The Curse of Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The icy rain continued through the week. Cazaril, one sodden afternoon, was combining practical application with tutorial by teaching Betriz and Iselle how to keep accounts, when a crisp rap on the chamber door overrode a page’s diffident voice announcing, “The March dy Palliar begs to see my lord dy Cazaril.”

  “Palli!” Cazaril turned in his chair, and levered himself to his feet with a hand on the table. Bright delight flooded both his ladies’ faces with sudden energy, driving out the ennui. “i wasn’t expecting you in Cardegoss so soon!”

  “Nor was I.” Palli bowed to the women and favored Cazaril with a twisted grin. He dropped a coin in the page’s hand and jerked his head; the boy bent double, in a gradation that indicated deep approval of the amount of the largesse, and scampered off.

  Palli continued, “I took only two officers and rode hard; my troop from Palliar follows at a pace that will not destroy horses.” He glanced around the chamber and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Goddess forfend! I didn’t think I was speaking prophecy, last time I was here. Gives me a worse chill than this miserable rain.” He cast off a water-spotted woolen cloak, revealing the blue-and-white garb of an officer of the daughter’s order, and ran a rueful hand through the bright drops beading in his dark hair. He clasped hands with Cazaril, and added, “Bastard’s demons, Caz, you look terrible!”

  Cazaril could not, alas, respond to this with a very well put. He instead turned off the remark with a mumble of, “It’s the weather, I suppose. It makes everyone dull and drab.”

  Palli stood back and stared him up and down. “Weather? When last I saw you, your skin was not the color of moldy dough, you didn’t have black rings around your eyes like a striped rock-rat, and, and, you looked pretty fit, not—pale, pinched, and potbellied.” Cazaril straightened up, indignantly sucking in his aching gut, as Palli jerked a thumb at him and added, “Royesse, you should get your secretary to a physician.”

  Iselle stared at Cazaril in sudden doubt, her hand going to her mouth, as if really looking him for the first time in weeks. Which, he supposed, she was; her attentions had been thoroughly absorbed by her own troubles through these late disasters. Betriz looked from one of them to the other, and set her teeth on her lower lip.

  “I don’t need to see a physician,” said Cazaril firmly, loudly, and quickly. Or any other such interrogator, dear gods.

  “So all men say, in terror of the lancet and the purgative.” Palli waved away this stung protest. “The last one of my sergeants who developed saddle boils, I had to march in to the old leech-handler at sword’s point. Don’t listen to him, Royesse. Cazaril”—his face sobered, and he made an apologetic half bow to Iselle—“May I speak to you privately for a moment? I promise I shall not keep him from you long, Royesse. I cannot linger.”

  Gravely, Iselle granted her royal permission. Cazaril, quick to catch the undertone in Palli’s voice, led him not to his office antechamber but all the way down the stairs to his own chamber. The corridor was empty, happily. He closed his heavy door firmly behind them, to thwart human eavesdroppers. The senile spirit smudges kept their confidences.

  Cazaril took the chair, the better to conceal his lack of grace in movement. Palli sat on the edge of the bed, folded his cloak beside him, and clasped his hands loosely between his knees.

  “The daughter’s courier to Palliar must have made excellent time despite the winter muds,” said Cazaril, counting days in his head.

  Palli’s dark brows rose. “You know of that already? I’d thought it a, ah, quite private call to conclave. Though it will become obvious soon enough, as the other lord dedicats arrive in Cardegoss.”

  Cazaril shrugged. “I have my sources.”

  “I don’t doubt it. And so have I mine.” Palli shook his finger at him. “You are the only intelligencer in the Zangre that I would trust, at present. What, under the Gods’ eyes, has been happening here at court? The most lurid and garbled tales are circulating regarding our late Holy General’s sudden demise. And delightful as the picture is, somehow I don’t really think he was carried off bodily by a flight of demons with blazing wings called down by the Royesse Iselle’s prayers.”

  “Ah…not exactly. He just choked to death in the middle of a drinking fest, the night before his wedding.”

  “On his poisonous, lying tongue, one would wish.”

  “Very nearly.”

