The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [53]
Orico finished the letter, and sighed. “Royina Ista upset, was she?” he said to Cazaril.
“She was naturally disturbed to be parted from her children,” said Cazaril cautiously.
“I was afraid of that. Can’t be helped. As long as she is disturbed in Valenda, and not in Cardegoss. I’ll not have her here, she’s too…difficult.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, and sniffed. “Tell Her Grace the Provincara she has all my esteem, and assure her that I have concerned myself with her grandchildren’s good fates. They have their brother’s protection.”
“I plan to write to her tonight, sire, to assure her of our safe arrival. I will convey your words.”
Orico nodded shortly, rubbed his nose again, and squinted at Cazaril. “Do I know you?”
“I…shouldn’t think so, sire. I am lately appointed by the Dowager Provincara to be secretary to the Royesse Iselle. I had served the late provincar of Baocia as a page, in my youth,” he added, by way of recommendation. He did not mention his service in dy Guarida’s train, which might well trigger the roya’s more recent memory, not that he had ever been more than one of the crowd of dy Guarida’s men. A little unplanned disguise was surely lent him by his recent beard, his gray-flecked hair, his general debilitation—if Orico didn’t recognize him, was there a chance that others also might not? He wondered how long he could go here at Cardegoss without giving his own name. Too late to change it, alas.
He could remain anonymous a little while longer, it appeared, for Orico nodded in apparent satisfaction and waved his hand in dismissal. “You’ll be at the banquet, then. Tell my fair sister I look forward to seeing her there.”
Cazaril bowed obediently and withdrew.
He chewed worriedly upon his lower lip as he made his way back to the gate of the Zangre. If all the court was to attend tonight’s welcoming banquet, Chancellor the March dy Jironal, Orico’s chief staff and support, would not be absent; and where the march went, his brother Lord Dondo usually attended upon him.
Maybe they won’t remember me either. It had been well over two years since the fall—shameful sale—of Gotorget, and longer than that since the unpleasant incident in mad Prince Olus’s tent. Cazaril’s existence could never have been more than a petty irritation to these powerful lords. They could not know that he had realized his sale to the galleys had been calculated betrayal and not mischance. If he did nothing to draw attention to himself, they would not be reminded of what they had forgotten, and he would be safe.
A fool’s hope.
Cazaril’s shoulders hunched, and his stride lengthened.
BACK IN HIS HIGH CHAMBER, CAZARIL FINGERED HIS SOBER brown wool robe and black vest-cloak longingly. But, obedient to the orders sent down from the floor above via a breathless maidservant, he donned much gaudier garb, an eggshell-blue tunic with turquoise brocade vestments and dark blue trousers from the old provincar’s store, still smelling faintly of the spices they’d been packed with as proof against moths. Boots and sword completed a courtier’s attire, even if it lacked the wealth of rings and chains.
At Teidez’s urgent behest Cazaril stumped upstairs to check if his ladies were ready yet, there to discover that he was part of an ensemble. Iselle was arrayed in her finest favored blue-and-white gown and robes, and Betriz and the lady-in-waiting wore layers featuring turquoise and night-blue respectively. Someone in the party had come down on the side of restraint,