The Provincara pressed her lips together. "The appointment of provincial justiciars is not within my gift, dear one. Nor their removal. Or their department would be rather more orderly run, I assure you." She took a sip of her wine and added to her granddaughter's frowning look, "I have great privilege in Baocia, child. I do not have great powers."

Iselle glanced at Teidez, and at Cazaril, before echoing her brother's question, in a voice gone serious: "What's the difference?"

"One is the right to rule—and the duty to protect! T' other is the right to receive protection," replied the Provincara. "There is alas more difference between a provincar and a provincara than just the one letter."

Teidez smirked. "Oh, like the difference between a royse and a royesse?"

Iselle turned on him and raised her brows. "Oh? And how do you propose to remove the corrupt judge—privileged boy?"

"That's enough, you two," said the Provincara sternly, in a voice that was pure grandmother. Cazaril hid a smile. Within these walls, she ruled, right enough, by an older code than Chalion's. Hers was a sufficient little state.

The conversation turned to less lurid matters as the servants brought cakes, cheese, and a wine from Brajar. Cazaril had, surreptitiously he hoped, stuffed himself. If he didn't stop soon, he would make himself sick. But the golden dessert wine almost sent him into tears at the table; that one, he drank unwatered, though he managed to limit himself to one glass.

At the end of the meal prayers were offered again, and Royse Teidez was dragged off by his tutor for studies. Iselle and Betriz were sent to do needlework. They departed at a gallop, followed at a more sedate pace by dy Ferrej.

"Will they actually sit still for needlework?" Cazaril asked the Provincara, watching the departing flurry of skirts.

"They gossip and giggle till I can't bear it, but yes, they're very handy," said the Provincara, the disapproving purse of her lips belied by the warmth of her eyes.

"Your granddaughter is a delightful young lady."

"To a man of a certain age, Cazaril, all young ladies start to look delightful. It's the first symptom of senility."

"True, my lady." His lips twitched up.

"She's worn out two governesses and looks to be bent on destroying a third, by the way the woman complains of her. And yet..." the Provincara's tart voice grew slower, "she needs to be strong. Someday, inevitably, she will be sent far from me. And I will no longer be able to help her... protect her..."

An attractive, fresh young royesse was a pawn, not a player, in the politics of Chalion. Her bride-price would come high, but a politically and financially favorable marriage might not necessarily prove a good one in more intimate senses. The Dowager Provincara had been fortunate in her personal life, but in her long years had doubtless had opportunity to observe the whole range of marital fates awaiting highborn women. Would Iselle be sent to far Darthaca? Married off to some cousin in the too-close-related royacy of Brajar? Gods forbid she should be bartered away to the Roknari to seal some temporary peace, exiled to the Archipelago.

She studied him sidelong, in the light from the lavish branches of candles she had always favored. "How old are you now, Castillar? I thought you were about thirteen when your father sent you to serve my dear Provincar."

"About that, yes, Your Grace. I'm thirty-five."

"Ha. You should shave off that nasty mess growing out of your face, then. It makes you look fifteen years older than you are."

Cazaril considered some quip about a turn in the Roknari galleys being very aging to a man, but he wasn't quite up to it. Instead he said, "I hope I did not annoy the royse with my maunderings, my lady."

"I believe you actually made young Teidez stop and think. A rare event. I wish his tutor could manage it more often." She drummed her thin fingers briefly on the cloth and drained the last of her tiny glass of wine. She set it down, and added, "I don't know what flea-ridden inn you've put up at down in town, Castillar, but I'll dispatch a page for your things. You'll lodge here tonight."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I accept with gratitude." And alacrity. Thank the gods, oh, five times five, he was gathered in, at least temporarily. He hesitated, embarrassed. "But, ah... it won't be necessary to trouble your page."

She raised a brow at him. "That's what they exist for. As you may recall."

"Yes, but"—he smiled briefly, and gestured down himself—"these are my things."

At her pained look, he added weakly, "I had less, when I fell off the Ibran galley in Zagosur." He'd been dressed in a breechclout of surpassing filthiness, and scabs. The acolytes had burned the rag at their first opportunity.

"Then my page," said the Provincara in a precise voice, still regarding him levelly, "will escort you to your chamber. My lord Castillar."

She added, as she made to rise, and her cousin-companion hastened to assist her, "We'll speak again tomorrow."

THE CHAMBER WAS ONE IN THE OLD KEEP RESERVED for honored guests, more on account of having been slept in by several historical royas than for its absolute comfort; Cazaril had served its guests himself a hundred times. The bed had three mattresses, straw, feather, and down, and was dressed in the softest washed linen and a coverlet worked by ladies of the household. Before the page had left him, two maids arrived, bearing wash water, drinking water, towels, soap, a tooth-stick, and an embroidered nightgown, cap, and slippers. Cazaril had been planning to sleep in the dead man's shirt.

It was abruptly all too much. Cazaril sat down on the edge of the bed with the nightgown in his hands and burst into wracking sobs. Gulping, he gestured the unnerved-looking servitors to leave him.

"What's the matter with him?" he heard the maid's voice, as their footsteps trailed off down the corridor, and the tears trailed down the inside of his nose.

The page answered disgustedly, "A madman, I suppose."

After a short pause, the maid's voice floated back faintly, "Well, he'll fit right in here, then, won't he..."

The sounds of the household stirring—calls from the courtyard, the distant clank of pots—woke Cazaril in the predawn gray. He opened his eyes to a moment of panicked disorientation, but the reassuring embrace of the feather bed drew him down again into drowsy repose. Not a hard bench. Not moving up and down. Not moving at all, oh five gods, that was very heaven. So warm, on his knotted back.

The Daughter's Day celebrations would run from dawn till dark. Perhaps he would lie slugabed till the household had departed for the procession, then get up late. Creep around unobtrusively, lie in the sun with the castle cats. When he grew hungry, dredge up old memories from his days as a page—he'd used to know how to charm the cook for an extra tidbit...

A crisp knock on the door interrupted these pleasant meditations. Cazaril jerked, then relaxed again as Lady Betriz's voice followed: "My lord dy Cazaril? Are you awake? Castillar?"

"A moment, my lady," Cazaril called back. He wallowed to the bed's edge and tore himself from the loving clutch of the mattress. A woven rush mat on the floor kept the morning cold of the stone from nipping his bare feet. He shook the generous linen of the nightgown down over his legs, shuffled to the door, and opened it a crack. "Yes?"

She stood in the corridor with a candle shielded by a blown-glass lantern in one hand and a pile of cloth, leather straps, and something that clanked wedged awkwardly under her other arm. She was fully dressed for the day in a blue gown with a white vest-cloak that fell from shoulder to ankle. Her dark hair was braided up on her head with flowers and leaves. Her velvet brown eyes were merry, glinting in the candle's glow. Cazaril could not help but smile back.