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an ague. And, throughout it all, the bouts of inconsolable weeping. He’d wept when an acolyte offered him dinner. When the sun came out. When the sun went in . When a cat startled him. When he was led to bed. Or at any time, for no cause. “The Temple Hospital of the Mother’s Mercy took me in. When I felt a little better”—when the weeping had tailed mostly off, and the acolytes had decided he was not mad, merely nervous—“they gave me a little money, and I walked here. I was three weeks on the road.”
    The room was dead silent.
    He looked up, to see that the Provincara’s lips had gone tight with anger. Terror wrenched his empty stomach. “It was the only place I could think of!” he excused himself hastily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    The warder blew out his breath and sat back, staring at Cazaril. The lady companion’s eyes were wide.
    In a vibrating voice, the Provincara declared, “You are the Castillar dy Cazaril. They should have given you a horse. They should have given you an escort .”
    Cazaril’s hands flapped in frightened denial. “No, no, my lady! It was…it was enough.” Well, almost. He realized, after an unsteady blink, that her anger wasn’t at him . Oh . His throat tightened, and the room blurred. No, not again, not here… He hurried on. “I wished to place myself in your service, lady, if you can find any use for me. I admit I…can’t do much. Just now.”
    The Provincara sat back, her chin resting lightly on her hand, and studied him. After a moment, she said, “You used to play the lute very pleasantly, when you were a page.”
    “Uh…” Cazaril’s crooked, callused hands tried to hide themselves in each other for a spasmodic instant. He smiled in renewed apology, and displayed them briefly on his knees. “I think not now, my lady.”
    She leaned forward; her gaze rested for a moment on his half-mangled left. “I see.” She sat back again, pursing her lips. “I remember you read all the books in my husband’s library. The master of the pages was always complaining of you for that. I told him to leave you alone. You aspired to be a poet, as I recall.”
    Cazaril was not sure his right hand could close around a pen, at present. “I believe Chalion was saved from a deal of bad poetry, when I went off to war.”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Come, come, Castillar, you quite daunt me with your offer of service. I’m not sure poor Valenda has posts enough to occupy you. You’ve been a courtier—a captain—a castle warder—a courier—”
    “I haven’t been a courtier since before Roya Ias died, my lady. As a captain…I helped lose the battle of Dalus.” And rotted for nearly a year in the dungeons of the royacy of Brajar, thereafter. “As a castle warder, well, we lost the siege. As a courier, I was nearly hanged as a spy. Twice.” He brooded. And three times put to the torture in violation of parley. “Now…now, well, I know how to row boats. And five ways of preparing a dish of rats.”
    I could relish a mighty dish of rat right now, in fact .
    He did not know what she read in his face, for all that her sharp old eyes probed him. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but he hoped it was hunger. He was fairly sure it was hunger, for she at last smiled crookedly.
    “Then come to supper with us, Castillar, though I’m afraid my cook cannot offer you rat. They are not in season, in peaceful Valenda. I shall think on your petition.”
    He nodded mute thanks, not trusting his voice to not break.
    I T BEING STILL WINTER, THE MAIN MEAL OF THE household’s day had been taken at noon, formally, in the great hall. The evening supper was a lighter repast, featuring, by the Provincara’s economy, the leftover breads and meats from noon, but by her pride, the very best of them, supplemented by a generous libation of her excellent wines. In the shimmering heat of the high plains summer, the procedure would be reversed; nuncheon would be light fare, and the main meal taken