The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [27]
She frowned across at him. “I take it you do not fancy yourself a flatterer, Castillar?”
Her tone and terms were a bit more double-leveled than he’d expected. His ironic return bow, from his seat on a chest drawn up to her table’s other side, was pulled shorter and a little less apologetic than he’d intended by the yank of his adhesions. “I trust I am not a complete lout. But if you desire a man to tell you comfortable lies about your prowess, and so fetter any hope of true excellence, I’m sure you may find one anywhere. Not all prisons are made of iron bars. Some are made of feather beds. Royesse.”
Her nostrils flared; her lips thinned. Belatedly, it occurred to Cazaril that perhaps this was the wrong approach. She was a tender young thing, barely more than a girl—perhaps he ought to soften—and if she complained of him to the Provincara, he might lose—
She turned the page. “Let us,” she said in an icy voice, “go on.”
Five gods, he’d seen exactly that same look of frustrated fury in the eyes of the young men who’d picked themselves up, spat the dirt from their mouths, and gone on to become his best lieutenants. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. With great effort, he cranked a broad grin downward into a grave frown and nodded august tutorly permission. “Continue.”
An hour flew by in this pleasant, easy employment. Well, easy for him. When he noticed the royesse rubbing her temples, and lines deepening between her brows that had nothing to do with mere offense, he desisted and took the book back from her.
Lady Betriz had followed along at Iselle’s side, her lips moving silently. Cazaril had her repeat the exercise. With Iselle’s example before her, she was quicker, but alas she suffered from the same broad South Ibran accent, probably from the same South Ibran prior instructress, as Iselle. Iselle listened intently as they waded through corrections.
They had all earned their noon dinner by that time, Cazaril felt; but he had one more displeasing task to accomplish, strictly charged to him by the Provincara. He leaned back, as the girls stirred and made to rise, and cleared his throat.
“That was quite a spectacular gesture you brought off yesterday at the temple, Royesse.”
Her wide mouth curved up; her curiously thick eyelids narrowed in pleasure. “Thank you, Castillar.”
He let his own smile grow astringent. “A most showy insult, to put upon a man constrained to stand and not answer back. At least the idlers were vastly amused, judging by their laughter.”
Her lips constricted into an uneasy purse. “There is much ill done in Chalion that I can do nothing about. It was little enough.”
“If it was well, it was well-done,” he conceded with a deceptively cordial nod. “Tell me, Royesse, what steps did you take beforehand, to assure yourself of the man’s guilt?”
Her chin stopped in mid-rise. “Ser dy Ferrej…said it of him. And I know him to be honest.”
“Ser dy Ferrej said, and I recall his words precisely, for he uses his words so, that he’d heard it said the judge had taken the duelist’s bribe. He did not claim firsthand knowledge of the deed. Did you check with him, after dinner, to find out how he came by his belief?”
“No…If I’d told anyone what I was planning, they would have forbidden me.”
“You, ah, told Lady Betriz, though.” Cazaril favored the dark-eyed woman with a nod.
Stiffening, Betriz replied warily, “It’s why I suggested asking the first flame.”
Cazaril shrugged. “The first flame, ah. But your hand is young and strong and steady, Lady Iselle. Are you sure that first flame wasn’t all your doing?”
Her frown deepened. “The townsmen applauded…”
“Indeed. On average, one-half of all supplicants to come before a judge’s bench must depart angry and disappointed. But not, by that, necessarily wronged.”
That one hit the target, by the change in her face. The shift from defiant to stricken was not especially pleasurable to watch. “But…but…”
Cazaril sighed. “I’m not saying you were wrong, Royesse. This time. I’m saying you were running blindfolded. And if it wasn’t