The Golden Key (61 page)

The
Ghillasian capital, Aute-Ghillas, eagerly anticipated the forthcoming arrival of Don Arrigo do’Verrada. Don Arrigo, who anticipated his forthcoming marriage with nothing approaching eagerness, was going to be a little late arriving. The gist of this—gently and diplomatically phrased—brought a heartfelt cry from Princess Mechella.

“But when?
When
?”

King Enrei frowned, irritated by his daughter’s frets. Lucky for the girl that only her family was there to observe. They in turn were observed by the professional eye of the Grijalva Limner, who told himself that a portrait capturing the moment would be less than flattering.

The King, slightly squint-eyed from too much time spent studying documents, was not attractive when annoyed. A flush extended from lace collar to fair cheeks, across a hooked nose all the way up to a freckle-peppered pate revealed by scanty golden hair. In the Limner’s opinion, he would have benefited from his royal predecessor’s penchant for wigs. The Crown Prince, lounging in elegant boredom by a window, was clad for the hunt and looked as if his sole competency in life was the daily murder of helpless woodland creatures. An older Princess sat prim-lipped in a corner, looking simultaneously smug and sour. The lovely Mechella simply looked miserable. And mulish. Who would guess that such an expression could appear on that sweet face? Her father gave her a glance that ordered her to alter it; the Limner hid a grin, knowing that the King feared he would paint a warning to Arrigo.

“Carridia,” said the King to his only daughter, “I know you’re disappointed. But I’m sure he won’t keep us waiting long.” The tone and the knotted brows indicated that mere Heirs to Grand Dukes did not keep Kings waiting at all.

The Limner assayed yet another low bow, with yet another flourish of the soft arrtio’s cap: Grijalva gray with three plumes dyed Verrada blue. The number and color of the feathers told all and sundry that he was an Itinerarrio as clearly as the Chieva do’Orro on its long chain meant he was a Limner. Only a Grijalva would know that the length of the feathers—a whole foot each, and
damnably difficult it was to manage them sometimes, too—indicated his membership in the Viehos Fratos.

“Gracious Majesty,” he said, knowing his Ghillasian
r
was nicely gargled for a foreigner, “Don Arrigo charged me specifically to humble himself before his bride. It is an unhappy fact that even the most vital personal concerns must sometimes be superseded by affairs of state.” Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a blue leather pouch glistening with the gold Grand Ducal Seal. “His Grace bade me give unto the Princess’ hand this token of apology, loving affection, and hopes for the future.”

King Enrei nodded permission for him to approach across the throne room’s pink marble floor. Bowing again, he said to Mechella, “These are Don Arrigo’s own words: ‘Please accept this poor trifle, and if I am to be forgiven this delay, please wear it when I come to you, so I may know your feelings at once.”’

He opened the drawstring. Into her palm spilled a clanging chain of beaten silver ovals set with balas sapphires he judged to be worth over two thousand mareias.

There was nothing wrong with the King’s eye for jewelry. “‘Trifle’? His Grace apologizes rather expensively,” he remarked in dry tones.

The Crown Prince grinned irrepressibly at his stunned sister. “Be sure to make him feel guilty often, ‘Chella. You’ll end up with more jewels than the Empress of Tza’ab Rih!”

Taking the liberty of giving the young man a wink, the Limner said, “In fact, Highness, this once belonged to the Empress Nooria al’Assadda, from whom it was—shall we say, ‘liberated’?—after the Battle of Shagarra Plain.” Turning once more to the girl, he added, “It would be an honor and give me great personal pleasure to paint Your Highness wearing these jewels before His Grace arrives.”

She watched him carefully, blue eyes outshining the gems she completely forgot as he promised Arrigo’s presence. “Soon, Itinerarrio Dioniso? Very soon?”

He made a graceful gesture of one hand. “What man, knowing such a woman awaits him, would delay an instant longer than absolutely necessary?”

