me to introduce the Ser dy Palliar—he was my good right arm at Gotorget—five gods, Palli, what are you doing here ?”
“I could ask you the same, with more reason!” Palli replied, and made his bow to the ladies, who eyed him with increasing approval. The two years and more since Gotorget had done much to improve his already-pleasant looks, not that they hadn’t all looked like depraved scarecrows at the end of the siege. “Royesse, my lady, an honor—but it’s the March dy Palliar now, Caz.”
“Oh,” said Cazaril, and gave him an immediate, apologetic nod. “My condolences. Is it a recent loss?”
Palli returned an understanding duck of his chin. “Almost two years gone, now. The old man had suffered an apoplectic stroke while we were still closed up in Gotorget, but he hung on till just after I made it home, thanks be to the Father of Winter. He knew me, I was able to see him at the last, tell him of the campaign—he offered up a blessing for you, you know, on his last day, though we both thought we were praying for the lost dead. Caz, man, where did you go ?”
“I…wasn’t ransomed.”
“Not ransomed? How, not ransomed? How could you not be ransomed?”
“It was an error. My name was left off the list.”
“Dy Jironal said the Roknari reported you died of a sudden fever.”
Cazaril’s smile grew tight. “No. I was sold to the galleys.”
Palli’s head jerked back. “Some error! No, wait, that makes no sense—”
Cazaril’s grimace, and his hand pressed palm down before his chest, stopped Palli’s protest on his lips, though it didn’t quench the startled look in his eyes. Palli always could take a hint, if you clouted him with it hard enough. The twist of his mouth said, Very well, but I will have this out of you later—! By the time he turned to Ser dy Ferrej, coming up to observe this reunion with an interested expression, his cheerful smile was back in place.
“My lord dy Palliar is taking wine with the Provincara in the garden,” the castle warder explained. “Do join us, Cazaril.”
“Thank you.”
Palli took his arm, and they turned to follow dy Ferrej out of the courtyard and half-around the keep, to the little plot where the Provincara’s gardener grew flowers. In good weather she made it her favorite bower for sitting outdoors. Three strides, and Cazaril was trailing; Palli shortened his step abruptly at Cazaril’s stumble, and eyed him sidelong. The Provincara waited their return with a patient smile, enthroned under an arching trellis of climbing roses not yet in bloom. She waved them to the chairs the servants had brought out. Cazaril lowered himself onto a cushion with a wince and an awkward grunt.
“Bastard’s demons,” said Palli under his breath, “did the Roknari cripple you?”
“Only half. Lady Iselle—oof!—seems bent on completing the task.” Gingerly, he eased himself back. “And that fool horse.”
The Provincara frowned at the two young ladies, who had tagged along uninvited. “Iselle, were you galloping?” she inquired dangerously.
Cazaril waved a diverting hand. “It was all the fault of my noble steed, my lady—attacked, it thought, by a horse-eating deer. It went sidewise, I didn’t. Thank you.” He accepted a glass of wine from the servant with deep appreciation and sipped quickly, trying not to let it slosh. The unpleasant shaky feeling in his gut was passing off, now.
Iselle cast him a grateful glance, which her grandmother did not miss. The Provincara sniffed faint disbelief. By way of punishment, she said, “Iselle, Betriz, go and change out of those riding clothes and into something suitable for supper. We may be country folk here; we need not be savages.” They dragged off, with a couple of backward glances at the fascinating visitor.
“But how came you here, Palli?” Cazaril asked, when the double distraction had passed around the corner of the keep. Palli, too, stared after them, and seemed to have to shake
“I could ask you the same, with more reason!” Palli replied, and made his bow to the ladies, who eyed him with increasing approval. The two years and more since Gotorget had done much to improve his already-pleasant looks, not that they hadn’t all looked like depraved scarecrows at the end of the siege. “Royesse, my lady, an honor—but it’s the March dy Palliar now, Caz.”
“Oh,” said Cazaril, and gave him an immediate, apologetic nod. “My condolences. Is it a recent loss?”
Palli returned an understanding duck of his chin. “Almost two years gone, now. The old man had suffered an apoplectic stroke while we were still closed up in Gotorget, but he hung on till just after I made it home, thanks be to the Father of Winter. He knew me, I was able to see him at the last, tell him of the campaign—he offered up a blessing for you, you know, on his last day, though we both thought we were praying for the lost dead. Caz, man, where did you go ?”
“I…wasn’t ransomed.”
“Not ransomed? How, not ransomed? How could you not be ransomed?”
“It was an error. My name was left off the list.”
“Dy Jironal said the Roknari reported you died of a sudden fever.”
Cazaril’s smile grew tight. “No. I was sold to the galleys.”
Palli’s head jerked back. “Some error! No, wait, that makes no sense—”
Cazaril’s grimace, and his hand pressed palm down before his chest, stopped Palli’s protest on his lips, though it didn’t quench the startled look in his eyes. Palli always could take a hint, if you clouted him with it hard enough. The twist of his mouth said, Very well, but I will have this out of you later—! By the time he turned to Ser dy Ferrej, coming up to observe this reunion with an interested expression, his cheerful smile was back in place.
“My lord dy Palliar is taking wine with the Provincara in the garden,” the castle warder explained. “Do join us, Cazaril.”
“Thank you.”
Palli took his arm, and they turned to follow dy Ferrej out of the courtyard and half-around the keep, to the little plot where the Provincara’s gardener grew flowers. In good weather she made it her favorite bower for sitting outdoors. Three strides, and Cazaril was trailing; Palli shortened his step abruptly at Cazaril’s stumble, and eyed him sidelong. The Provincara waited their return with a patient smile, enthroned under an arching trellis of climbing roses not yet in bloom. She waved them to the chairs the servants had brought out. Cazaril lowered himself onto a cushion with a wince and an awkward grunt.
“Bastard’s demons,” said Palli under his breath, “did the Roknari cripple you?”
“Only half. Lady Iselle—oof!—seems bent on completing the task.” Gingerly, he eased himself back. “And that fool horse.”
The Provincara frowned at the two young ladies, who had tagged along uninvited. “Iselle, were you galloping?” she inquired dangerously.
Cazaril waved a diverting hand. “It was all the fault of my noble steed, my lady—attacked, it thought, by a horse-eating deer. It went sidewise, I didn’t. Thank you.” He accepted a glass of wine from the servant with deep appreciation and sipped quickly, trying not to let it slosh. The unpleasant shaky feeling in his gut was passing off, now.
Iselle cast him a grateful glance, which her grandmother did not miss. The Provincara sniffed faint disbelief. By way of punishment, she said, “Iselle, Betriz, go and change out of those riding clothes and into something suitable for supper. We may be country folk here; we need not be savages.” They dragged off, with a couple of backward glances at the fascinating visitor.
“But how came you here, Palli?” Cazaril asked, when the double distraction had passed around the corner of the keep. Palli, too, stared after them, and seemed to have to shake
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