Dy Ferrej sputtered. Cazaril sympathized. An innocent with the moral advantage, and as feckless and ignorant of her dangers as the new pup the Provincara had compared her to—Cazaril was profoundly thankful that he had no part in this.

The Provincara's nostrils flared. "For now, you may both go to your chambers and stay there. I'd set you both to read scriptures for a penance, but... ! I will decide later if you will be permitted to come to the feast. Good Dedicat, follow after and make sure they arrive. Go!" She gestured imperiously. As Cazaril made to follow, her sweeping arm stopped in midair, and she pointed firmly downward. "Castillar, dy Ferrej, attend a moment." Lady Betriz shot a curious glance over her shoulder as she was ushered out. Iselle marched head high, and didn't look back.

"Well," said dy Ferrej wearily after a moment, "we did hope they would become friends."

Her young audience removed, the Provincara permitted herself a rueful smile. "Alas, yes."

"How old is the Lady Betriz?" Cazaril asked curiously, staring after the closing door.

"Nineteen," answered her father with a sigh.

Well, her age was not quite so disparate from his as Cazaril had thought, though her experience surely was.

"I really did think Betriz would be a good influence," dy Ferrej added. "It seems to have worked the other way around."

"Are you accusing my granddaughter of corrupting your daughter?" the Provincara inquired wryly.

"Say, inspiring, rather," dy Ferrej said, with a glum shrug. "Terrifying, that. I wonder... I wonder if we should part them?"

"There would follow much howling." Wearily, the Provincara seated herself on a bench, gesturing the men to do likewise: "Don't want a crick in my neck." Cazaril clasped his hands between his knees and waited her pleasure, whatever it was to be. She must have dragged him along in here for something. She stared thoughtfully at him for a long moment.

"You have a fresh eye, Cazaril," she said at last. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Cazaril's brows climbed. "I've had the training of young soldiers, lady. Never of young maidens. I'm quite out of my depth, here." He hesitated, then spoke almost despite himself. "It looks to me to be a trifle too late to teach Iselle to be a coward. But you might draw her attention to how little firsthand evidence she jumped from. How could she be so sure the judge was as guilty as rumor would have him? Hearsay, gossip? Even some apparent evidence can lie." Cazaril thought ruefully of the bath man's assumptions about the witness of his back. "It won't help for today's incident, but it might slow her down in future." He added in a drier voice, "And you might look to be more careful what gossip you discuss in front of her."

Dy Ferrej winced.

"In front of either one of them," said the Provincara. "Four ears, one mind—or one conspiracy." She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. "Cazaril... you speak and write Darthacan, do you not?"

Cazaril blinked at this sidewise jink in the conversation. "Yes, my lady... ?"

"And Roknari?"

"My, ah, court Roknari is a little rusty at present. Granted, my vile Roknari is quite fluent."

"And geography? You know the geography of Chalion, of Ibra, of the Roknari princedoms?"

"Five gods, that I do, my lady. What I haven't ridden over, I've walked, what I haven't walked, I've been dragged across. Or through. I've had geography ground into my skin. And I've rowed round half the Archipelago at least."

"And you write, you cipher, you keep books—you've done letters, reports, treaties, logistical orders..."

"My hand may be a trifle shaky at present, but yes, I've done all that," he admitted with belatedly rising wariness. Where was she going with this interrogation?

"Yes, yes!" She clapped her hands together; Cazaril flinched at the sharp noise. "The gods have surely landed you upon my wrist. Bastard's demons take me if I haven't the wit to jess you."

Cazaril smiled bewildered inquiry.

"Cazaril, you said you sought a post. I have one for you." She sat back triumphantly. "Secretary-tutor to the Royesse 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."

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 into the next chamber, though the doors were left propped open between them.