Free The Curse of Chalion by Lois M. Bujold Page A

Iselle!”
    Cazaril felt his jaw unhinge. He blinked stupidly at her. “What?”
    “Teidez already has his own secretary, who keeps the books of his chambers, writes his letters, such as they are…it’s time Iselle possessed her own warder, at the gate between her women’s world and the greater one she’ll have to deal with. And besides, none of those stupid governesses have ever been able to handle her. She needs a man’s authority, that’s what. You have the rank, you have the experience…” The Provincara…grinned, was all one could call that horrifying gleeful expression. “What do you think, my lord Castillar?”
    Cazaril swallowed. “I think…I think if you lent me a razor now, for me to cut my throat with, it would save ever so many steps. Please Your Grace.”
    The Provincara snorted. “Good, Cazaril, good. I do so like a man who doesn’t underestimate his situation.”
    Dy Ferrej, who’d at first looked startled and alarmed, eyed Cazaril with new interest.
    “I’ll wager you could direct her mind to her Darthacan declensions. You’ve been there, after all, which none of these fool women have,” the Provincara went on, gaining enthusiasm. “Roknari, too, though we all pray she’ll never need that. Read Brajaran poetry to her, you used to like that, I remember. Deportment—you’ve served at the roya’s court, the gods know. Come, come, Cazaril, don’t look at me like a lost calf. It would be easy work for you, in your convalescence. Eh, don’t imagine I can’t see how sick you’ve been,” she added at his little negating gesture. “You wouldn’t have to answer but two letters a week at most. Less. And you’ve ridden courier—when you rode out with the girls, I wouldn’t have to listen to a lot of wheezing and whining afterward about saddle galls from those women with thighs like dough. As for keeping the books of her chamber—why, after running a fortress, it should be child’s play for you. What say you, dear Cazaril?”
    The vision was at once enticing and appalling. “Couldn’t you give me a fortress under siege, instead?”
    The humor faded in her face. She leaned forward, and tapped him on the knee; her voice dropped, and she breathed, “She will be, soon enough.” She paused, and studied him. “You asked if there was anything you could do to ease my burdens. For the most part, the answer is no. You can’t make me young, you can’t make…many things better.” Cazaril wondered anew how the strange fragile health of her daughter weighed upon her. “But can’t you give me this one little yes?”
    She begged him. She begged him . That was all wrong. “I am yours to command, of course, lady, of course. It’s just…it’s just that…are you sure?”
    “You are not a stranger here, Cazaril. And I am in the most desperate need of a man I can trust.”
    His heart melted. Or maybe it was his wits. He bowed his head. “Then I am yours.”
    “Iselle’s.”
    Cazaril, his elbows on his knees, glanced up and across at her, at the thoughtfully frowning dy Ferrej, and back at the old woman’s intent face. “I…see.”
    “I believe you do. And that, Cazaril, is why I shall have you for her.”

4
    So it was Cazaril found himself, the next morning, introduced into the young ladies’ schoolroom by the Provincara herself. This sunny little chamber was on the east side of the keep, on the top floor occupied by Royesse Iselle, Lady Betriz, their waiting woman, and a maid. Royse Teidez had chambers for his similar subhousehold in the new building across the courtyard, rather more generously proportioned, Cazaril suspected, and with better fireplaces. Iselle’s schoolroom was simply furnished with a pair of small tables, chairs, a single bookcase half-empty, and a couple of chests. With the addition of Cazaril, feeling overtall and awkward under the low-beamed ceiling, and the two young women, it was as full as it would hold. The perpetual waiting woman had to take her sewing