Summary: An early meeting between Cazaril and Dondo dy Jironal. Set five years before the action of The Curse of Chalion, when Cazaril was serving with Lord dy Guarida.
"Ah, my Lord Cazaril. I was hoping to find you here. Please come join me in my tent. I have a gathering of a few select friends that I would love for you to be a part of." Dondo strode into the tent as if he owned it.
Dondo dy Jironal had only been serving with the army for several months, and his tent was already legendary. Many younger lords would do anything to gain admittance to Dondo's inner circle, looking ahead to future preferment once Dondo had taken his place as a high lord. The structure was twice the size of a standard-issue shelter and required four men to put it up and take it down every day. The heavy brocade fabric was useless at keeping out the rain and mud of the long marches. But Dondo insisted on having his subordinates clean it once a week.
Cazaril allowed himself a moment to collect himself before turning to the importunate nobleman with an apologetic smile. "Thank you for the offer, Lord Dondo, but, unfortunately, Lord dy Guarida tasked me with reviewing these maps before the morning exercises. I will have to stay up all night."
"Nonsense! You know these lands better than the back of your hand already." Better than Dondo, certainly, thought Cazaril. When he wasn't hung over from the previous night's festivities, he was talking about what he would do when they reached the next tavern. The war for him was nothing more than a matter of course, an expectation for a young lord just waiting to inherit. He was not without ability on the battlefield, but he only focused in the moment of crisis. Forethought meant nothing to him.
Cazaril first attributed Dondo's excessive alcohol consumption to horror at his first battles. Cazaril himself had had similar impulses when he first rode out from Valenda and learned that war wasn't all waving banners and glorious victories. But he soon realized that Dondo seemed to care nothing for either the enemies he had slain or the comrades that he had lost. He'd already replaced two intimate followers without apparent acknowledgment of the changes.
"I'm actually looking at the Archipelago. We've had rumors of increased dissent among the princes, and we want to know if any could be persuaded to remain outside our present conflict. We have reason to believe that some may want to be rid of Mad Prince Olus as much as we would."
"That is something for the light of day. The night is for making merry. Come." The façade of joviality was fading. Dondo was used to getting his way, and he did not appreciate even casual defiance.
"Perhaps another night." When the Roknari worship the Bastard. He pointedly returned to his maps, hoping to save himself from offending Dondo further by mischosen words.
"Have I nothing to tempt even the most high and dutiful Cazaril?" Cazaril perforce turned around once again; it would not do to turn his back deliberately on a scion of one of the most powerful houses in Chalion. "But of course, there are no women or wine in my tent." He gave a mockery of wink and puffed out his chest as if the entire world rested in the palm of his hand. Cazaril had seen the women shuffle out of that tent on many a morning. Some looked merely tired; however, others appeared much the worse for wear. They often picked up forlorn children from their peers who looked out for them. Cazaril had begun to believe the stories of some of Dondo's uglier perversions.
And the wine was just as freely available. Only the finest vintages suited Dondo. Ignoring the strict policy against drunkenness, he took to passing it out to anyone who would take over one of his chores or perform some illicit errand. Those commanders whom he could not bribe into turning a blind eye to his malfeasance he avoided.
Cazaril tried to stay out of Dondo's way as much as possible. But his gluttony, in all aspects of life, almost made Cazaril want to confront him. Many of the soldiers did not have wealthy patrons. He'd seen boys whose voices had barely broken fighting over spare crusts of bread. Dy Guarida worked hard to ensure that his troops were well supplied, but there was always some problem with the baggage trains or the food becoming moldy more quickly than one would expect. Roya Orico was no help, he thought, very secretly. Although dy Guarida's soldiers were not fighting for Orico directly in this conflict, they were fighting for Chalion. And Orico did nothing.
The sweat was starting to stand out on Dondo's brow as he waited for a response. Cazaril forced his back into a more relaxed posture in his camp chair. Dondo would not see him riled nor guess the extent of his dislike if he could help it. He smiled. "Did you hear dy Guarida's announcement that we we're going to stay over in the provincial capital during the Daughter's festival next week? It will be nice to have a proper bed for a few nights."
Dondo scowled. "The Son is my god. Daughter's festivals are for peasants who have nothing better to do with their time. Give me a boar hunt or a masque any day."
"I fear we will have to disagree about that." That conversational gambit having failed, Cazaril was scrambling for another, one about time running away from one or something to that effect.
But Dondo clearly saw that he was making no progress with turning Cazaril into one of his lackeys. "Very well, Castillar. I'll leave you to your maps and priggishness. Although I do beg you to consider your future." With that cryptic remark, he departed behind the swish of tent fabric.
Cazaril pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He waited several minutes before returning to his work. But he soon put Dondo out of his mind; Cazaril decided that if he did not antagonize his fellow soldier needlessly, then he would face no more trouble from him.