The Golden Key (46 page)

“No more rude than any moualimo was to me. ‘Vedra—will you stand as we discussed?”

“Must you treat him as you were treated? If you resented it so much, then surely—”

“Perhaps resentment is a part of the training. It did make me hungrier.”

“And angrier.”

“Which most likely is a part of the recipe also.” He looked at her patiently, waiting. When she did not alter her stance, he made an inquiry. “Do you mean for us to begin today
at all
?”

Saavedra, still scowling, muttered in frustration. “Can’t you just begin a sketch without me? There is the background that doesn’t require me at all, and—”

“I want it this way,” he said firmly. “I want to capture every bit of you, from beginning to end.”

“Why?”

He sighed elaborately. “Perhaps I should ask you why you required
Alejandro
to be present for every single moment as you painted him.”

She clamped her mouth shut. Color rose in her face.

Sario smiled sweetly. “Grazzo. Now, will you take up your position?”

“I thought you wanted to argue.”

“I thought we
had.
”

“Eiha, no—this was nothing. A skirmish.” She did not seem quite so irritated now, as if the boy’s departure and their habitual bantering eased the situation onto less turbulent ground. “Ignaddio wants nothing more than for someone to approve of his work.”

“Do you?”

“He is promising.”

“Many are promising, ‘Vedra.”

“From many come the few,” she countered. “You were one of many also.”

“But no one else,” he said, “stands where I do today.”

“Oh, no?” She arched expressive brows. “I do—save at this very moment I sit. But that can be changed. I need only to rise, no?”

He offered her the grin she had sparred for, baited for. “You, too, were promising.”

“No more? Eiha, I am desoladia!” One hand pressed her heart,
mocking him. “I rather believed there were yet techniques I might still master. But now you say I
was
promising—”

“I dare say you remain so,” he said, “but you will not permit me to judge if there is worth enough to teach you … if there is Gift in you, although I know there is. But you are afraid.”

“Worth!” She thrust herself from the chair, standing now on the other side of the table. “You think I have none because I will not succumb to your barbs and blandishments? Because you have convinced yourself I am somehow Gifted, despite the fact no Grijalva woman has
ever
been Gifted, and blame my reluctance on fear?” She shook her head. “Nommo do’Matra—you were always arrogant, but this transcends it! You are not the Son, Sario, to sit upon the Throne beside the Mother!”

“En verro,” he agreed, “but there is indeed a throne, and I stand beside a Duke.”

That blow struck home. He saw her recoil, albeit slight; marked the stiff tension in her shoulders, the taut line of her arms as she planted hands upon the table to brace herself.

“
There!
” he cried, before she could shout at him. “This is how I should paint you: Saavedra Grijalva, poised on the brink of foul language! Foul, scathing,
powerful
language, enough to send me to my deathbed, no doubt!” He laughed at her. “Eiha, ‘Vedra, have I stirred you to true anger? Do you fear I will lose myself in such luxury and the trappings of power that no more shall I be your little Neosso Irrado?”

“You
have
,” she said in a deadly tone. “You have already lost yourself, Sario.”

“And what of you?” he countered. “Have you lost me? Or did I lose you first?”

She blinked. “I don’t—”

“—understand? But you do. You understood and accepted it the day you permitted yourself to bed Alejandro do’Verrada.”

Her face was very white. “And you? Did you not turn from me first, on the day you permitted yourself to study with that Tza’ab estranjiero?”

“I learned much from him.”

“Too much.”

“Enough to please our new Duke. Am I not Lord Limner?”

“
That
took me—” And she stopped. As if someone from behind had thrust a spear through her spine.

It required no time at all; he had never been slow of wit, nor lacking in knowledge of conspiracies and the will to discern them.
The initial retort died so quickly he might never have thought it. In his fist, abruptly, charcoal snapped.

One of her hands pasted itself to her throat, as if to wrench free the cords that gave her voice. The other very tightly gripped the edge of the table, so tightly he saw the blood-blush and white striations in her unpainted fingernails, the rigidity of locked knuckles.

He was both surprised and gratified that she made no attempt to renounce what she had begun to say, that which was, left unsaid, implication enough to answer unasked questions. Explanation was not required.

Empty. Curiously
empty.
Or perhaps the shock would come later. “So,” he said quietly, “shall you assume the pose we agreed upon?”

She was white to the lips. “You
still
—”

“—wish to paint you? Eiha, of course. It is for Alejandro, and I serve my Duke in all things.”

The hand at her throat shifted, passed from neck to breasts, to abdomen. And rested there. Intimately. “If—if you think it wise …”

“Wisdom has nothing to do with a man’s desire to have his amora painted, Saavedra. That is vanity. And possession.” Sario sought, took up another charcoal, “Adezo, Saavedra, please assume the pose.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN  

Martain
diffidently uncrated and unwrapped the swathed rectangular parcel, then carefully set it upright on an armless chair. It was not a proper easel, but would do; certainly well enough that Alejandro and everyone else in the chamber might look upon the painted woman and see her worth, though her value was incalculable when one counted not only the dowry but political gain also.

“So.” It was Edoard do’Najerra, the argumentative Marchalo Grando. “Pracanza sires beauty.”

Alejandro looked at him sharply.
Too eagerly said
… and others in the chamber, moving to approach, to examine, murmured impressed agreement as swiftly.

“His last task!” do’Najerra said, raising his voice so that all might hear. “Baltran’s final concern was for his son’s welfare, and the future of the duchy!”

