[Ficlet -- Chalion] Clean Slate
March 23rd, 2009 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shimotsukiWork has been really, really busy -- pretty much ever since the winter holidays. I had high hopes for fic writing during my time off two weeks ago, but not a lot got done.
So this is neither (1) my new "Order" chapter, (2) a "Kaleidoscope" update, (3) my contribution to the Ides of March HP event at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandomfusion, or even (4) the tiny Cazaril/Betriz ficlet I'm writing as a challenge response for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mrstater. No, this is a completely random plotbunny that took over my brain yesterday morning on the way to work, and has nothing to do with any of my "real" projects.
But posting something is better than posting nothing. ...Right?
Clean Slate (712 words | G)
A bath boy recognizes a face and discovers that he once made a grave mistake indeed.Clean Slate
Gomo poured clean hot water over the last of the customers, making sure that all of the soap was rinsed away. He waited until the man had climbed into the gently steaming tank with the others before bowing politely and slipping through the door and out of the courtyard.
Papa was in the front of the shop, folding an enormous pile of soft linen towels.
“They’re all soaking now,” said Gomo. “Please, Papa, may I—”
“What, you want to leave your old father to handle this booming business all on his own?” Papa pretended to scold, but Gomo could see his eyes twinkling. “Yes, go and watch for a while, but don’t go far. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Gomo grinned his thanks and dashed outside.
He couldn’t have gone very far even if he had wanted to, though—the street was filled with yet another noble procession that had ground to a halt when it encountered the narrow twisting lanes of the old fortress town. So Gomo stayed back along the wall of the bath house and contented himself with looking at the horses.
Lords and ladies had been pouring into Valenda for days, come to attend the funeral of the old Provincara. Royina Iselle would attend, of course, since the Provincara had been her grandmother. Gomo supposed it would be exciting to see the royina, even though he could remember Iselle perfectly well from when she was only a royesse who lived right here in Valenda.
But what Gomo really longed to catch, in the infrequent moments of freedom from his duties in the bath, was a glimpse of Royse Bergon. Everyone said the royse-consort was tall, strong and handsome. Brave and wise. He and his mother the royina of Ibra had resisted his elder brother’s siege when he was only a boy. He had been kidnapped and rescued. He had raced from Ibra across half of Chalion to wed Royina Iselle when he was scarcely three years older than Gomo was now.
Even with no royse-consort in sight, however, there was plenty to look at, especially the elegant horses. A particularly fine black mare stood just in front of him, and Gomo gazed hungrily at her restless stamping hooves, the graceful arch of her neck, the silver trim on her bridle.
Then he looked up, curious to see what sort of lord would have such a fine mount. The rider was a tall man dressed in black and gray, wearing a heavy gold chain around his neck.
And he was staring at Papa’s shop with a very odd look on his face indeed.
Gomo gasped. It was him. The vile criminal. The man he had warned Papa about, that time.
How had such a man become a splendid lord? Didn’t anyone know? Gomo shrank back against the wall of the shop, trying to decide what to do.
A soldier captain, wearing the green and black livery of Baocia, hurried up alongside the black mare on foot. “My lord chancellor,” he called. “Please forgive the delay. We will have the procession moving again in just a moment.”
“Five gods,” Gomo whispered. The man on the mare was Chancellor dy Cazaril. How could someone so despicable have become—
Oh.
All at once, Gomo remembered the stories.
Dy Cazaril, they said, had indeed been flogged.
On a Roknari galley.
Saving the life of Royse Bergon.
Oh.
Dy Cazaril looked down, then, and saw Gomo staring. The chancellor stiffened, and stared back.
Son of Autumn, help me. Gomo began to shake. What would happen now? Would he be thrown into the castle dungeon? Would Papa’s shop be closed down?
“My lord,” he croaked. “I’m sorry for—for that time. I didn’t understand.”
Dy Cazaril was silent for another moment. Then, unexpectedly, the stern mouth relaxed into the beginning of a smile.
“Don’t look so frightened, son. What’s your name?”
“Gomo.” He licked dry lips. “My lord.”
“Gomo.” The chancellor sighed, but the lopsided smile remained. “Next time, maybe you will wait for an explanation before you rush to judgment?”
“Oh, I will.”
The horses began to move, but Gomo jogged alongside the mare, looking up into eyes that were friendlier than he would ever have dared hope.
“I promise!”
. * fin * .
[ To Chalion/Vorkosigan story index ]
.