She blushed charmingly, and the jewels trembled a little in her fingers. Her prune-mouthed aunt flashed her a look that said her own hands would clutch this “trifle” white-knuckled whenever it wasn’t clutching her skinny neck. He made a mental note to gift the old stick with a few spare baubles to soften her up. He already knew, with regret, that his Anthalussan gelding was about to join
the Crown Prince’s string of hunters in the cause of sweetening Ghillasian tempers. There remained only the problem of how to slather the King with enough honey to smooth over Arrigo’s delay. Damn the fool for balking at the marriage, and costing Tira Virte so much by way of bribes to soothe these justifiably affronted royals.

Then he had an idea. Aute-Ghillas had been without a painter since old Bartollio Grijalva died twelve years ago. One provision of the marriage contract was a supply of limners for the nobility, plus a Court Limner—and only the Grijalvas and Grand Duke Cossimio would know the difference signaled by the capital letter. Arrigo wouldn’t arrive for at least a week; the time could be spent and the King’s annoyance assuaged by execution of a portrait.
Several
portraits, he told himself glumly as he regarded once more the distinctly uninspiring aunt, unless Arrigo got his ass into the saddle soon. Mechella would be a delight to paint. Pretty girls always were. An equestrian portrait of the Crown Prince, of course. As for the King … eiha, there were ways of hiding baldness.

If the royals were pleased—as was the duty of a Grijalva acting on behalf of a Grand Duke of Tira Virte—Arrigo might even be welcomed as planned instead of being kept waiting as retaliation. There were a million excuses for delaying a wedding: needlework, banquet, decorations, guests, a shy bride (not a factor here, he thought wryly)—he’d seen them all in the course of his lengthy career. The Ghillasians must be made happy, so that they would make Arrigo happy, so that Grand Duke Cossimio and Lord Limner Mequel would be made happy—which they most emphatically would
not
be if Arrigo felt insulted enough by retaliations for his tardiness to cancel the whole thing. If talk told true, he was inclined to cancel anyway.

The things I do for the do’Verradas
, Sario—now Dioniso sighed to himself, and began the necessarily roundabout conversation that would lead to hours and hours spent painting a portrait of Princess Prune-face.

The boy and girl stood side-by-side, listening. The door slammed at their backs. The bolt grated metal-on-wood. The lock clicked. Footsteps moved on to the next chamber. Motionless, not touching, staring at the leather-webbed bed, they waited until the last thunk of wood and clang of metal signaled the last imprisonment and the footfalls died away down the corridor.

The girl spoke first. “You know what to do?”

“I know what to do,” the boy snapped. “You’re my fourth, after all.”

“No guarantee of competence,” she pointed out, crossing to the bed. Above it an arched recess in the wall held an icon with a candle on either side. She reached over and in the last sunset light through high windows lit both wicks. “One for you, one for me,” she muttered. “With the Mother and Son watching as if we were Initiatos in a Sanctia cell. I wonder if They approve.”

“Does that matter to you?”

“Would it matter if it did?” She began unlacing her bodice. Her skin glowed in the dimness, a complexion dusky-dark even for a Grijalva, revealing more than the usual concentration of Tza’ab blood. “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend four months of my life. I’ll do my sacred Grijalva duty, but don’t you dare get me pregnant.” Tossing the bodice toward a corner, she added, “And I won’t put up with anything strange, ‘cordo?”

He unbuttoned his smock and hung it on the door hook. “’Cordo. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Such enthusiasm.” Naked to the waist, she flung her blouse after the bodice and untied the waist-tapes of her skirts. “Honesty’s a good start, I suppose, especially for two people locked in together for the next three nights.”

The chamber did resemble a stark Sanctia cell: bed, washstand, no rug or even a painting here in Palasso Grijalva, except for the watchful icon. At least it was cool despite spring’s unseasonable heat. Whitewashed walls six feet thick were windowed eight feet up on north and south, providing a cross-breeze through silk mesh screens. A feeble gust fingered his hair as he straightened from shedding sandals and trousers.

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” he told her. “I won’t put my brat in your belly. I know what I am.”

“Clever mennino, to know what the Viehos Fratos don’t!”

“I’m not a little boy,” he replied sharply as he removed his shirt.