  Palli sniffed. “The lord dedicats whom Lord Dondo put in a fury—who are not only all the ones he failed to buy outright, but also those who’ve grown ashamed of their purchase since—have taken his taking-off as a sign the wheel has turned. As soon as our quorum arrives in Cardegoss, we mean to steal a march on the chancellor and present our own candidate for Holy General to Orico. Or perhaps a slate of three acceptable men, from which the roya might choose.”

  “That would likely go down better. It’s a delicate balance between…” Cazaril cut off, loyalty and treason. “Too, dy Jironal has his own powers in the temple, as well as in the Zangre. You don’t want this infighting to turn too ugly.”

  “Even dy Jironal would not dare disrupt the Temple by setting soldiers of the Son upon soldiers of the Daughter,” said Palli confidently.

  “Mm,” said Cazaril.

  “At the same time, some of the lord dedicats—naming no names right now—want to go farther. Maybe assemble and present evidence of enough of both the Jironals’ bribes, threats, peculations, and malfeasances to Orico that it would force him to dismiss dy Jironal as chancellor. Make the Roya take a stand.”

  Cazaril rubbed his nose, and said warningly, “Forcing Orico to stand would be like trying to build a tower out of custard. I don’t recommend it. Nor will he readily be parted from dy Jironal. The Roya relies on him…more deeply than I can explain. Your evidence would need to be utterly overwhelming.”

  “Yes, which is part of what brings me to you.” Palli leaned forward intently. “Would you be willing to repeat, under oath before the Daughter’s conclave, the tale you told me in Valenda about how the Jironals sold you to the galleys?”

  Cazaril hesitated. “I have only my word to offer as proof, Palli. too weak to topple dy Jironal, I assure you.”

  “Not alone, no. But it might be just the coin to tip the scale, the straw to light the fire.”

  Just the straw to stand out from all the others? Did he want to be known as the pivot of this plot? Cazaril’s lips screwed up in dismay.

  “And you’re a man of reputation,” Palli went on persuasively.

  Cazaril jerked. “No good one, surely…!”

  “What, everyone knows of Royesse Iselle’s clever secretary, the man who keeps his own counsel—and hers—the Bastion of Gotorget—utterly indifferent to wealth—”

  “No, I’m not,” Cazaril assured him earnestly. “I just dress badly. I quite like wealth.”

  “And possessing the Royesse’s total confidence. And don’t pretend a courtier’s greed to me—with my own eyes I saw you turn down three rich Roknari bribes to betray Gotorget, the last while you were starving near to death, and I can produce living witnesses to back me.”

  “Well, of course I didn’t—”

  “Your voice would be listened to in council, Caz!”

  Cazaril sighed. “I…I’ll think about it. I have nearer duties. Say that I’ll speak in the sealed session if and only if you think my testimony would be truly needed. Temple internal politics are no business of mine.” A twinge in his gut made him regret that word choice. I fear I am afflicted with the goddess’s own internal politics, just now.

  Palli’s happy nod claimed this as a firmer assent than Cazaril quite wished. He rose, thanked Cazaril, and took his leave.

  16

  Two afternoons later, Cazaril was sitting unguardedly at his worktable mending his pens when a page of the Zangre entered his antechamber and announced, “Here is Dedicat Rojeras, in obedience to the order of the Royesse Iselle, m’lord.”

  Rojeras was a man of about forty, with sandy red hair receding a
little from his forehead, freckles, and keen blue eyes. The man’s trade was recognizable by the green robes of a lay dedicat of Cardegoss’s Temple Hospital of the Mother’s Mercy that swung at his brisk step, and his rank by the master’s braid sewn over his shoulder. Cazaril knew at once that none of his ladies could be the quarry, or the Mother’s Order would have sent a woman physician. He stiffened in alarm, but nodded politely. He rose and turned to convey the message to the inner chambers only to find Lady Betriz and the royesse already at the door, smiling unsurprised greetings to the man.

  Betriz dropped a half curtsey in exchange for the dedicat’s deep bow, and said, “This is the man I told you about, Royesse. The Mother’s senior divine says he has made a special study of wasting diseases, and has apprentices who’ve traveled from all over Chalion to be taught by him!”

