The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [28]
“Oh.”
“You may have slandered an honest man. Or you may have struck a blow for justice. I don’t know. The point is…neither do you.”
Her oh this time was so repressed as to be unvoiced.
The horribly practical part of Cazaril’s mind that had eased him through so many scrapes couldn’t help adding, “And right or wrong, what I also saw was that you made an enemy, and left him alive behind you. Great charity. Bad tactics.” Damn, but that was no remark to make to a gentle maiden…with an effort, he kept from clapping his hands over his mouth, a gesture that would do nothing to prop up his pose as a high-minded and earnest corrector.
Iselle’s brows went up and stayed up, for a moment, this time. So did Lady Betriz’s.
After an unnervingly long and thoughtful silence, Iselle said quietly, “I thank you for your good counsel, Castillar.”
He returned her an approving nod. Good. If he’d got through that sticky one all right, he was halfway home with her. And now, thank the gods, on to the Provincara’s generous table…
Iselle sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “You are to be my secretary, as well as my tutor, Cazaril, yes?”
Cazaril sank back. “Yes, my lady? You wish some assistance with a letter?” He almost added suggestively, After dinner?
“Assistance. Yes. But not with a letter. Ser dy Ferrej said you were once a courier, is that right?”
“I once rode for the provincar of Guarida, my lady. When I was younger.”
“A courier is a spy.” Her regard had grown disquietingly calculating.
“Not necessarily, though it was sometimes hard to…convince people otherwise. We were trusted messengers, first and foremost. Not that we weren’t supposed to keep our eyes open and report our observations.”
“Good enough.” The chin came up. “Then my first task for you, as my secretary, is one of observation. I want you to find out if I made a mistake or not. I can’t very well go down into town, or ask around—I have to stay up on top of this hill in my”—she grimaced—“feather bed. But you—you can do it.” She gazed across at him with an expression of the most disturbing faith.
His stomach felt suddenly as hollow as a drum, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. Apparently, he had just put on slightly too good a show. “I…I…immediately?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Discreetly. As opportunity presents.”
Cazaril swallowed. “I’ll try what I can do, my lady.”
ON HIS WAY DOWN THE STAIRS TO HIS OWN CHAMBER, one floor below, a vision surfaced in Cazaril’s thoughts from his days as a page in this very castle. He’d fancied himself a bit of a swordsman, on account of being a shade better than the half dozen other young highborn louts who’d shared his duties and his training in the provincar’s household. One day a new young page had arrived, a short, surly fellow; the provincar’s swordmaster had invited Cazaril to step up against him at the next training session. Cazaril had developed himself a pretty thrust or two, including a flourish that, with a real blade, would have neatly nipped the ears off most of his comrades. He’d tried his special pass on the new fellow, coming to a happy halt with the dulled edge flat against the newcomer’s head—only to look down and see his opponent’s light practice blade bent nearly double against his gut padding.
That page had gone on, Cazaril had heard, to become the swordmaster for the roya of Brajar. In time, Cazaril had to own himself an indifferent swordsman—his interests had always been too broad-scattered for him to maintain the necessary obsession. But he’d never forgotten that moment, looking down in surprise at his mock-death.
It bemused him that his first lesson with the delicate Iselle had churned up that old memory. Odd little flickers of intensity, to burn in such disparate eyes…what had that short page’s name been…?
Cazaril found that a couple more tunics and trousers had arrived on his bed while he was out, relics of the castle warder’s younger and thinner days, unless he missed his guess. He went to put them