The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [125]
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.”
“As 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?”
“Of course I do,” said the physician, although in a gentled tone. He rose to his feet. “How can the royesse choose good actions without good knowledge?”
An all too cogent point. Cazaril chewed on it in embarrassment as he followed the dedicat back upstairs.
Betriz leaned out onto the corridor at the sound of their approaching steps. “Is he going to be all right?” she demanded of Rojeras.
Rojeras held up a hand. “A moment, my lady.”
They made their way into the royesse’s sitting chamber, where Iselle waited bolt upright on the carved chair, her hands tight in her lap. She accepted Rojeras’s bow with a nod. Cazaril didn’t want to watch, but he did want to know what was said, and so sank into the chair Betriz anxiously dragged up for him, and to which Iselle pointed. Rojeras remained standing in the presence of the royesse.
“My lady,” Rojeras said to Iselle, bowing again as if in apology for his bluntness, “your secretary