The bravos knew only that dy Joal had come there looking to waylay a man expected to be riding over the passes from Ibra. They did not know who their new employer really was, although they’d despised his courtier’s clothes and mannerisms. It was abundantly clear to Cazaril that dy Joal had not been in control of the men he’d hastily hired. When the altercation about the cook had tipped over into violence, he’d not had either the nerve or the muscle to stop it, administer discipline, or restore order before events had run their ugly course.
Bergon, disturbed, drew Cazaril aside in the flickering torchlight of the courtyard where this rough-and-ready interrogation was taking place. “Caz, did I bring this wretched chance down upon poor dy Zavar’s good people?”
“No, Royse. It’s clear dy Joal was expecting only me, riding back as Iselle’s courier. Chancellor dy Jironal has sought to tear me from her service for some time—secretly assassinate me, if there proved no other way. How I wish I hadn’t killed that fool! I’d give my teeth to know how much dy Jironal knows by now.”
“Are you sure the chancellor set this trap?”
Cazaril hesitated. “Dy Joal had a personal grudge against me, but . . . the world knew merely that I’d ridden to Valenda. Dy Joal could only have had surmise of my true route from dy Jironal. Therefore, we may be certain dy Jironal had some report of me from his spies in Ibra. His knowledge of our real aim lags—but not, I think, by much. Dy Joal was a stopgap, hurriedly dispatched. And certainly not the only such agent. Something else must follow.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know. Dy Jironal commands the Order of the Son; he can draw on its men as soon as he can evolve a plausible enough lie by which to move them.”
Bergon tapped his sheathed sword against his leather-clad thigh, and frowned up at the sky, which was clearing as evening fell. The mountain spines to the west were black silhouettes against a lingering green glow, and the first stars shone overhead. The grizzled man’s tale of an approaching blizzard had proved a mere decoy, although a light snow squall that had blown through earlier might have been the seed of the idea. “The moon is nearly full, and will be well up by midnight. If we ride both night and day, perchance we can push across this disturbed country before dy Jironal can bring up any more reinforcements.”
Cazaril nodded. “Let him rush his men to patrol a border that we’re already across? Good. I like it.”
Bergon studied him in doubt. “But . . . will you be able to ride, Caz?”
“I’d rather ride than fight.”
Bergon sighed agreement. “Yes.”
The grateful, grieving Castillar dy Zavar pressed all the refreshment his disrupted household could spare upon them. Bergon decided to leave the mules, injured grooms, and lamed horses in his care, to follow on when they could, and lighten his own party thereby. Ferda selected the fastest, soundest horses, and made sure they were rubbed down well and fed and rested until time to start. March dy Sould had recovered after a few hours of rest in this more nourishing air, and insisted on accompanying the royse. Dy Cembuer, who had suffered a broken arm and some freely bleeding cuts in the courtyard fight, undertook to stay with the grooms and baggage and assist dy Zavar until all were ready to travel.
The problem of justice upon the brigands, Cazaril was relieved to leave to their victims. Bergon’s midnight departure would spare them having to witness the hangings at dawn. He left the scattered portion of Dondo’s pearls for the stricken household to collect, and tucked the remains of the rope back in his saddlebag.
The royse’s cavalcade took to the road again when the moon rose over the hills before them, filling the snowy vales with liquid light. There would be no turning aside now before Valenda.
Chapter 24
They retraced Cazaril’s outbound route across western Chalion, changing horses at obscure rural posts of the Daughter’s Order. At every stop he inquired anxiously for any further ciphered messages from Iselle or news from Valenda that might reveal the tactical situation into which they rushed. He grew increasingly uneasy at the absence of letters. In the original plan, they had envisioned Iselle waiting with her grandmother and mother, guarded by her uncle dy Baocia’s troops. Cazaril feared this ideal condition no longer held.
They checked at midevening twenty-five miles short of Valenda at the village of Palma. The region around Palma was noted for its fine pasturage; a post of the Daughter’s Order there devoted itself to raising and training remounts for the Temple. Cazaril was certain of obtaining fresh horses in Palma. He prayed for fresh intelligence as well.
Cazaril did not so much dismount from his blown horse as fall slowly, all in a piece, as if his body were carved from a single block of wood. Both Ferda and Foix had to support him through the order’s sprawling compound. They brought him into a shabbily comfortable chamber, where a bright fire burned in a fieldstone fireplace. A plain pine table had been hastily cleared of someone’s card game. The dedicat-commander of the post hurried in to wait upon them. The man glanced uncertainly from dy Tagille to dy Sould; his gaze passed over Bergon, who’d dressed as a groom since the border for caution’s sake. The commander fell into apologetic confusion when the royse was introduced, and sent his lieutenant scurrying for food and drink to offer his distinguished company.
Cazaril sat by the table in a cushioned chair, wonderfully unlike a saddle even if the room did still seem to be rocking around him. He was beginning to dislike horses almost as much as he disliked boats. His head felt stuffed with wool, and his body didn’t bear thinking about. He broke into the exchange of courtly amenities to croak, “What word have you from Valenda? Do you hold any new messages from the Royesse Iselle?” Ferda pressed a glass of watered wine into his hand, and he gulped half of it at once.
The dedicat-commander gave him a little understanding headshake, his lips tightening. “Chancellor dy Jironal marched a thousand more of his men into the town last week. He has another thousand bivouacked along the river. They patrol the countryside, looking for you. Searchers have stopped here twice. He holds Valenda tight in his grip.”
“Didn’t Provincar dy Baocia have any men there?”
“Yes, two companies, but they were badly outnumbered. No one would start the fight at Royse Teidez’s interment, and after that they dared not.”
“Have you heard from March dy Palliar?”
“He used to bring the letters. We’ve had no direct word from the royesse for five days. It’s rumored that she is very ill and sees no one.”
Bergon’s eyes widened in alarm. Cazaril squinted and rubbed his aching head. “Ill? Iselle? Well . . . maybe. Or else held close-confined by dy Jironal, and the illness a tale put about.” Had one of Cazaril’s letters fallen into the wrong hands? He had feared they might have to either spirit the royesse out of Valenda, or break her free by force of arms, preferably the former. He hadn’t planned what to do if she had fallen, perhaps, too sick to ride at this critical moment.
His muzzy brain evolved a mad vision of somehow sneaking Bergon in to her, over the rooftops and balconies like a lover in a poem. No. A night of secret love between them might break the curse, channel it back somehow to the gods who had spilled it, but he couldn’t see how it would miraculously make away with two thousand or so very fleshly soldiers.
“Does Orico still live?” he asked at last.
“As far as we’ve heard.”
“We can do nothing more tonight.” He wouldn’t trust any plan that came out of his tired brain tonight. “Tomorrow, Foix and Ferda and I will go into Valenda on foot, in disguise, and reconnoiter. I promise you I can pass for a road vagabond. If we can’t see our way clear, then fall back to Provincar dy Baocia’s people in Taryoon, and plan again.”