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Persistent, though. Although I suppose if I was to attempt to build a hut
using only my mouth, I would do no better. I should write a poem in praise of
birds. If matter that gets up and walks about, like you, is miraculous, how
much more marvelous is matter that gets up and flies!
Palli s mouth quirked in bemusement. Is this poetry or fever, Caz?
Oh, it is a great infection of poetry, a contagion of hymns. The gods delight
in poets, you know.
Songs and poetry, being of the same stuff as souls, can cross into their world
almost unimpeded. Stone carvers, now . . . even the gods are in awe of stone
carvers. He squinted in the sun and grinned back at
Palli.
Nevertheless, murmured Palli dryly, one feels that your quatrain yesterday
morning to Lady Betriz
s nose was a tactical mistake.
I was not making fun of her! Cazaril protested indignantly. Was she still
angry at me when she left?
No, no, she wasn t angry! She was persuaded it was fever, and was very
worried withal. If I were you, I d claim it for fever.
I could not write a poem to all of her just yet. I tried. Too overwhelming.
Well, if you must scribble paeans to her body parts, pick lips. Lips are more
romantic than noses.
Why? asked Cazaril. Isn t every part of her an amazement?
Yes, but we kiss lips. We don t kiss noses. Normally. Men write poems to the
objects of our desire in order to lure them closer.
How practical. In that case, you d think men would write more poems to
ladies private parts.
The ladies would hit us. Lips are a safe compromise, being as it were a
stand-in or stepping-stone to the greater mysteries.
Hah. Anyway, I desire all of her. Nose and lips and feet and all the parts
between, and her soul, without which her mere body would be all still and cold
and claylike, and start to rot, and be not an object of desire at all
.
Agh! Palli ran his hand through his hair. My friend, you do not understand
romance.
I promise you, I do not understand anything anymore. I am gloriously
bewildered. He lay back in his cushions and laughed softly.
Palli snorted, and bent forward to pick up the paper from the top of the pile,
the only one so far with writing on it. He glanced down it, and his brows
rose. What s this? This isn t about ladies noses.
His face sobered; his gaze traveled back to the top of the page, and down once
more. In fact, I m not just sure what it s about. Although it makes the hairs
stand up on the backs of my arms . . .
Oh, that. It s nothing, I fear. I was trying but it wasn t Cazaril s hands
waved helplessly, and came back to touch his brow it wasn t what I saw. He
added in explanation, I thought in poetry the words might bear more freight,
exist on both sides of the wall between the worlds, as people do. So far I
m just creating waste paper, fit only for lighting a fire.
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Hm, said Palli. Unobtrusively, he folded up the paper and tucked it inside
his vest-cloak.
I ll try again, sighed Cazaril. Maybe I can get it right someday. I must
write some hymns to matter, too. Birds. Stones. That would please the Lady, I
think.
Palli blinked. To lure Her closer?
Might.
Dangerous stuff, this poetry. I think I ll stick to action, myself.
Cazaril grinned at him. Watch out, my lord Dedicat. Action can be prayer,
too.
Whispers and muffled giggles sounded from the end of the gallery. Cazaril
looked up to see some servant women and boys crouched behind the carved
railings, peeking through at him. Palli followed his glance. One girl popped
up boldly and waved at them. Amiably, Cazaril waved back. The giggles rose to
a crescendo, and the women scurried off. Palli scratched his ear and regarded
Cazaril with wry inquiry.
Cazaril explained, People have been sneaking in all morning to see the spot
where poor dy Jironal was struck down. If he s not careful, Lord dy Baocia
will lose his nice new courtyard to a shrine.
Palli cleared his throat. Actually, Caz, they re sneaking in to peek at you
. A couple of dy Baocia s
servants are charging admission to conduct the curious in and out of the
palace. I was of two minds whether to quash the enterprise, but if they re
bothering you, I will . . . He shifted, as if to rise.
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