The Provincara brushed aside her fatigue with an impatient flash of her fingers, and followed with a, “And what of yourself? The last I heard of you, you were riding courier for the provincar of Guarida.”
“That was . . . some years ago, Your Grace.”
“How did you come here?” She looked him over, her brows drawing down. “Where is your sword?”
“Oh, that.” His hand vaguely touched his side, where neither belt nor sword hung. “I lost it at . . . When the March dy Jironal led Roya Orico’s forces up to the north coast for the winter campaign these . . . three? yes, three years ago, he made me castle warder of the fortress at Gotorget. Then dy Jironal had that unfortunate reversal . . . we held the keep nine months against the Roknari forces. The usual, you know. I swear there was not a rat left unroasted in Gotorget when the word came through that dy Jironal had made treaty again, and we were ordered to lay down our arms and march out, and turn the fortress over to our foes.” He offered up a brief, unfelt smile; his left hand curled in his lap. “For my consolation, I was informed our fortress cost the Roknari prince an extra three hundred thousand royals, in the treaty tent. Plus considerably more in the field that nine-month, I calculate.” Poor consolation, for the lives we spent. “The Roknari general claimed my father’s sword; he said he was going to hang it in his tent, to remember me by. So that was the last I saw of my blade. After that . . .” Cazaril’s voice, growing stronger through this reminiscence, faltered. He cleared his throat, and began again. “There was an error, some mix-up. When the list of men to be ransomed arrived, together with the chests of royals, my name had been left off it somehow. The Roknari quartermaster swore there was no mistake, because the amounts counted out evenly with the names, but . . . there was some mistake. All my officers were rescued . . . I was put in with the unransomed men, and we were all marched to Visping, to be sold to the Roknari corsair masters as galley slaves.”
The Provincara drew in her breath. The warder, who had been leaning farther and farther forward in his seat during this recital, burst out, “You protested, surely!”
“Oh, five gods, yes. I protested all the way to Visping. I was still protesting as they dragged me up the gangplank and chained me to my oar. I kept protesting till we put to sea, and then I . . . learned not to.” He smiled again. It felt like a clown’s mask. Happily, no one seized on that weak error.
“I was on one ship or another for . . . for a long time.” Nineteen months, eight days, he had counted it out later. At the time, he could not have told one day from the next. “And then I had the greatest piece of good fortune, for my corsair ran afoul of a fleet of the roya of Ibra, out on maneuvers. I assure you Ibra’s volunteers rowed better than we did, and they soon ran us down.”
Two men had been beheaded in their chains by the increasingly desperate Roknari, for deliberately—or accidentally—fouling their oars. One of them had been sitting near Cazaril, his benchmate for months. Some of the spurting blood had got in his mouth; he could still half taste it, when he made the mistake of thinking of it. He could taste it now. When the corsair was taken, the Ibrans had trailed the Roknari, some still half-alive, behind the ship on ropes made of their own guts, till the great fishes had eaten them. Some of the freed galley slaves had helped row, with a will. Cazaril could not. That last flaying had brought him within hours of being cast overboard by the Roknari galley master as broken and useless. He’d sat on the deck, muscles twitching uncontrollably, and wept.
“The good Ibrans put me ashore in Zagosur, where I fell ill for a few months. You know how it is with men when a long strain is removed of a sudden. They can grow . . . rather childish.” He smiled apologetically around the room. For him, it had been collapse and fever, till his back half healed; then dysentery; then an ague. And, throughout it all, the bouts of inconsolable weeping. He’d wept when an acolyte offered him dinner. When the sun came out. When the sun went in. When a cat startled him. When he was led to bed. Or at any time, for no cause. “The Temple Hospital of the Mother’s Mercy took me in. When I felt a little better”—when the weeping had tailed mostly off, and the acolytes had decided he was not mad, merely nervous—“they gave me a little money, and I walked here. I was three weeks on the road.”
The room was dead silent.
He looked up, to see that the Provincara’s lips had gone tight with anger. Terror wrenched his empty stomach. “It was the only place I could think of!” he excused himself hastily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The warder blew out his breath and sat back, staring at Cazaril. The lady companion’s eyes were wide.
In a vibrating voice, the Provincara declared, “You are the Castillar dy Cazaril. They should have given you a horse. They should have given you an escort.”
Cazaril’s hands flapped in frightened denial. “No, no, my lady! It was . . . it was enough.” Well, almost. He realized, after an unsteady blink, that her anger wasn’t at him. Oh. His throat tightened, and the room blurred. No, not again, not here . . . He hurried on. “I wished to place myself in your service, lady, if you can find any use for me. I admit I . . . can’t do much. Just now.”
The Provincara sat back, her chin resting lightly on her hand, and studied him. After a moment, she said, “You used to play the lute very pleasantly, when you were a page.”
“Uh . . .” Cazaril’s crooked, callused hands tried to hide themselves in each other for a spasmodic instant. He smiled in renewed apology, and displayed them briefly on his knees. “I think not now, my lady.”
She leaned forward; her gaze rested for a moment on his half-mangled left. “I see.” She sat back again, pursing her lips. “I remember you read all the books in my husband’s library. The master of the pages was always complaining of you for that. I told him to leave you alone. You aspired to be a poet, as I recall.”
Cazaril was not sure his right hand could close around a pen, at present. “I believe Chalion was saved from a deal of bad poetry, when I went off to war.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Come, come, Castillar, you quite daunt me with your offer of service. I’m not sure poor Valenda has posts enough to occupy you. You’ve been a courtier—a captain—a castle warder—a courier—”
“I haven’t been a courtier since before Roya Ias died, my lady. As a captain . . . I helped lose the battle of Dalus.” And rotted for nearly a year in the dungeons of the royacy of Brajar, thereafter. “As a castle warder, well, we lost the siege. As a courier, I was nearly hanged as a spy. Twice.” He brooded. And three times put to the torture in violation of parley. “Now . . . now, well, I know how to row boats. And five ways of preparing a dish of rats.”
I could relish a mighty dish of rat right now, in fact.
He did not know what she read in his face, for all that her sharp old eyes probed him. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but he hoped it was hunger. He was fairly sure it was hunger, for she at last smiled crookedly.
“Then come to supper with us, Castillar, though I’m afraid my cook cannot offer you rat. They are not in season, in peaceful Valenda. I shall think on your petition.”
He nodded mute thanks, not trusting his voice to not break.