"There is a darker urgency to Royesse Iselle's plea," Cazaril continued, as they reached the end of the crescent of beach and turned about again. "This is in the deepest confidence, as she prays to have safe confidence in you as her husband. For your ear alone." He drew in sea air, and all his courage. "It all goes back to the war of Fonsa the Fairly-Wise and the Golden General..."

They made two more turns along the stretch of sand, crossing back over their own tracks, before Cazaril's tale was told. The sun, going down in a red ball, was nearly touching the flat sea horizon, and the breaking waves shimmered in dark and wondrous colors, gnawing their way up the beach as the tide turned. Cazaril was as frank and full with Bergon as he'd been with Ista, keeping nothing back save Ista's confession, not even his own personal haunting by Dondo. Bergon's face, made ruddy by the light, was set in profound thought when he finished.

"Lord Cazaril, if this came from any man's lips but yours, I doubt I would believe it. I'd think him mad."

"Although madness may be an effect of these events, Royse, it is not the cause. It's all real. I've seen it. I half think I am drowning in it." An unfortunate turn of phrase, but the sea growling so close at hand was making Cazaril nervous. He wondered if Bergon had noticed Cazaril always turned so as to put the royse between him and the surf.

"You would make me like the hero of some nursemaid's tale, rescuing the fair lady from enchantment with a kiss."

Cazaril cleared his throat. "Well, rather more than a kiss, I think. A marriage must be consummated to be legally binding. Theologically binding, likewise, I would assume."

The royse gave him an indecipherable glance. He didn't speak for a few more paces. Then he said, "I've seen your integrity in action. It... widened my world. I'd been raised by my father, who is a prudent, cautious man, always looking for men's hidden, selfish motivations. No one can cheat him. But I've seen him cheat himself. If you understand what I mean."

"Yes."

"It was very foolish of you, to attack that vile Roknari galley-man."

"Yes."

"And yet, I think, given the same circumstances, you would do it again."

"Knowing what I know now... it would be harder. But I would hope... I would pray, Royse, that the gods would still lend me such foolishness in my need."

"What is this astonishing foolishness, that shines brighter than all my father's gold? Can you teach me to be such a fool too, Caz?"

"Oh," breathed Cazaril, "I'm sure of it."

CAZARIL MET WITH THE FOX IN THE COOL OF THE following morning. He was escorted again to the high, bright chamber overlooking the sea, but this time for a more private conference, just himself, the roya, and the roya's secretary. The secretary sat at the end of the table, along with a pile of paper, new quills, and a ready supply of ink. The Fox sat on the long side, fiddling with a game of castles and riders, its pieces exquisitely carved of coral and jade, the board fashioned of polished malachite, onyx, and white marble. Cazaril bowed, and, at the roya's wave of invitation, seated himself across from him.

"Do you play?" the Fox inquired.

"No, my lord," said Cazaril regretfully. "Or only very indifferently."

"Ah. Pity." The Fox pushed the board a little to one side. "Bergon is very warmed with your description of this paragon of Chalion. You do your job well, Ambassador."

"That is all my hope."

The roya touched Iselle's letter of credential, lying on the glossy wood. "Extraordinary document. You know it binds the royesse to whatever you sign in her name."

"Yes, sir."

"Her authority to charge you so is questionable, you know. There is the matter of her age, for one thing."

"Well, sir, if you do not recognize her right to make her own marriage treaty, I suppose there's nothing for me to do but mount my horse and ride back to Chalion."

"No, no, I didn't say I questioned it!" A slight panic tinged the old roya's voice.

Cazaril suppressed a smile. "Indeed, sir, to treat with us is public acknowledgment of her authority."

"Hm. Indeed, indeed. Young people, so trusting. It's why we old people must guard their interests." He picked up the other list Cazaril had given him last night. "I've studied your suggested clauses for the marriage contract. We have much to discuss."

"Excuse me, sir. Those are not suggested. Those are required. If you wish to propose additional items, I will hear you."

The roya arched his brows at him. "Surely not. Just taking one—this matter of inheritance during the minority of their heir, if they are so blessed. One accident with a horse, and the royina of Chalion becomes regent of Ibra! It won't do. Bergon bears the risks of the battlefield, which his wife will not."

"Well, which we hope she will not. Or else I am curiously poorly informed of the history of Ibra, my lord. I thought the royse's mother won two sieges?"

The Fox cleared his throat.

"In any case," Cazaril continued, "we maintain that the risk is reciprocal, and so must be the clause. Iselle bears the risks of childbirth, which Bergon never will. One breech birth, and he could become regent of Chalion. How many of your wives have outlived you, sir?"

The Fox took a breath, paused, and went on, "And then there's this naming clause!"

A few minutes of gentle argument determined that Bergon dy Ibra-Chalion was no more euphonious than Bergon dy Chalion-Ibra, and that clause, too, was allowed to stand.

The Fox pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. "I understand you are a landless man, Lord Cazaril. How is it that the royesse does not reward you as befits your rank?"

"She rewards me as befits hers. Iselle is not royina of Chalion—yet."

"Huh. I, on the other hand, am the present roya of Ibra, and have the power to dispense... much."

Cazaril merely smiled.

Encouraged, the Fox spoke of an elegant villa overlooking the sea, and placed a coral castle piece upon the table between them. Fascinated to see where this was going, Cazaril refrained from observing how little he cared for the sight of the sea. The Fox spoke of fine horses, and an estate to graze them upon, and how inappropriate he found Clause Three. Some riders were added. Cazaril made neutral noises. The Fox breathed delicately of the money whereby a man might dress himself as befit an Ibran rank rather higher than castillar, and how Clause Six might profitably be rewritten. A jade castle piece joined the growing set. The secretary made notes. With each wordless murmur from Cazaril, both respect and contempt grew in the Fox's eyes, though as the pile grew he remarked in a tone of some pain, "You play better than I expected, Castillar."

At last the Fox sat back and waved at his little pile of offering symbols. "How does it suit you, Cazaril? What do you think this girl can give you that I cannot better, eh?"

Cazaril's smile broadened to a cheerful grin. "Why, sir. I believe she will give me an estate in Chalion that will suit me perfectly. One pace wide and two paces long, to be mine in perpetuity." Gently, so as not to imply an insult either given or taken, he stretched out his hand and pushed the pieces back toward the Fox. "I should probably explain, I bear a tumor in my gut, that I expect to kill me shortly. These prizes are for living men, I think. Not dying ones."

The Fox's lips moved; astonishment and dismay flickered in his face, and the faintest flash of unaccustomed shame, quickly suppressed. A brief bark of laughter escaped him. "Five gods! The girl has wit and ruthlessness enough to teach me my trade! No wonder she gave you such powers. By the Bastard's balls, she's sent me an unbribeable ambassador!"

Three thoughts marched across Cazaril's mind: first, that Iselle had no such crafty plan, second, that were it to be pointed out to her, she would say Hm! and file the notion away against some future need, and third, that the Fox did not need to know about the first.