Agreement, approval, tribute. Alejandro wanted very badly to scowl, but kept his expression bland as watered wine.

“Belissimia,” do’Najerra pronounced with vigor, indicating the portrait.

Agreement. Approval. Tribute.

Blessed Mother, lend me patience
… “It is agreed,” Alejandro said lugubriously, “that the woman is beautiful.”

“And a princess,” do’Najerra added; to that wholly unnecessary observation his Duke did at last cast a mildly irritated glance, and the Marchalo Grando had the unexpected grace to color, to cough, to become fascinated by a nonexistent scuff on a perfectly-tended boot.

“And a woman,” Martain murmured for ducal ears only; after years of service with Baltran do’Verrada, and half as many spent prying the Heir’s comfit sticky fingers off various letters, he had the right of familiarity.

Alejandro grinned briefly, then trimmed it back to a slight, meaningless smile offered to the others. “We shall consider,” he said, “and contemplate, and in all ways weigh the worth of the alliance between Tira Virte and Pracanza.”

“But, Your Grace!” Do’Najerra forgot all about his boot. “Your
Grace—your father had already done so … I recall quite clearly discussing the advantages of such a union!”

“
You
may have discussed them. I never did. I was not consulted.”

“Your Grace, this was what your father desired! This is what he set out to Pracanza
for
—”

“And what he
died
for, en verro!” Rivvas Seranno. Of course.

Agreement, unmodified by approval or tribute. Alejandro clamped his teeth tightly shut. One upraised hand quelled the murmuring; it was Estevan do’Saenza who was slow to still, standing next to Rivvas Serrano.
I would do well to separate them
, Alejandro thought,
much like a moualimo separates unruly estudos.

He gifted them all with a steady smile of unflagging self-confidence. Watching Sario Grijalva handle the twenty men with such ease had offered inspiration. “The world is different now than it was but weeks ago, when my father lived—”

“En verro!” Serrano declared vehemently. “Matra Dolcha, the day those bells were tolled … Nommo Matra ei Filho, I thought my heart would break!”

Alejandro raised his voice. “As I said, the world is different now, and we must not forget that one small change may alter the significance of events—”

“
Small
change!” Estevan do’Saenza, collar cutting into fleshy throat, took on a most unflattering hue. “You call the death of Baltran do’Verrada a
small change
?”

“Within the world, weighed against the scope of all the duchies and principalities and kingdoms, yes,” Alejandro said. “We are a small duchy, important only to ourselves.”

The indrawn breath of shock multiplied by twenty astounded conselhos became the noise of catastrophe. Alejandro realized it and cursed himself, caught Martain’s slight movement from the corner of his eye, forced himself to relax.
I need Grijalva here with me. He is better suited for this than I.
But Grijalva was elsewhere, and the new Duke had no one but himself.
What would he do in my place
?

He answered himself swiftly and took two strides to the painting propped against the chair. “Do you doubt me?” he asked, so quietly they had to silence themselves to hear. “Do you doubt the wisdom of a man who must weigh his present and future against his father’s past?” Now he loosed the restraints on his tone. “Eiha, you should
not; I would suggest that the King of Pracanza is just this moment reevaluating
me!
”

That caught them. They had none of them thought of that.

“And perhaps he shall find me wanting, no? I am not my father, as you have all been at pains to remind me … and perhaps the Pracanzan king thinks less of me as Duke than he might as Heir to a man in his prime—do you believe it possible? Do you think he might reconsider and ask for the portrait back?” He dropped one hand to loosely grip the frame. “Is it not possible that Pracanza may decide I am not worthy of this admittedly beautiful woman?” He shrugged. “After all, a man who cannot lead his conselhos into common cause in something such as
this
can hardly be counted on in matters such as war.” He paused. “No?”

It roused them all into protest: of
course
he was worthy; of
course
he could lead them into common cause; of
course
Pracanza would believe him ideal for his daughter.

Quietly Martain murmured, “You have them, Your Grace.”

As quietly, “Do I? Good.” Alejandro grinned brilliantly, and the men in the chamber responded as predictably as any crowd would to the dazzling good looks and high humor of the man who so closely resembled the ruler they had lost.

And then Rivvas Serrano made a comment about the Pracanzan painting, about the Pracanzan artist, and reminded them all that the current Tira Virteian Lord Limner was a Grijalva—a
Grijalva!
— who was expected to facilitate the documentation of all matters relating to their city and their duchy.

Triumph faded. “Merditto,” Alejandro murmured as quarreling broke out afresh.

“Your Grace.” Serrano, followed by do’Saenza, worked his way to the front of the multi-hued cluster of men. “Your Grace, forgive our presumption, but we must in all honesty admit our deep concern with the man you have selected to be Lord Limner.”

“Your concern,” Alejandro began, “runs only so deeply as your jealousy of the Grijalvas, who have supplanted your own family.”

“Your Grace!”

“Eiha, be not so dramatic in your reaction, Rivvas. I may not have sat upon my father’s lap during councils, but I have
ears
, do I not? I know very well how deeply runs the enmity between Grijalva and Serrano.”

“For just
cause
, Your Grace.”

“For no cause!” Alejandro shot back. “For no cause in which
you—or anyone—have provided evidence!” He shook his head. “Merditto, Serrano, you are all of you cabessas bisilas! And I am expected to listen to your counsel? How?
Why
? What is there you may offer me save recriminations born out of jealousy and fear?”