  So, Lady Betriz’s excursion to the temple yesterday had included more than prayers and charity offerings. Iselle had less to learn about court conspiracies than Cazaril had thought. She’d certainly smuggled this past him smoothly enough. He was ambushed, and by his own ladies. He smiled tightly, swallowing his fear. The man had none of the luminous signs of second sight about him; what could he tell from Cazaril’s mere body?

  Iselle looked the physician over and nodded satisfaction. “Dedicat Rojeras, please examine my secretary and report back to me.”

  “Royesse, I don’t need to see a physician!” And I most especially don’t need a physician to see me.

  “Then all we shall waste is a trifle of time,” Iselle countered, “which the gods give us each day all the same. Upon pain of my displeasure, I order you to go with him, Cazaril.” There was no mistaking the determination in her voice.

  Damn Palli, for not only putting this into her head, but teaching her how to block his escape. Iselle was too quick a study. Still…the physician would either diagnose a miracle, or he would not. If he did, Cazaril could call for Umegat, and let the saint, with his undoubted high connections to the Temple, deal with it. And if not, what harm was in it?

  Cazaril bowed obedient, if stiffly offended, assent, and led his unwelcome visitor downstairs to his bedchamber. Lady Betriz followed, to see that her royal mistress’s orders were carried out. She offered him a quick apologetic smile, but her eyes were apprehensive as Cazaril closed his door upon her.

  Shut in with Cazaril, the physician made him sit by the window while he felt his pulse and peered into his eyes, ears, and throat. He bade Cazaril make water, which he sniffed and studied in a glass tube held up to the light. He inquired after Cazaril’s bowels, and Cazaril reluctantly admitted to the blood. Then Cazaril was required to undress and lie down, and suffer to have his heart and breathing listened to by the man’s ear pressed to his chest, and be poked and prodded all over his body by the cool, quick fingers. Cazaril had to explain how he came by his flogging scars; Rojeras’s comments upon them were limited to some hair-raising suggestions of how he might rid Cazaril of his remaining adhesions, should Cazaril desire it and gather the nerve. Withal, Cazaril thought he would prefer to wait and fall off another horse, and said so, which only made Rojeras chuckle.

  Rojeras’s smile faded as he returned to a more careful, and deeper, probing of Cazaril’s belly, feeling and leaning this way and that. “Pain here?”

  Cazaril, determined to pass this off, said firmly, “No.”

  “How about when I do this?”

  Cazaril yelped.

  “Ah. Some pain, then.” More poking. More wincing. Rojeras paused for a time, his fingertips just resting on Cazaril’s belly, his gaze abstracted. Then he seemed to shake himself awake. He reminded Cazaril of Umegat.

  Rojeras still smiled as Cazaril dressed himself again, but his eyes were shadowed with thought.

  Cazaril offered encouragingly, “Speak, Dedicat. I am a man of reason, and will not fall to pieces.”

  “Is it so? Good.” Rojeras took a breath and said plainly, “My lord, you have a most palpable tumor.”

  “Is…that it,” said Cazaril, gingerly seating himself again in his chair.

  Rojeras looked up swiftly. “This does not surprise you?”

  Not as much as my last diagnosis did. Cazaril thought longingly of what a relief it would be to learn that his recurring belly cramp was such a natural, normal lethality. Alas, he was quite certain that most people’s tumors didn’t scream obscenities at them in the middle of the night. “I have had reasons to think something was not right. But what does this mean? What do you think will happen?” He kept his voice as neutral as possible.

  “Well…” Rojeras sat on the edge of Cazaril’s vacated bed and laced his fingers together. “There are so many kinds of these growths. Some are diffuse, some knotted or encapsulated, some kill swiftly, some sit there for years and hardly seem to give trouble at all. Yours seems to be encapsulated, which is hopeful. There is one common sort, a kind of cyst that fills with liquid, that one woman I cared for held for over twelve years.”

  “Oh,” said Cazaril, and produced a heartened smile.

