Redemption
By Scott Washburn
Chancellor dy Cazaril wiped the sweat off his brow as he walked across the main courtyard of the Zangre. It was high summer in Chalion and the heat beating down from above and reflecting off the stone walls of the inner tower blocks turned the courtyard into an oven. It was particularly bad this year because the northernmost of those towers, the one that actually provided some shade in the morning hours, was gone. That had been the tower of Roya Fonsa, the roya sometimes known as 'the Wise', but more often referred to as 'the Fairly Wise'.
After twenty years as chancellor for Royina Iselle, Cazaril had come to believe that the first honorific for Fonsa was probably the fairer of the two. The disasters of his reign were only partly of his own making and surely he had had no role at all in the creation of his great nemesis, the Golden General. But he had certainly been responsible for the act of Death Magic which had removed the General and saved the Quintarian royacies, even though there was no way he could have known that his actions would also spill the Curse which followed his descendants down in death and despair until the Lady of Spring—with some small help from Cazaril—removed it.
Fonsa, and two companions, had died in the tower, bringing down death on the General—and themselves—and the burned-out shell had been sealed up and left unoccupied afterwards for many years. The crumbling edifice had been, perhaps, a fitting symbol for Fonsa's son and grandson, Ias and Orico, whose reigns, blighted by the Curse, had been nearly as disastrous as their forebear's.
But with the lifting of the Curse, the reign of Iselle and her consort Bergon had become as bright and hopeful as the previous ones had been dark and depressed. Fonsa's Tower had no place in this new age. Iselle had only been on the throne a year or two before she ordered the tower's removal. Cazaril had heartily agreed.
However, the early years of Iselle's reign had been busy beyond reckoning. The pebbles set rolling by Iselle's mother, the Dowager Royina Ista, at the small border castle of Porifors had turned into a mighty avalanche which had swept the Roknaris from the mainland. One after the other, the five princedoms had fallen, and a mere ten years after Iselle's coronation, she had ridden proudly through the smashed gates of the last enemy stronghold. The dream of driving out the invaders, which had obsessed the minds of royas for twenty generations, had been accomplished at last by the Girl-Royina. The memory of that glorious day still started tears in Cazaril's eyes. Iselle's grandfather, Fonsa, might have been called the The Fairly Wise, and her father , Ias, The Unlucky, and her half-brother, Orico, The Sickly, but Cazaril suspected that Iselle might someday be known as The Great. He'd spent these twenty years helping to make that happen.
Wars and weddings, births and deaths, treaties and road building had filled the years to bursting. And somehow Fonsa's tower was still there through it all. Until finally, last winter, Iselle had summoned him and asked with mock annoyance why that crumbling ruin was still standing when she had ordered its demolition quite a few years earlier if her memory wasn't failing her? Cazaril had bowed as low as his back would permit and immediately ordered workmen to begin the removal.
The process had taken longer than it might have. First, there were long consultations with the Temple divines over how to deal with the sacred crows who dwelt in the tower. Cazaril wished that Umegat was still around, but sadly he had died the previous year. The former saint and animal handler would have known what to do, he was sure. Eventually, a new rookery (or whatever the proper name for it was) was constructed and the crows coaxed into it with mounds of blessed bread. Then, the weather had turned terrible with deeper and more frequent snows than anyone could remember—as if, a few wags had suggested, Fonsa's ghost was making some last effort to preserve its haunts. Cazaril, no stranger to the ways of ghosts, had made no comment. Even with the melting of the snows, the work went slowly. But this time, Cazaril, himself, was to blame. After the tower had burned on the night of Fonsa's death ritual, the roya's son, Ias, had ordered the place bricked up and no one, except the crows, had entered again (save for Cazaril's brief trespass).
But then, as the rubble was cleared, it became apparent that the destruction inside was nowhere near total. All manner of things began to emerge; some precious in their own right and others of true historical significance. Cazaril had turned the demolition into a careful excavation. The effort had been well worth it. Not only had the valuables bolstered the royal treasury (though much had been bestowed on the Temple at Iselle's command), but the Zangre's library and archives had been immeasurably enriched. Cazaril had barely scratched the surface of what had been found and he'd employed several scholars to help inventory the entire lot.
But, at last, the tower was gone. The Royina had contracted with a noted Roknari—former Roknari, he was Chalionese now whether he liked it or not—builder for the design for a new tower to take its place. But construction would probably not begin until next year. In the meantime, the lack of shade had turned the Zangre's courtyard into an oven.
