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, LordCazaril. 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 ordless 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."