“That’s what you’re here to prove. I haven’t seen much evidence yet.” She said it in a tough voice, deliberately insulting. But he was man enough even at fourteen to hear that her anger and bitterness had nothing to do with him, and so was not insulted.

Plain gray skirt and white underskirt puddled at her feet. She kicked the garments after the blouse and bodice, stretched out on the bed, and leaned back on her elbows. She had a fine body: high-breasted, slim-waisted, hips richly curved. But most Grijalva women were her equal or better, and she was nothing out of the ordinary.
Head tilted to one side on a long neck that was her best feature, she asked, “Are you really that sure about yourself?”

“I’ve known all my life.”

“If you say so.” With a shrug, she lay back. “Come on, then. They inspect the sheets each morning. At your age, you’ll be expected to perform at least twice a night. That’s supposed to be the best thing about this for us girls.”

As the varied noises of passion began to escape high windows and echo in the hall outside, he set about the task of proving himself in absolute and efficient silence.

After, she rose and went to the washstand, soaking a towel in the basin. As she wiped sweat from her body, she admitted, “You’re no amateur. But you don’t enjoy it much either. I’m not
that
ugly, you know.”

“I think you’re very pretty.” He turned on his side to watch her, head propped against one hand.

She tossed him a wry grin over her shoulder. “A bit of advice, amico. A Limner paints the foul as well as the fair, so learn how to flatter—especially women. Start with whatever she’s proud of—with a little practice, you can always tell. Move on to what she thinks is an imperfection—you’ll know what it is if you’re clever—and then lie like a Tza’ab rug.”

He grinned at the challenge. “You have a lovely neck.”

She gave a start. “How did you—”

“It’s in the way you hold your head, and that little gold necklace is just the right length to emphasize it.” He laughed. “As for ‘imperfection’—I don’t have to lie. Your breasts are perfect.”

Rallying, she retorted, “Had vast experience of breasts, have you?”

“The first girl’s were like overripe melons. The last had none at all.”

“Not bad,” she conceded. “But remember that comparisons are risky unless you know the ins and outs of private rivalries.” After rinsing the towel, she brought it over to him. “Here—feels good in this heat.” A voice cried out down the hall, manly baritone cracking to boyish soprano. “Not as good as
that
, though. Cansalvio’s enjoying himself. I recognize the squeak.”

He scrubbed chest and underarms. “What a tragedy if
he
turns up Limner! I’ve more talent in one thumb than he has in his whole body.”

“Matra Dolcha! So sure of that, too? How do you know so much?”

“You don’t live at the Palasso.”

With a frown: “No, with my mother and stepfather in his caza outside the city. What’s that to do with—”

“If you lived here, you’d hear me spoken of.”

Dark eyes widened mockingly. “What a strain such genius must be!”

He blushed, but in annoyance and not for shame at his arrogance. She’d find out—they’d all find out—once this stupid Confirmattio was over and he joined the ranks of the real Limners, the only true Grijalvas.

She tossed the towel to the floor beside the discarded topsheet for the servants to take for washing tomorrow morning. Perching at the foot of the bed, knees hugged to her breasts, she said, “Another piece of advice. Think as highly of yourself as you like—who knows, you may be right to do so—but hide it from the Fratos. They’re a jealous lot. When they find a true talent, they’re both thrilled and furious.”

“I’ve learned that,” he acknowledged. “But how do
you
know it?”

“My brother. Half-brother, really. We’re both Menninos do’Confirmattio. Mother was only sixteen when she had Cabral, twenty when I was born. Then she married Master Jonino—he owns copper mines in Elleon—and took us with her. I’ve lived all my life outside the Palasso and I suppose they forgot about me. But my brother returned for his education. He’s not a Limner—I have a niece around here somewhere—but he’s a great artist all the same.”

“I’m sure,” he said politely.

She wasn’t fooled. “You think talent is reserved exclusively for the steriles? Anyway, I thought his contribution to the family would be enough. But there was a shortage this year, and somebody remembered me, so here I am—worse luck.”