laid himself down upon it. Prayer, not drunken sleep, he reminded himself, was his purpose here…

  On the way to Ibra, he’d seized the chance at every rural rudimentary Daughter’s house, while Ferda saw to the horses, to pray: for Orico’s preservation, for Iselle’s and Betriz’s safety, for Ista’s solace. Above all, intimidated by the Fox’s reputation, he’d begged for the success of his mission. That prayer, it seemed, had been answered in advance. How far in advance? His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman’s hands. Or maybe she hadn’t been patient. Maybe she’d been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.

  How long have I been walking down this road?

  Once, he would have traced his allegiance to the Lady’s affairs to a coin dropped in the Baocian winter mud by a clumsy soldier. Now he was by no means so sure, and by no means sure he liked the new answer.

  The nightmare of the galleys came before the coin in the mud. Had all his pain and fear and agony there been manipulated by the gods to their ends? Was he nothing but a puppet on a string? Or was that, a mule on a rope, balky and stubborn, to be whipped along? He scarcely knew whether he felt wonder or rage. He considered Umegat’s insistence that gods could not seize a man’s wil
l, but only wait for it to be offered. When had he signed up for that?

  Oh.

  Then.

  One starving, cold, desperate night at Gotorget, he’d walked his commander’s rounds upon the battlements. On the highest tower, he’d dismissed the famished, fainting boy on guard to go below for a time and get what refreshment he could, and stood the watch himself. He’d stared out at the enemy’s campfires, glowing mockingly in the ruined village, in the valley, on the ridges all around, speaking of abundant warmth, and cooking food, and confidence, and all the things his company lacked within the walls. And thought of how he’d schemed, and temporized, and exhorted his men to faithfulness, plugged holes fought sorties scraped for unclean food bloodied his sword at the scaling ladders and above all, prayed. Till he’d come to the end of prayers.

  In his youth at Cazaril, he’d followed the common path of most highborn young men, and become a lay dedicat of the Brother’s Order, with its military promises and aspirations. He’d sent up his prayers, when he’d bothered to pray at all, by rote to the god assigned to him by his sex, his age, and his rank. On the tower in the dark, it seemed to him that following that unquestioned path had brought him, step by step, into this impossible snare, abandoned by his own side and his god both.

  He’d worn his Brother’s medal inside his shirt since the ceremony of his dedication at age thirteen, just before he’d left Cazaril to be apprenticed as a page in the old provincar’s household. That night on the tower, tears of fatigue and despair—and yes, rage—running down his face, he’d torn it off and flung it over the battlement, denying the god who’d denied him. The spinning slip of gold had disappeared into the darkness without a sound. And he’d flung himself prone on the stones, as he lay now, and sworn that any other god could pick him up who willed, or none, so long as the men who had trusted him were let out of this trap. As for himself, he was done. Done.

  Nothing, of course, happened.

  Well, eventually it started to rain.