So this is neither (1) my new "Order" chapter, (2) a "Kaleidoscope" update, (3) my contribution to the Ides of March HP event at
fandomfusion, or even (4) the tiny Cazaril/Betriz ficlet I'm writing as a challenge response for mrstater. No, this is a completely random plotbunny that took over my brain yesterday morning on the way to work, and has nothing to do with any of my "real" projects.But posting something is better than posting nothing. ...Right?
Clean Slate (712 words | G)
A bath boy recognizes a face and discovers that he once made a grave mistake indeed.
(Warning: Major spoilers for my very favorite plot twist in all of Curse of Chalion. Do NOT read this ficlet if you haven't read Chalion yet but plan to someday.)
Gomo poured clean hot water over the last of the customers, making sure that all of the soap was rinsed away. He waited until the man had climbed into the gently steaming tank with the others before bowing politely and slipping through the door and out of the courtyard.
Papa was in the front of the shop, folding an enormous pile of soft linen towels.
“They’re all soaking now,” said Gomo. “Please, Papa, may I—”
“What, you want to leave your old father to handle this booming business all on his own?” Papa pretended to scold, but Gomo could see his eyes twinkling. “Yes, go and watch for a while, but don’t go far. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Gomo grinned his thanks and dashed outside.
He couldn’t have gone very far even if he had wanted to, though—the street was filled with yet another noble procession that had ground to a halt when it encountered the narrow twisting lanes of the old fortress town. So Gomo stayed back along the wall of the bath house and contented himself with looking at the horses.
Lords and ladies had been pouring into Valenda for days, come to attend the funeral of the old Provincara. Royina Iselle would attend, of course, since the Provincara had been her grandmother. Gomo supposed it would be exciting to see the royina, even though he could remember Iselle perfectly well from when she was only a royesse who lived right here in Valenda.
But what Gomo really longed to catch, in the infrequent moments of freedom from his duties in the bath, was a glimpse of Royse Bergon. Everyone said the royse-consort was tall, strong and handsome. Brave and wise. He and his mother the royina of Ibra had resisted his elder brother’s siege when he was only a boy. He had been kidnapped and rescued. He had raced from Ibra across half of Chalion to wed Royina Iselle when he was scarcely three years older than Gomo was now.
Even with no royse-consort in sight, however, there was plenty to look at, especially the elegant horses. A particularly fine black mare stood just in front of him, and Gomo gazed hungrily at her restless stamping hooves, the graceful arch of her neck, the silver trim on her bridle.
Then he looked up, curious to see what sort of lord would have such a fine mount. The rider was a tall man dressed in black and gray, wearing a heavy gold chain around his neck.
And he was staring at Papa’s shop with a very odd look on his face indeed.
Gomo gasped. It was him. The vile criminal. The man he had warned Papa about, that time.
How had such a man become a splendid lord? Didn’t anyone know? Gomo shrank back against the wall of the shop, trying to decide what to do.
A soldier captain, wearing the green and black livery of Baocia, hurried up alongside the black mare on foot. “My lord chancellor,” he called. “Please forgive the delay. We will have the procession moving again in just a moment.”
“Five gods,” Gomo whispered. The man on the mare was Chancellor dy Cazaril. How could someone so despicable have become—
Oh.
All at once, Gomo remembered the stories.
Dy Cazaril, they said, had indeed been flogged.
On a Roknari galley.
Saving the life of Royse Bergon.
Oh.
Dy Cazaril looked down, then, and saw Gomo staring. The chancellor stiffened, and stared back.
Son of Autumn, help me. Gomo began to shake. What would happen now? Would he be thrown into the castle dungeon? Would Papa’s shop be closed down?
“My lord,” he croaked. “I’m sorry for—for that time. I didn’t understand.”
Dy Cazaril was silent for another moment. Then, unexpectedly, the stern mouth relaxed into the beginning of a smile.
“Don’t look so frightened, son. What’s your name?”
“Gomo.” He licked dry lips. “My lord.”
“Gomo.” The chancellor sighed, but the lopsided smile remained. “Next time, maybe you will wait for an explanation before you rush to judgment?”
“Oh, I will.”
The horses began to move, but Gomo jogged alongside the mare, looking up into eyes that were friendlier than he would ever have dared hope.
“I promise!”
[ To Chalion/Vorkosigan story index ]
.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-27 03:27 am (UTC)And the crow thanks you too. ;)