Cazaril reached the door of the tower which housed his suite of offices and sighed at the cooler air contained within. He headed up the steps to the third floor, reflecting that the one thing that could be said about the heat was that his joints didn't hurt as much as they did in the winter. You're only fifty-five! You just need to get some real exercise; too much sitting and signing papers!
Not that there would be that many papers to sign today. The Royina and her consort had removed themselves to Zagosur for the summer along with much of her court. A great deal of the usual paperwork had followed her there. Iselle, knowing how little Cazaril cared for Zagosur and the sea, had allowed him and his wife Betriz to remain in Cardegos. Cazaril hoped that his assistant, Ser dy Habrol, who had gone in his place, would be up to the task.
The now legendary wedding of Iselle, the heiress to the throne of Chalion, and Bergon, heir to the throne of Ibra, had united the two royacies into a single and powerful whole. The death of Roya Orico, a mere day after the wedding, and the passing of Bergon's father a few years after that, had left the couple ruling a huge realm. Keeping it whole and happy was a major task which often demanded their personal presence. As a result, the Royina and Roya travelled a great deal. In the early years of their reign they had split their time nearly equally between Chalion and Ibra. More recently, they also had to find time for the reconquered princedoms on the north coast. Typically, it was Spring in Chalion, Summer in Ibra, Fall in Visping and Winter wherever they felt they were needed most. It was not a bad system, withal, since it allowed them to miss the worst weather in each of those places. But the miles were long and Cazaril wasn't sure how many more years he'd be able to manage them. Being able to remain in Cardegos on this round was a huge relief to him—despite the heat.
Having Betriz with him was a double blessing. Twenty years of marriage had not lessened their love for each other, something he thanked the Lady of Spring for regularly. But for the first time, their two children would not be with them. They had eagerly gone with the court, their daughter Eleene, now the chief lady in waiting to the Royesse, and their son Umegat the Royse's closest companion. He found that he missed them quite a lot.
His secretary, an efficient young temple divine named Forstan, had the day's work waiting for him when he reached his office. It was still quite a stack, despite the lessened load. "Anything really urgent?" he asked.
"Well, my lord, I'm sure they all seem urgent to the people who sent them, but the only one that really qualifies would be the one on top, from Jarn."
"Indeed? Well, I'll have a look." He swept up the pile and carried it to his desk. He sat down and picked up the first sheet of parchment and started reading. Yes, it was what he feared it would be. He read the whole thing through and then sighed and rubbed his eyes.
The conquest of the five Roknari princedoms had removed the old threat of military invasion (at least from there—the Roknaris who still inhabited the Archipelago were another matter) but it had created a lot of other problems. Chief among these was the fact that there were a whole lot of people living there who were devout Quadrenes in a land now ruled by their bitter Quintarian foes.
Chalion-Ibra and all the royacies of the land worshipped the five gods. The Father and the Mother, the Son and the Daughter—and the Bastard. One god for each of the seasons and the Bastard who was the god for Things out of Season. But the Quadrene Roknaris only worshipped the Four. They considered the Bastard a demon and the Quintarians as demon worshippers.
This difference in faith had stood between the peoples for centuries and led to endless bloodshed with each side trying to make its belief dominant. Cazaril thought that, unfairly, the Quadrenes had the easier task—or at least the simpler one. If you wanted to eradicate worship of the Bastard then if you knocked down His towers, killed His acolytes and divines and imprisoned, tortured or killed anyone who dared to worship Him then eventually the message would get across and the practice could well die out.
But the reverse was not nearly so simple. How could you force someone to worship the Bastard? Oh, you could add a tower to the Quadrene temples and bring in acolytes and divines to man them and add the words to the prayers and force people to give the five-fold sign instead of the four, but those were just things on the surface. How could you force someone, down deep inside, to actually believe? It would be like trying to carry stones in a basket made of cobwebs.
Iselle and Bergon wisely, in Cazaril's opinion, had not even tried. They had allowed the Quadrenes to continue their foursquare religion as they always had. But, with the influx of Quintarian soldiers and merchants and administrators, there had also come a stream of Quintarian templars, eager to serve the gods, see to the souls of their fellows, and—if they could—convert the heathen. There was no keeping them out. So new temples had been built, temples with four lobes and a fifth tower in the back. The Bastard had returned to the five princedoms—although no doubt He would claim that He'd never left. And indeed, a surprising number of secret Quintarians had emerged in the days following the conquest/liberation; whether truly devout or just bending with the blowing wind was anyone's guess.
