The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [71]
Cazaril decided not to touch this one. “Mm,” he said.
“One hopes. And yet, if that is not the case, one is almost led to wonder if some…overserious person has taken to poisoning her mind against me.”
“This court is full of gossip. And gossipers.”
“Indeed. And, ah…just how do you speak of me to her, Cazaril?”
“Carefully.”
Dondo sat back, and folded his arms. “Good. That’s good.” He paused for a time. “And yet, withal, I think that I should prefer warmly. Warmly would be better.”
Cazaril moistened his lips. “Iselle is a very clever and sensitive girl. I’m sure she could sense if I were lying. Better to leave it as it is.”
Dondo snorted. “Ah, here we come to it. I suspected you might still be holding a grudge against me for that evil little game of mad Olus’s.”
Cazaril made a little negating gesture. “No. It is forgotten, my lord.” The proximity of Dondo, as close as in Olus’s tent, his slightly peculiar scent, brought it back in intense detail, blaring through Cazaril’s memory, the panting despair, the skree, the heavy blow…“It was a long time ago.”
“Huh. I do like a man with a malleable memory, and yet…I still feel you need more heat. I suppose you’re still a poor man, as ever. Some fellows never catch the tricks of getting on in the world.” Dondo unfolded his arms, and, with some little difficulty, twisted a ring off one of his thick, damp fingers. Its gold was thin, but a large bevel-cut flat green stone gleamed in its setting. He held it out to Cazaril. “Let this warm your heart to me. And your tongue.”
Cazaril didn’t move. “I have all I need from the royesse, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Dondo’s black brows knotted; his dark eyes glittered in the lanternlight between his narrowed lids. “Your position does give you considerable opportunity to fill your pockets, I suppose.”
Cazaril closed his teeth, hiding his tremble of outrage. “If you decline to believe in my probity, my lord, you might at least reflect upon Royesse Iselle’s future, and believe I still possess the wits the gods gave me. Today she has a household. Another day, it may be some royacy, or a princedom.”
“Indeed, think you so?” Dondo sat back with a strange grin, then laughed aloud. “Ah, poor Cazaril. If a man neglects his bird in the hand for the flock he sees in the tree, he’s very like to end with no bird at all. How clever is that?” He set the ring coyly down on the stone between them.
Cazaril opened both his hands and held them out palm up in front of his chest in a gesture of release. He returned them firmly to his knees, and said with undeceptive mildness, “Save your treasure, my lord, to buy yourself a man with a lower price. I’m sure you can find one.”
Dondo scooped his ring back up and frowned fiercely at Cazaril. “You haven’t changed. Still the same sanctimonious prig. You and that fool dy Sanda are much alike. No wonder, I suppose, considering that old woman in Valenda who chose you both.” He rose and stalked indoors, shoving the ring back on his finger. The two men waiting glanced across curiously at Cazaril and turned to follow.
Cazaril sighed, and wondered if his moment of furious satisfaction had been bought at too high a price. It might have been wiser to take the bribe and leave Lord Dondo calm, happy in the belief that he’d bought another man, one just like himself, easy to understand, certain of control. Feeling very tired, he pushed himself to his feet and went back inside to mount the stairs to his bedchamber.
He was just putting his key in his lock when dy Sanda passed him in the corridor, yawning. They exchanged cordial-enough murmurs of greeting.