The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [172]
The secretary’s head tilted judiciously. “I’ll see what I can do for you, my lord, but the roya is very plagued with petitioners, mostly relatives of former rebels attempting to intercede for the roya’s mercy, which is stretched thin at present.” He looked Cazaril up and down. “I think perhaps no one has warned you—the roya has forbid the court to wear mourning for the late Heir of Ibra, as he died in a state of unreconciled rebellion. Only those who wish to cast their defiance in the roya’s teeth are wearing that sad garb, and most of them have the presence of mind to do it in, ah, absence. If you do not intend the insult, I suggest you go change before you beg an audience.”
Cazaril’s brows went up. “Is no one here before me with the news? We rode fast, but I didn’t think we had outdistanced it. I do not wear these bruised colors for the Heir of Ibra, but for the Heir of Chalion. Royse Teidez died barely a week ago, suddenly, of an infection.”
“Oh,” said the secretary, startled. “Oh.” He regained his balance smoothly. “My condolences indeed to the House of Chalion, to lose so bright a hope.” He hesitated. “Letters from the Royesse Iselle, do you say?”
“Aye.” Cazaril added, for good measure, “Roya Orico lies gravely ill, and does not do business, or so it was when we left Cardegoss in haste.”
The secretary’s mouth opened, and closed. He finally said, “Come with me,” and led them to a more comfortable chamber, with a small fire in a corner fireplace. “I’ll go see what I can do.”
Cazaril lowered himself into a cushioned chair near the gentle glow. Foix took a bench, though Ferda prowled about, frowning in an unfocused fashion at the wall hangings.
“Will they see us, sir?” asked Ferda. “To have ridden all this way, only to be kept waiting on the doorstep like some peddler…”
“Oh, yes. They’ll see us.” Cazaril smiled slightly, as a breathless servant arrived to offer the travelers wine and the little spiced shortbread cakes, stamped with an Ibran seal, which were a Zagosur specialty.
“Why does this dog have no legs?” Foix inquired, staring a trifle cross-eyed at the indented creature before biting into his cake.
“It is a sea dog. It has paddles in place of paws, and chases fish. They make colonies upon the shore, here and there down the coast toward Darthaca.” Cazaril allowed the servant to pour him but a swallow of wine, partly for sobriety, partly to avoid waste; as he’d anticipated, he’d barely wet his lips before the secretary returned.
The man bowed lower than before. “Come this way, if it please you, my lord, gentlemen.”
Ferda gulped down his glassful of dark Ibran wine, and Foix brushed crumbs from his white wool vest-cloak. They hastily followed Cazaril and the secretary, who led them up some stairs and across a little arched stone bridge to a newer part of the fortress. After more turnings, they came to a pair of double doors carved with sea creatures in the Roknari style.
These swung open to emit a well-dressed lord, arm in arm with another courtier, complaining, “But I waited five days for this audience! What is this foolery—!”
“You’ll just have to wait a little longer, my lord,” said the courtier, guiding him off with a firm hand under his elbow.
The secretary bowed Cazaril and the dy Gura brothers inside, and announced their names and ranks.
It was not a throne room, but a less formal receiving chamber, set up for conference, not ceremony. A broad table, roomy enough to spread out maps and documents, occupied one end. The long far wall was pierced with a row of doors with square windowpanes set top to bottom, giving onto a balcony-cum-battlement that in turn overlooked the harbor and shipyard that were the heart of Zagosur’s wealth and power. The silvery sea light, diffuse and pale, illuminated the chamber through the generous glass, making the candle flames in the sconces seem wan.
Half a dozen men were present, but Cazaril’s eye had no trouble picking