So, the two religions had existed side-by-side ever since. But while existence could be enforced at the point of a sword, coexistence was another matter. Incidents were frequent and often those incidents took violent form. Quadrenes set fire to towers of the Bastard and murdered His divines and acolytes. Quintarians had plenty of blood on their hands, too, killing outspoken Quadrenes and, despite the Royina's decrees, trying to force conversions under threat of death, torture, or just higher taxes. The first few years after the conquest had been very bad, indeed, and even now, ten years later, incidents were far too common. The worst of the violence had died down, but there were other methods that could be used to make trouble.
Take this one for instance. A message from the Provincar dy Gura in Jarn. Young Ferda – stop thinking of him like that, he's older than you were when you stumbled back to Valenda—had served valiantly during the wars and been rewarded with one of the new provinces which had been carved out of the old princedoms. Cazaril knew that he tried to rule fairly and justly, but he wasn't the wisest or sharpest of the dy Guras. Clever men could and did take advantage of him.
As they apparently had now. It seemed that a batch of fast-talking merchants and money-lenders, in league with a zealous divine of the Son and—five gods help him—a company of the Son's military order were swindling Quadrenes out of their land in dy Gura's province. They'd had the sense not to try to swindle Ferda, himself, but they were creating almost as much trouble as if they had. People were being tricked into taking loans and then turned out of their homes when they couldn't pay and left destitute. The divine had 'charitably' set up a refuge for these people where they were fed and housed—and worked and relentlessly pressed to convert to Quintarianism on the threat of expulsion and starvation. Sadly, this was not the first time Cazaril had encountered such a thing.
But dealing with it… could be tricky. He could speak to the archdivine here in Cardegoss and see if the zealous divine of the Son could be recalled; he could speak (or send a message, rather) to Bergon and see if in his role as the Holy General of the Military order of the Son if the company of troops involved in the scheme could be transferred elsewhere. That would pull the teeth backing up the money-lenders, but would that solve the problem, or just make it worse? There were still all of those dispossessed Quadrenes to deal with. What to do with them? Could all of the swindles be reversed or was it too late…?
"My Lord?"
Cazaril looked up to see Learned Forstan in his doorway.
"Yes?"
"My Lord, there's someone here asking for you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he seems very eager to see you. Will you see him or should I have him make an appointment and come back later?"
"Who is it? What's his business?"
"He says his name is Gerrold. He's dressed like an acolyte, but… I don't think he is one. As for his business, he says it is some old business he has with you from many years ago."
Cazaril frowned in puzzlement. The name meant nothing to him and he couldn't remember any 'old business' the name might be connected to. But then he'd dealt with so many people over the years he could easily have forgotten. And any interruption from Ferda's swindlers seemed welcome at the moment. "Very well, send him in."
"At once, My Lord," Forstan withdrew and a moment later a man entered. He was tall, a bit taller than Cazaril, but very thin, almost gaunt, his cheekbones stood out and his eyes seemed far recessed in dark hollows. He was full-bearded and the hairs were nearly all gray; there wasn't much hair left on his head; Cazaril did not recognize him at all. As Forstan had said, he wore a set of dusty robes similar to what an acolyte might have worn, except that they were black and bore no identifying color of one of the gods' orders.
"Lord Chancellor dy Cazaril," said the stranger, bowing deeply.
"Yes, that's me, but I'm afraid I don't know you, sir."
"We met many years ago, My Lord."
"Indeed? When? And what were the circumstances?" Cazaril eyed the man closely. There was something about his voice…
"Might we speak in private? The matter is… personal." The man glanced back at Forstan who was hovering in the doorway. Cazaril hesitated, but the man took a step forward and his eyes gleamed in hope. "Please, My Lord?"
A strange shiver went down his spine, not of fear, but of… something else. Like the times his Other Sight flickered back for a moment or when the Zangre's ghosts were especially restive. Was this more than it seemed?
"All… all right. You may leave us, Forstan."
"My Lord, are you…?"
"It's all right," he repeated with a small wave of his hand. "Close the door, please." His secretary retreated slowly and continued to stare at him until the door clicked shut. Cazaril shifted his own gaze back to the stranger. "Now then, sit down if you wish. But explain yourself. I do not recognize you."
