Fic: Twenty Roads Cazaril Did Not Take

[jeriendhal]

It had been a week since he had been delivered to the house of healing in Zagosur, but Cazaril could not stop crying. He had been bathed, been fed, had the worst of the rents on his mutilated back sewn together and the rest bandaged, then finally given new/old clothes to wear, and a blanket to warp himself in as he lay curled in his bed, in a line of beds in the main hall holding ill men, some from his own vessel, others simply poor and helpless. He was safe now, he knew. Still, he could not stop the weeping.

He was absolutely alone, that much he knew. There was no one in Ibra who knew or cared about him, nor was there anyone in Chalion now. Well, perhaps Palli, assuming Palli was even alive. Cazaril had not seen him since they had been separated in the confusion after they had opened the gates to the Roknari at Gortoget, after Cazaril had realized the extent of Chancellor dy Jironal's betrayal. But even if Palli was alive, the idea of facing him once again, to come crawling to his friend, broken and ill and shamed, was too much for Cazaril to consider without breaking out into tears once again.

So he sat in his bed, and watched the slow progress of the shaft of light from the window as it traced its path across the room, and tried to think of nothing at all.

His body had other ideas eventually. After the mid-day meal, Cazaril could not ignore his bladder's protestations any longer, and he shuffled, nearly bent double from the pain of his wounds, to the Necessary to relieve himself. He was shuffling back to his bed, when doors to the hall were flung open, and a pair of men in the uniforms of the Fox of Ibra's personal guard came striding in, a female acolyte of the Mother following them and making loud protestations to them about disturbing her charges.

Startled, Cazaril snuffed back yet another sob, then froze stock still as the guards began working their way down the line of men in the beds, questioning them each briefly before moving on. As he turned to try to head to either his bed or find a dark corner to hide in, the lead guard called out, "You there! Old man! Is your name Caz?"

Cazaril turned towards him, clearing his throat and stuttering, "I… I'm… I…"

"Yes, that's him," the Mother's acolyte provided tartly. "He came in with the other survivors from that horrible Roknari galley. He's never done anything to anyone. Now would you kindly go away."

The guard frowned at her, then said to Cazaril. "My master, the Roya of Ibra, requests and requires you to attend upon him." Without waiting for an answer, the guard's partner grabbed Cazaril by the arm and began to physically drag him out of the building, ignoring Cazaril and the acolyte's protests.

They deposited him into a coach, sitting to either side of him while a team of horses pulled it through the streets to the Fox of Ibra's palace. Cazaril sat between them, shuddering violently, in the grip of a panic attack so severe he lost the ability to either speak or weep.

They reached the entrance to the palace, and then escorted him inside, placing him in small room with a corner fireplace to warm it. He sat in a chair near the fire, ignoring the tray with wine and little spiced shortbread cakes embossed with the sea dog symbol of Ibra that a servant brought for him, at complete loss as to what was going on. Had he been accused of a crime? If so, what crime could it have been that would require the personal attention of the Fox?

The door opened and another servant, no some official of rank, judging from the embossed chain that hung from his neck and shoulders, came in and gave Cazaril a short bow, heavily tinged with irony. "Follow me, if you would, sir."

Cazaril followed, the cheap sandals the acolytes had given him to wear in the house of healing flapping against the tiled floor. He was ushered into a small but elegantly appointed receiving room, where a stringy, elderly man with a fringe of graying hair around his bald scalp was attended by a young boy of perhaps fourteen years or fifteen years. Cazaril blinked as he looked at the boy, ignoring the sharp look the older man gave him as he swayed on his feet in utter bewilderment. That he had been dragged before the Fox of Ibra was bizarre enough…

"Danni?" he murmured, as the boy broke out in a wide grin. He looked much better than he had almost two weeks ago, his shaven head starting to be covered by a fuzz of reddish brown hair, dressed in a sea green tunic and matching trousers. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"You have no idea, do you, Caz? You don't!" Danni rushed forward to hug him, knocking the breath out of Cazaril. "I kiss your hands! I kiss your feet! You're alive! I so was afraid that you had perished after that last beating." The boy turned back to the Fox, who was watching the scene with bemusement. "Father, this is Caz, the man I told you of!"

"F-father?" Cazaril gaped. "I don't… I don't understand." He began to sway again as Danni released him, and the boy quickly got a chair behind Cazaril so he could sit.

"'Danni' is the nickname my mother used to call me," the boy said. "I'm really Begeron, a Royse of Ibra. The Fox is my father."

"What?" Cazaril exclaimed.

"You really didn't know who he was?" the Fox asked. "He said you saved him from a… most unpleasant defilement. You did this for someone you thought was an anonymous boy?"

"Y-yes," Cazaril said, stunned, his head awhirl.

"Oh, it's all very complicated, but the point is that I found you," Danni/Bergeron exclaimed.

"I had promised a considerable reward to any man who returned my son to me," the Fox said carefully, looking up and down at Cazaril's ragged castoffs. "It should… elevate you… considerably."

"I… I… thank you, sir, most humbly," Cazaril said, his voice unsteady. He would not burst out crying in front of this man. "But… I did not defend Danni… Bergeron… for a reward of gold."

"Why then?" the Fox asked.

"I don't…. I don't know. I just did."

"Caz, if it isn't gold you want, what else can we give you?" Bergeron asked, clasping Cazaril's hands in his own.

"A… a place. Any place. Even if it's just another scullion in the kitchens." He turned over his aching, mutilated hands in Bergeron's grip. "I admit I can't… do much… at the moment."

"We'll find something for you, Caz, though better than a mere scullion, I swear," Bergeron said. "My word as Royse."

The panic and terror running through him seem to spill out as if from an overturned bucket, and for the first time since being rescued from the galley, Cazaril felt himself smile. He was truly taken in.

Comments

[kbooklover.livejournal.com]

I'm loving this series. It brings back to mind so much of a book I love but haven't read for a few years. Indeed, there are so many turning points in all our lives that we've no idea of.

Two small typos in the first paragraph, if you don't mind having them pointed out: "then finally given new/old clothes" needs to be "been given"; and I do think the Roknari have done enough to warp Caz, and he'd be more likely to wrap himself in the blanket. I've no gift for fiction, so please accept the comments as part of my thanks for your sharing your creations.

K

[enleve.livejournal.com]

Wouldn't that have been something, if the Roya had found him.

[stasia]

This is excellent - the series, I mean. He even discusses this in passing, with Umegat.

Thank you for writing these.

Stasia

[othercat.livejournal.com]

This is a really great series!

[jeriendhal.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I've really got to finish it one of these days.