The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [112]
Conscious of Betriz’s unhappy scrutiny, he said apologetically, “Drinking yes; carousing, no. It won’t happen again, milady.” He added a little dryly, “It didn’t answer anyway.”
“It’s a scandal to the royesse, that her secretary be seen so inebriated that he—”
“Hush, Nan,” Iselle interrupted this lecture impatiently. “Leave be.”
“What’s this, Royesse?” Cazaril gestured at the pin-studded map.
Iselle drew a long breath. “I’ve thought it through. I’ve been thinking for days. As long as I remain unwed, plots will swirl about me. I don’t doubt dy Jironal will produce some other candidate to try to bind me and Teidez to his clan. And other factions—now it’s revealed that Orico would willingly bestow me on a lesser lord, every lesser lord in Chalion will begin badgering him for my hand. My only defense, my only certain refuge, is if I am married already. And not to a lesser lord.”
Cazaril’s brows rose. “I confess, Royesse, my own thoughts have been running something along those lines.”
“And swiftly, swiftly, Cazaril. Before they can come up with someone even more disgusting than Dondo.” Her voice was edged with stress.
“Even our dear chancellor must find that a daunting challenge,” he murmured diffidently, and had the satisfaction of drawing a brief bark of laughter from her. He pursed his lips. “The need is great, I grant you, but the danger is not so instantly pressing as all that. Dy Jironal himself will block the lesser lords for you, I am sure. Your first line of defense must be to block dy Jironal’s next candidate. Although, thinking over his family, it’s not clear to me who he can offer up. His sons are both married, or he might have put forth one of them in place of Dondo. Or offered himself, were he not wed.”
“Wives die,” said Betriz darkly. “Sometimes, they even die conveniently.”
Cazaril shook his head. “Dy Jironal has planned his family alliances with care. His daughters-in-law—his wife, too—are his links to some of the greatest families in Chalion, the daughters and sisters of powerful provincars. I don’t say he wouldn’t seize a vacancy, but he dare not be seen or even suspected of creating one. And his grandsons are toddlers. No, dy Jironal must play a waiting game.”
“What about his nephews?” said Betriz.
Cazaril, after a pause for thought, shook his head again. “Too loose a connection, not controlled enough. He desires a subordinate, not a rival.”
“I decline,” said Iselle through her teeth, “to wait a decade to be wed to a boy fifteen years younger than I am.”
Cazaril glanced involuntarily at Lady Betriz. He himself was fifteen years older than—he thrust the discouraging thought from his mind. The evil barrier between them now was less surmountable than merely that of youth versus age. Life does not wed death.
“We’ve placed a pin in the map for every unwed ruler or heir we can think of between here and Darthaca,” said Betriz.
Cazaril advanced and looked over the map. “What, even the Roknari princedoms?”
“I wanted to be complete,” said Iselle. “Without them, well…there weren’t very many choices. I admit, I don’t much like the idea of a Roknari prince. Leaving aside their horrid squared-off religion, their custom of choosing as heir any son at all, whether of true wife or concubine, makes it nearly impossible to tell if one is wedding a future ruler or a future drone.”
“Or a future corpse,” said Cazaril. “Half the victories Chalion ever gained over the Roknari were the result of some embittered failed candidate stabbing his princely half brother in the back.”
“But that leaves only four true Quintarians of rank,” put in Betriz. “The roya of Brajar, Bergon of Ibra, and the twin sons of the high march of Yiss just across the Darthacan border. Who are twelve years old.”
“Not impossible,” said Iselle judiciously,