Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [103]
“What was the wording of the prayer?” asked Lady Cattilara.
“Nothing special, so long as it was sincere.”
“This worked for you?”
“How can one be sure?” In fact, she’d never quacked herself with any of the suggestions she’d been pelted with by her well-wishers. Except for prayer. And we all know how well that worked, in the end. Ista mentally composed her next lure, but was cut short by her fish leaping into her net.
“Royina . . . since there is to be no ladies’ fête this noon . . . might I borrow your handmaiden Liss to assist me in locating some of these wonderful blooms?”
“Certainly, Marchess.” Ista smiled. “I shall rest and write letters.”
“I will see you are brought luncheon,” Cattilara promised, and curtseyed herself out. To go look for a silver knife and a silk scarf, Ista guessed.
“Royina,” Liss hissed, when the marchess’s steps had receded down the outside stairs. “I don’t know anything about this flower you’re talking about.”
“Actually, it’s a short green shoot that has little flowers dangling in a row, called Mother’s bells, but it hardly matters. What I wish of you is that you get the marchess as far away from Porifors as you can persuade her to ride by noon. Let her pick any flower that isn’t poisonous.” Now, there was another temptation . . . Ista recalled childhood encounters with blister-ivy and stinging nettle, and smiled grimly. But whatever was going on with Cattilara was deathly serious, and no pretext for japery, no matter how the girl set Ista’s teeth on edge. “Mark if she becomes suddenly anxious to return, or otherwise behaves or speaks oddly. Delay her as long as you reasonably may, however you can.”
Liss frowned, her brow wrinkling. “Why?”
Ista hesitated. “When the stationmaster hands you a sealed pouch, do you peek inside?”
“No, Royina!” said Liss indignantly.
“I need you to be my courier in this.”
Liss blinked. “Oh.” She executed her bow-curtsey.
“The exercise will do the marchess no harm. Though . . . it would be well, also, if you are subtle in your misdirection, and take care not to offend her.” That the demon dared not show itself before Ista did not guarantee that it dared not show itself at all. Ista had no idea of its powers and limits, yet.
Baffled but obliging, Liss undertook the charge. Ista ate a light breakfast in her room, opened the shutters to the morning light, and settled down with borrowed pens and paper.
First was a short, sharp note to the provincar of Tolnoxo, none too delicately conveying Ista’s displeasure with his casual treatment of her courier and his failure more speedily to produce the lost Foix and Learned dy Cabon, and a demand of better assistance to Ferda. A more candid letter to the archdivine of Maradi, pleading for the Temple’s aid in searching for the afflicted Foix and his companion. Liss had found her way to Porifors speedily enough; what dire delay could be keeping the pair of them . . . ?
Ista subdued her pent-up anxiety by penning a letter to Chancellor dy Cazaril in Cardegoss, commending Liss and Ferda and Foix and their company for their recent courage and loyalty. Then a bland missive to Valenda, assuring all of her safety, neglecting to mention any of the unpleasant details of her recent adventures. A somewhat less bland but equally reassuring note to Iselle and Bergon, asserting that she was safe but desiring conveyance . . . She glanced through the iron grille toward the opposite gallery, and set the last one aside unfinished, not so sure she desired conveyance just yet.
After a time spent thoughtfully tapping her cheek with the feather of her quill, she reopened and added a postscript to the letter to Lord dy Cazaril.
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