The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [25]
Dy Ferrej winced.
“In front of either one of them,” said the Provincara. “Four ears, one mind—or one conspiracy.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Cazaril…you speak and write Darthacan, do you not?”
Cazaril blinked at this sidewise jink in the conversation. “Yes, my lady…?”
“And Roknari?”
“My, ah, court Roknari is a little rusty at present. Granted, my vile Roknari is quite fluent.”
“And geography? You know the geography of Chalion, of Ibra, of the Roknari princedoms?”
“Five gods, that I do, my lady. What I haven’t ridden over, I’ve walked, what I haven’t walked, I’ve been dragged across. Or through. I’ve had geography ground into my skin. And I’ve rowed round half the Archipelago at least.”
“And you write, you cipher, you keep books—you’ve done letters, reports, treaties, logistical orders…”
“My hand may be a trifle shaky at present, but yes, I’ve done all that,” he admitted with belatedly rising wariness. Where was she going with this interrogation?
“Yes, yes!” She clapped her hands together; Cazaril flinched at the sharp noise. “The gods have surely landed you upon my wrist. Bastard’s demons take me if I haven’t the wit to jess you.”
Cazaril smiled bewildered inquiry.
“Cazaril, you said you sought a post. I have one for you.” She sat back triumphantly. “Secretary-tutor to the Royesse Iselle!”
Cazaril felt his jaw unhinge. He blinked stupidly at her. “What?”
“Teidez already has his own secretary, who keeps the books of his chambers, writes his letters, such as they are…it’s time Iselle possessed her own warder, at the gate between her women’s world and the greater one she’ll have to deal with. And besides, none of those stupid governesses have ever been able to handle her. She needs a man’s authority, that’s what. You have the rank, you have the experience…” The Provincara…grinned, was all one could call that horrifying gleeful expression. “What do you think, my lord Castillar?”
Cazaril swallowed. “I think…I think if you lent me a razor now, for me to cut my throat with, it would save ever so many steps. Please Your Grace.”
The Provincara snorted. “Good, Cazaril, good. I do so like a man who doesn’t underestimate his situation.”
Dy Ferrej, who’d at first looked startled and alarmed, eyed Cazaril with new interest.
“I’ll wager you could direct her mind to her Darthacan declensions. You’ve been there, after all, which none of these fool women have,” the Provincara went on, gaining enthusiasm. “Roknari, too, though we all pray she’ll never need that. Read Brajaran poetry to her, you used to like that, I remember. Deportment—you’ve served at the roya’s court, the gods know. Come, come, Cazaril, don’t look at me like a lost calf. It would be easy work for you, in your convalescence. Eh, don’t imagine I can’t see how sick you’ve been,” she added at his little negating gesture. “You wouldn’t have to answer but two letters a week at most. Less. And you’ve ridden courier—when you rode out with the girls, I wouldn’t have to listen to a lot of wheezing and whining afterward about saddle galls from those women with thighs like dough. As for keeping the books of her chamber—why, after running a fortress, it should be child’s play for you. What say you, dear Cazaril?”
The vision was at once enticing and appalling. “Couldn’t you give me a fortress under siege, instead?”
The humor faded in her face. She leaned forward, and tapped him on the knee; her voice dropped, and she breathed, “She will be, soon enough.” She paused, and studied him. “You asked if there was anything you could do to ease my burdens. For the most part, the answer is no. You can’t make me young, you can’t make…many things better.” Cazaril wondered anew how the strange fragile health of her daughter weighed upon her. “But can’t you give me this one little yes?”
She begged him. She begged him. That was all wrong. “I am yours to command, of course, lady, of course. It’s just…it’s just that…are you sure?”
“You are not a stranger here, Cazaril. And I am in the most desperate need of a man I can