The man shuffled over to a chair and let himself down into it, unable to conceal a slight wince of pain. Cazaril could sympathize. "You do not recognize me, Lord Cazaril?" said the man once he was seated. "You have a reputation, you know, for mercy and charity, and yet you do not recognize a man you destroyed?"
Cazaril tensed. What was this? A man he destroyed? But who? As part of his duties he had perforce sent men to prison, even to the headsman when necessary, was this someone he'd imprisoned; some relative of a man executed? He regretted having Forstan close the door. His hand crept toward a drawer in his desk where he kept a small dagger… he rarely wore one around the Zangre anymore.
"Perhaps this will refresh your memory," said the man. He tossed a small object onto his desk. It tumbled and spun about before coming to rest in front of Cazaril. A ring; a gold ring with a bevel-cut green stone set in it. Cazaril sucked in his breath. He'd seen that ring before! Dondo dy Jironel had once pulled it off his pudgy finger and set it down on a stone bench next to Cazaril. A bribe for his cooperation. A bribe which he'd refused.
But a bribe which had been accepted by another man.
Cararil's gaze darted back to the stranger. He had changed dramatically, from the thick-set, ruddy faced captain of the guard contingent sent by the Dowager Provincara of Boatia to protect the Royesse Iselle those twenty years ago, but yes, he could see it now. The shape of the nose, the eyes… It was him, the man who had betrayed the Provincara's trust, betrayed Iselle; the man who had held Cazaril immobile so Martou dy Jironel could drive his sword through him. What had become of him? Arrested, along with the rest of dy Jironel's band on that now-legendary Daughter's Day in Taryoon. Imprisoned by the Provincar, Cazaril remembered that much, but then what? Surely he hadn't been rotting in a dungeon all these years? But perhaps he had; forgotten by all. Cazaril eased the desk drawer open. Was he here now seeking revenge?
Perhaps the man heard the tiny squeak the drawer made, perhaps he saw it in Cazaril's face, but he leaned back in his chair and waved his hand and shook his head. "Have no fear My Lord Chancellor, I mean you no harm."
Cazaril did not relax his guard. "Then… then why are you here?"
The man's expression grew intense. "I want something from you."
"And what is that?"
"Forgiveness."
Cazaril rocked back in surprise. "Forgiveness? I think you've come to the wrong person, sir. While it is true that you helped dy Jironel murder me, considering how that turned out, I can't help but feel gratitude rather than anger. You need no forgiveness from me. And it's true that you betrayed the Royina, but again, it was all part of the gods' plans, it seems. No, the only person who you might truly ask forgiveness of would be the old Provincara, whose trust you betrayed. But she is gone to the gods these eighteen years now and can no longer grant you an audience let alone forgiveness."
The man's face twisted in anguish and he clutched his hands in front of himself. "I know! I know! I don't need the forgiveness of men or women, but of the gods!"
Cazaril's eyebrows shot up. "Then again I have to say you have come to the wrong place. It is not for me to say who the gods forgive or who they do not. I suggest you seek them out through prayer. Perhaps at the great temple in the city…?"
"I've tried that! Again and again! For years!" The man's voice was getting shrill. "They don't answer me! But you!" His face grew eager. "They say you were a saint once! You were a saint when I… when I did what I did. You can speak for the gods! Speak to them so they will listen!"
Cazaril looked at him askance and did not know what to say. It didn't work that way…
"Please! Ever since that day, there in the courtyard in Taryoon! Dy Jronel ran you through with his sword and the blue lighting took him! I was thrown to the ground, stunned, and then… then She… I felt Her… She touched me!"
"The Lady of Spring?"
"Yes! She brushed by me and I knew! Oh gods forgive me, I knew!"
"What did you know?" asked Cazaril, all too certain he knew the answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Forstan ease the door open and look in, no doubt attracted by the raised voice. Cazaril put up a finger to delay any action.
She… She spoke no word to me," said the man, regaining some of his composure. "But I knew that She was ill-pleased with me!"
As well She might be, he supposed, although surely this man was every bit as much a tool in Her grand design as Cazaril himself.
"I… I was thrown into prison afterwards," continued the man. "No one came to see me, not the Provincar, not the dowager Provincara, not the Royina, and not you; but I was told the old woman had said I could stay there until I rotted. But I was still so stricken with The Lady's displeasure that I did not care. It was… just." He looked down at the floor and wrung his hands. "But less than two years later the Royina gave birth to her first daughter and there was a great freeing of prisoners in celebration."
