The Golden Key (25 page)

Moualimo? No—estranjiero, an old foreign man wandering in wits the way it sometimes took them.

Moualimo. Yes—but what was there the old man could teach him? Color? Pattern? Sario glanced briefly at the loomwork beneath his knees.
He has this to teach me.

The tent itself and the artistry of its appearance had been enough to bring him here; the invitation extended by the old man initially startled when Sario discovered him, whose expression then altered into delight and gratitude had been enough to
leave
him here. And then he had seen Saavedra in the crowd, had spoken of her—and the stranger had gone to fetch her.

Now Saavedra was here, and he felt safe.
She will understand.

She hesitated even as the old man pulled aside the drapery to admit
her. Sario rose, blinking in the shaft of pure sunlight unadulterated now by the sheer netting of gauze, and waited.

’Vedra always understands.

Gauze-defined, day-diffused sunlight was gentle and immensely flattering. He saw the delicate mixture of expressions in her face: in the fine, clear gray eyes; the high, oblique cheekbones; the clean contours of jaw. The set of eloquent black brows divulged her concern, and the line of her mouth, pulled straight, compressed flat into unfamiliar severity. He wanted abruptly to soothe those concerns, to soften that mouth … “Luza do’Orro,” he murmured beneath his breath. “Oh, but I had forgotten.” And had become too consumed, too ambitious, too wholly Gifted to note more than with the artist’s eye instead of with the man’s.

He had known. His body had known. He was no child, no innocent, awkward mennino to remain ignorant of such things. He had been Confirmed years before according to the rites of the family: four women in his bed, four fertile women for several nights each, and none of them got with child. And neither were any of them, beyond the first, unsatisfied with his efforts.

He was infertile, not unable. As he had told her once. As was proved time and again when he desired a bedding, though all too often the fire of his loins sublimated itself in art.

Only she understood him. Only she ever had.

Sario opened his mouth to speak, to explain what had happened, what the stranger had told him, to share with her as always what was in his heart, but Saavedra herself forestalled him. She slid a quick, wary sidelong glance at the old man as he came in beside her, then looked only at Sario. He could see she was frightened. And also rigorous in duty. “You are summoned.” She clipped her words. “Seminno Raimon.”

He could not help himself. “Let him wait.”

It shocked her. “Sario—”

“Let him
wait
, ‘Vedra.” It was not what he had intended, this whip-quick, decisive tone. But urgency fed him now; he sensed a completeness and purpose, as if a pattern never known broken was abruptly mended. And the old man’s expression, oddly, was serenely satisfied. “What he has told me—”

“What?—in his ‘hidden language?’ In his hidden tent?”

“The tent isn’t hidden, ‘Vedra—”

“I didn’t see anything until he brought me inside!”

“
I
did. I saw from the end of the street!”

“So you did,” the old man said complacently. “Acuyib has blessed you with the inner vision.”

Saavedra did not lack for decisiveness. “You have been summoned,” she repeated. “Matra Dolcha, Sario, have you forgotten what you are?” She indicated with a subtle movement of her head the chain and key against his breast, tangled in creases of wilted, soiled lawn. “We are not to refuse the responsibilities of our family.”

“What does Raimon want?”

A second quick, slicing glance at the old man. “I don’t
know
,” she said tersely. “But—he was not himself.”

Sario grimaced. “He is of the Viehos Fratos. No one may be himself, once he is of their number.”

“
Sario!
” Color stained the delicate tones of her face, so that the bone of her jawline stood out pale in taut relief. “This man is estranjiero!”

“Not here.” The old man’s rebuke was gentle but crisply definitive. “Not within my home. And no more estranjiero than either of you, who share my blood.”

“Your blood!” Shocked. Angry. Uncertain of all but confusion. “I am a Grijalva—”

“And chi’patro,” the old man reminded her. “Both of you. I myself am not. I can count back all of my generations to Acuyib’s Great Tent itself, but you are more than what you believe.”

“Tza’ab,” Saavedra breathed. “
That’s
what you are. I recognize the turban from the painting … from Piedro’s
Death of Verro Grijalva.
It is a different color, but it is the same.”

“Ai, I am found out!” The old man, unexpectedly, retained most of his teeth, though they were stained yellow; now he flashed them briefly. “
Zev’reina
, I beg you—give me time—”

“I have none!” She was, Sario noted with an artist’s detached eye, white and black at once: white of face, of lips; black of eye as pupils dilated. “And neither does he have time.” She turned sharply to Sario. “You are summoned to Seminno Raimon.”

“Let him wait.” The Tza’ab quietly echoed Sario’s words of a moment before. “Truly, you will see the sense in it. I promise.”

“And what is it worth, your promise?” Sario had never seen Saavedra so rude before, or so frightened. “What are you to us? Estranjiero—foreigner and enemy—”

“Not to you. None of those things. One is not estranjiero or enemy
within these walls, beneath my roof, breathing the very air exhaled by Acuyib.” The ancient face reflected no hurt, no offense, that she should be so discourteous in a place he had welcomed her. “You have come home, Children of the Golden Wind. And at least one of you will never stray again.”

  THIRTEEN  

Forty-three
years had not yet robbed Duke Baltran of a powerful, easy grace. Smoothly he hooked his right leg forward across the pommel, then simultaneously turned in the saddle and kicked free of the left stirrup to jump down all of a piece, landing lightly and balanced as a fencer. The informal dismount had not been taught by the Premio Chevallo charged with instructing him in equine mastery as a boy, but adopted as a time-saver by a vigorous, active young man. It made him feel young to employ it even now, despite the occasional twinges in his knees. It was easier—and politically sound—to let the others see him so vigorous than to admit to the first depredations of bone-fever, a common complaint of folk living in a city built so near marshland. The Grijalvas were riddled with it.

Far better to be of another family entirely than that sadly weakened bloodline!
One silver-banded rein was draped across the stallion’s massive neck; the other the Duke tossed at the young groom come out at a run from the stable block to tend his master’s mount.

Baltran did not hesitate as his companion, clattering up to join him, also dismounted—as quickly, though with markedly less grace as he briefly caught spur in stirrup—but strode across the flagged courtyard even as he stripped leather gloves from his hands. Nor did he hesitate as that companion hastily threw reins at the horse-boy and scrambled to catch up; both men were tall, but the Duke had had more years to accustom himself to the length of his stride.

“Patro—”

“I have told you, no?” Baltran deposited the dusty gloves into the waiting hands of a servant come out to aid him even as he walked toward the Palasso. “It simply is not done.”

“But—”

“There are
reasons
for it, