Dy Baocia snorted. “Which, as they are concomitantly the disasters of dy Jironal’s reign, works out to an unintended insult. Or was it unintended?”
“I rather think so. The man is, um, plain-minded and plainspoken. He says he meant it to help persuade dy Jironal to turn to the royesse’s support.”
“It’s more likely to effect the opposite,” said Cazaril slowly. “It would persuade dy Jironal that his own support is failing rapidly and that he had better take action at once to shore it up. When would dy Jironal have received this sage advice from his subordinate?”
Palli’s lips twisted. “Early yesterday morning.”
“Well . . . there’s nothing in it that he would not have received from other sources by then, I suppose.” Cazaril passed the order over to Bergon, waiting with keen interest.
“So, dy Jironal’s out of Cardegoss,” said Iselle thoughtfully.
“Yes, but gone where?” asked Palli.
Dy Baocia pulled his lip. “If he left with so few men, it has to be to somewhere that his forces are mustered. Somewhere within striking distance of Taryoon. That means either to his son-in-law the provincar of Thistan, to our east, or to Valenda, to our northwest.”
“Thistan is actually closer to us,” said Cazaril.
“But in Valenda, he holds my mother and sister hostage,” said dy Baocia grimly.
“No more now than before,” said Iselle, her voice stiff with suppressed worry. “They bade me go, Uncle . . .”
Bergon was listening with close attention. The Ibran royse had grown up with civil war, Cazaril was reminded; he might be disturbed, but he showed no signs of panic.
“I think we should ride straight for Cardegoss while dy Jironal is out of it, and take possession,” said Iselle.
“If we are to mount such a foray,” her uncle demurred, “we should take Valenda first, free our family, and secure our base. But if dy Jironal is mustering men to attack Taryoon, I do not wish to strip it of defenses.”
Iselle gestured urgently. “But if Bergon and I are out of Taryoon, dy Jironal will have no reason to attack it. Nor Valenda either. It’s me he wants—must have.”
“The vision of dy Jironal ambushing your column on the road, where you are out in the open and vulnerable, doesn’t appeal to me much either,” said Cazaril.
“How many men could you spare to escort us to Cardegoss, Uncle?” Iselle asked. “Mounted. The foot soldiers to follow at their best speed. And how soon could they be mustered?”
“I could have five hundred of horse by tomorrow night, and a thousand of foot the day after,” dy Baocia admitted rather reluctantly. “My two good neighbors could send as many, but not as soon.”
Dy Baocia could pull out double that number from his hat, Cazaril thought, if he weren’t hedging. Too great a care could be as fatal as too great a carelessness when the moment came to hazard all.
Iselle folded her hands in her lap and frowned fiercely. “Then have them make ready. We will keep the predawn vigil of prayers for the Daughter’s Day and attend the procession as we had planned. Uncle, Lord dy Palliar, if it please you send out what men you can find to ride in all directions for news of dy Jironal’s movements. And then we’ll see what new information we have by tomorrow night, and take a final decision then.”
The two men bowed, and hurried out; Iselle bade Cazaril stay a moment.
“I did not wish to argue with my uncle,” she said to him in a tone of doubt, “but I think Valenda is a distraction. What do you think, Cazaril?”
“From the point of view of the roya and royina of Chalion-Ibra . . . it does not command a position of geographic importance. Whoever may hold it.”
“Then let it be a sink for dy Jironal’s forces instead of our own. But I suspect my uncle will be difficult about it.”
Bergon cleared his throat. “The road to Valenda and the road to Cardegoss run together for the first stage. We could put it about that we were making for Valenda, but then strike for Cardegoss instead at the fork.”
“Put it about to who?”
“Everyone. Pretty nearly. Then whatever spies dy Jironal has among us will send him haring off in the wrong direction.”
Yes, actually, this was the son of the Fox of Ibra . . . Cazaril’s brows twitched up in approval.
Iselle thought it over, then frowned. “It works only if my uncle’s men will follow us.”
“If we lead, they’ll have no choice but to follow us, I think.”
“My hope is to avoid a war, not start one,” said Iselle.
“Then not marching up to a town full of the chancellor’s forces makes sense, don’t you think?” said Bergon.
Iselle smiled mistily, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek; he touched the spot in mild wonder. “We shall both take thought until tomorrow,” she announced. “Cazaril, start that letter toward my brother Orico all the same, as if we meant to sit tight here in Taryoon. Perchance we shall overtake it on the road and deliver it ourselves.”
With dy Baocia’s and the archdivine’s guidance, Cazaril found no lack of eager volunteers in town or temple to take the royesse’s letter to Cardegoss. Men seemed to be flocking to the royal couple’s side. Those who’d missed the wedding itself were now pouring into town for the Daughter’s Day celebration tomorrow. All that youth and beauty acted as a powerful talisman upon men’s hearts; the Lady of Spring’s season of renewal was being strongly identified with Iselle’s impending reign. The trick would be to get the governance of Chalion on a more even footing while the mood held, so that it might still stand strong in less happy hours. Surely no witness here in Taryoon would ever quite forget this time of hope; it would still linger in their eyes when they looked at an older Iselle and Bergon.
Thus Cazaril oversaw a party of a dozen grave men climb into their saddles at a time of night when most men were climbing into their beds. He gave the official documents into the hands of a senior divine, a sober lord who had risen high in the Order of the Father. The March dy Sould rode with them, as Bergon’s witness and spokesman. The earnest ambassadors clattered out of the temple plaza, and Palli walked Cazaril back to dy Baocia’s palace and wished him good night.
The little distracting flurry of action fading in his mind, Cazaril’s steps grew heavy again as he climbed the stairs of his courtyard gallery. The weight of the curse was a secret burden dragging down all bright hopes. A younger Orico had started out his reign just as eager and willing as Iselle, a dozen years ago. As if he’d believed then that if only he applied enough effort, goodwill, steady virtue, he could overcome the black blight. But it had all gone wrong. . . .
There were worse fates than becoming Iselle’s dy Lutez, Cazaril reflected. He might become Iselle’s dy Jironal. How much frustration, how much corrosion could a loyal man endure before going mad, watching such a long slow drain of youth and hope into age and despair? And yet, whatever Orico had been, he had held on long enough for the next generation to gain its chance. Like some doomed little hero holding back a dike of woe, and drowning while the others escaped the tide.
Cazaril readied himself for bed, and his nightly attack, but Dondo was surprisingly quiescent. Exhausted? Recouping his forces? Waiting . . . Despite that malevolent presence and promise, Cazaril slept at last.