Yes, Cazaril remembered that. Hundreds were freed in a great amnesty. He'd probably signed the list of those to be freed himself, but the man's name had not registered. He felt a twinge of guilt over that.
Forstan was still in the door; Cazaril made a shooing motion with his fingers and his secretary slowly retreated, but he left the door open and Cazaril was quite sure he was just out of sight, listening to every word as Gerrold continued talking.
"I was turned out with nothing but the clothes on my back, and that ring, which I'd kept hidden. And I didn't know what to do! I had no troops to command, no lord to serve, no family to go to. I was… nothing."
"And yet here you are," observed Cazaril. "Clearly you found some means to support yourself."
"Aye. Knowing nothing else, I joined the armies fighting the wars against the princedoms. I'd once been a captain, but I became a simple swordsman again. At first I hoped that serving the Five Gods against the Quadrenes might be enough to redeem myself in Their eyes. "
"I don't… I don't think the gods really take sides like that," said Cazaril carefully. "They value the souls of the Quadrenes as much as ours."
"I figured that out myself—after a while," said the man grimly. "I'm no hero, Chancellor, but I'm no coward, either—no matter what you might think of me. Battle after battle I fought and after each one I sought some sign that I had done well. But there was nothing but silence. So the next battle I tried harder. And the next and the next." He snorted and shook his head. "By the end, I was so desperate, it was a miracle I survived. My comrades thought me mad for the risks I took, and my commander thought me mad for accepting no reward. But the only reward I sought could not be won by my sword." He sighed. "And then the last battle was fought and She hadn't spoken to me. I was still damned and I didn't know what to do." The man's shoulders slumped and he looked down at the floor, hands clasped in front of him.
Cazaril sat back, a look of surprise on his face. "I… there were rumors, stories in the camps, during those campaigns. I remember them. About a man without fear who was always at the forefront of any assault. Some said he was a madman, others that he was god-possessed. I thought they were just stories since surely any such man would have come forward to accept the honors he'd earned. But that was you."
"Aye, I suppose it was. And in my younger days I would have seized those honors in both hands. But in my anguish such things meant nothing. Nothing!" He looked back at the floor, shaking his head.
"That was ten years ago. What have you been doing since?" The man was silent for so long Cazaril wondered if he'd heard the question. But eventually he stirred and looked up.
"I nearly despaired, nearly threw myself off a cliff into the sea, but I knew that was just a shortcut to damnation. Then I grew angry. Angry with men and with the gods. I told myself that if I was to be damned, then I might as well truly earn it! And in the wake of the conquest, there were so many ways I could do that!"
Cazaril winced. Yes. He had witnessed the horrors of an army in defeat many times in his youth, but more recently he'd learned that a victorious army left just as many horrors in its train. A strong man, skilled in arms could inflict almost anything on a defeated people. If this Gerrold had given in to his anger then Cazaril saw little hope in his making amends with the gods. "So… did you…?"
"Nearly… nearly," said Gerrold, shaking his head. "But when I saw what my fellows were already doing I… I lost the stomach for it. The people of a sacked town—even Quadrenes—had woe enough. They didn't need me adding to it."
Cazaril nodded. "So what did you do then?"
"I gave up my sword. For all the blood it had spilled, it wasn't sharp enough to excise the ulcer that was eating me up inside. I thought that perhaps I should try a more direct approach to the gods. I took myself to the nearest Quintarian temple and applied for entry into it as an acolyte."
"For which god?" asked Cazaril, eyeing his undecorated robe.
The man snorted. "I didn't quite have the nerve to go directly to the Lady of Spring. So I tried her brother instead. The Son of Autumn seemed a better fit, anyway."
"And was it? A better fit, I mean?"
The man shook his head. "No. Oh, they took me in and I did what I was told. Obeyed the divines, said my prayers, did my chores, but it was… empty. I spent two years there, but at last I knew that this was not the way. So I left. Just walked away one day and didn't go back. I walked across half of Chalion and then tried again in another town under another name; this time for the Father of Winter."
"I take it that didn't work, either," said Cazaril.
"No, it was the same. And it was the same again when I tried the Bastard's order. And the Mother's and eventually I even got up the courage to try the Daughter's order, too. They were all empty. The gods have all turned their backs on me." He fell silent and wrung his hands.
"And then you thought of me," said Cazaril, wondering what sin he had committed to be so blessed by this.