  “It grew to over a hundred pounds by the time she died,” the physician went on. Cazaril recoiled, but Rojeras continued blithely, “And there is another, a most interesting one that I have only seen twice in my years of study—a round mass that, when opened, proved to contain knots of flesh with hair and teeth and bones. One was in a woman’s belly, which almost made sense, but another was in a man’s leg. I theorize that they were engendered by an escaped demon, trying to grow to human form. If the demon had succeeded, I posit that it might have chewed its way out and entered the world in fleshly form, which would surely have been an abomination. I have for long wished to find such another one in a patient who was still alive, that I might study it and see if my theory is so.” He eyed Cazaril in speculation.

  With the greatest effort, Cazaril kept himself from jolting up and screaming. He glanced down at his swollen belly in terror, and carefully away. He had thought his affliction spiritual, not physical. It had not occurred to him that it could be both at once. This was an intrusion of the supernatural into the solid that seemed all too plausible, given his case. He choked out, “Do they grow to a hundred pounds, too?”

  “The two I excised were much smaller,” Rojeras assured him.

  Cazaril looked up in sudden hope. “You can cut them out, then?”

  “Oh—only from dead persons,” said the physician apologetically.

  “But, but…might it be done?” If a man were brave enough to lie down and offer himself in cold blood to razor-edged steel…if the abomination could be carved out with the brutal speed of an amputation…Was it possible to physically excise a miracle, if that miracle were in fact made flesh?

  Rojeras shook his head. “On an arm or a leg, maybe. But this…You were a soldier—you’ve surely seen what happens with dirty belly wounds. Even if you chanced to survive the shock and pain of the cutting, the fever would kill you within a few days.” His voice grew more earnest. “I have tried it three times, and only because my patients threatened to kill themselves if I would not try. They all died. I don’t care to kill any more good people that way. Do not tease and torment yourself with such desperate impossibilities. Take what you can of life meantime, and pray.”

  It was praying that got me into this—or this into me… “Do not tell the royesse!”

  “My lord,” said the physician gravely, “I must.”

  “But I must not—not now—she must not dismiss me to my bed! I cannot leave her side!” Cazaril’s voice rose in panic.

  Rojeras’s brows rose. “Your loyalty commends you, Lord Cazaril. Calm yourself! There is no need for you to take to your bed before you feel the need. Indeed, such light duties as may come your way in her service may occupy your mind and help you to compose your soul.”

  Cazaril breathed deeply, and decided not to disabuse Rojeras of his pleasant illusions about service to the House of Chalion. “As long as you make it clear that I am not to be exiled from my post.”

  “A
s long as you grasp that this is not a license to exert yourself unduly,” Rojeras returned sternly. “You are plainly in need of more rest than you have allowed yourself.”

  Cazaril nodded hasty agreement, trying to look at once biddable and energetic.

  “There is one other important thing,” Rojeras added, stirring as if to take his leave but not yet rising. “I only ask this because, as you say, you are a man of reason, and I think you might understand.”

  “Yes?” said Cazaril warily.

  “Upon your death—long delayed, we must pray—may I have your note of hand saying I might cut out your tumor for my collection?”

  “You collect such horrors?” Cazaril grimaced. “Most men content themselves with paintings, or old swords, or ivory carvings.” Offense struggled with curiosity, and lost. “Um…how do you keep them?”

  “In jars of wine spirits.” Rojeras smiled, a faint embarrassed flush coloring his fair skin. “I know it sounds gruesome, but I keep hoping…if only I learn enough, someday I will understand, someday I will be able to find some way to keep these things from killing people.”

  “Surely they are the gods’ dark gifts, and we cannot in piety resist them?”

  “We resist gangrene, by amputation, sometimes. We resist the infection of the jaw, by drawing out the bad tooth. We resist fevers, by applications of heat and cold, and good care. For every cure, there must have been a first time.” Rojeras fell silent. After a moment he said, “It is clear that the Royesse Iselle holds you in much affection and esteem.”

  Cazaril, not knowing quite how to respond to this, replied, “I have served her since last spring, in Valenda. I had formerly served in her grandmother’s household.”

  “She is not given to hysterics, is she? Highborn women are sometimes…” Rojeras gave a little shrug, in place of saying something rude.

  “No,” Cazaril had to admit. “None of her household are. Quite the reverse.” He added, “But surely you don’t have to tell the ladies, and distress them, so…so soon?”