"Everything else has failed, My Lord. I thought that perhaps a saint, even a former saint, might be able to help. Please My Lord! Please, ask the Lady what I must do!"
Cazaril leaned back in his chair and stared at the man. Ask the Lady? Ask one of the gods for instructions? It didn't work that way. Oh how well he knew that! During all those terrifying days when he was trying to find a way to lift the Curse off Iselle, he had prayed and prayed for guidance and yet the Lady had only ever spoken eighteen words to him and even then only after the deed was done!
But even though he knew it was probably useless, he did ask. What should I do, Lady? What can I do to ease this man's mind? What can I say to him? What? What? What…?
"Lord Chancellor!"
The sudden shout made Cazaril flinch in his chair. Forstan was there next to him with an expression of panic on his face. Gerrold was on his feet looking equally concerned. What?
"What?" he said, looking between the men in confusion.
"M-my Lord," stuttered Forstan. "You were frozen like a statue! This man called me in. I… I feared it was some sort of seizure! Are you all right?"
"Yes… yes, I'm fine…" He blinked. Am I?
"She spoke to you, didn't She?" said Gerrold, suddenly. "She spoke to you!"
"No… No… I don't think…" An odd crinkling sound and the feel of parchment between his fingers made him look down. He was holding a sheet in his hands. He had no memory of picking it up. But then he had no memory of Forstan entering the room. He looked closer.
It was Ferda's letter. He looked at it and then at Gerrold.
"Perhaps She did."
"What did She say?" The look of hope on the man's face was heartbreaking. What if he was wrong?
"She… didn't actually say anything to me, but…" he held out the parchment to the man. He fairly snatched it away and quickly read, his face becoming more puzzled moment by moment.
"I… I don't understand," he said when he finished.
"The Gods are parsimonious with their instructions, Gerrold. Never once did I get a clear directive from them. But the clues are there if you have the patience to look."
"But what does this mean?" he asked shaking the parchment out in front of him.
"I think it means that the Lady wants someone to deal with this problem. As I said earlier, the Gods value every soul, Quadrene and Quintarian alike. Perhaps She thinks the Quadrenes in the new provinces need a… champion of their own."
"A champion? Me?" gasped the man. "I'm a Quintarian!"
"She knows that, but She probably doesn't care. It might actually be better that way." Cazaril spread his hands. "You came to me for help. This is all I have to offer."
"But… but what do I do?"
"Your daily tasks as they come to you, of course. And I think your task for this day is to become my courier. I've already given thought to certain actions I am going to take regarding this matter. But I'm going to have you take my reply to the March along with a letter of introduction to him and my… support for whatever actions you see fit to take in… easing the plight of the people there."
"I… I… what authority will I have, My Lord?" The man seemed dazed.
"None at all, I'm afraid. I can't give you authority to arrest anyone or deal out justice either high or low. I would ask that you don't kill anyone, although it's probably good that you can handle a sword because I can't guarantee that no one will try to kill you."
"I think I understand, My Lord. This task is mine."
"Yes. That's it exactly. The Lady may have used me to show you what the task is, but it yours to carry out. I'm sorry I can't do more."
"You've done enough, My Lord Chancellor. It… it seems like an impossible task, but it's what I asked for, isn't it?" For the first time the man smiled a real smile.
"Yes, I think it is," replied Cazaril. "It may be a task that takes a lifetime; your lifetime, but still a bargain, I'm thinking."
"Yes, yes! Thank you, My Lord! Thank you!"
Cazaril leaned forward and slid the ring across his desk to the man. "Take this with you. Sell it and use the money for your work. Forstan, bring your writing table and the seals. We have a few documents to prepare."
It only took an hour or so to draft out the response to Ferda and the letter for Gerrold. Seals were applied, a courier's baton secured, and Gerrold sent on his way. The man seemed almost giddy with joy. He hoped it would last. Once he was gone, Cazaril slumped in his chair, exhausted. This was supposed to have been an easy day!
But a smile came to his lips when he heard Betriz in the outer office. She brought him his midday meal every day and when his duties permitted she would sit and help eat it with him. His wife gave a cheery hello to Forstan and breezed into Cazaril's room carrying a wicker basket. Her dimples were on full display as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
"Hello, love," she said, laying out the food and pouring him a cup of wine. She nodded to the nearly untouched stack of documents on his desk. "Have you been napping all morning?"
"No, no, but some matters take more time to solve than other, you know."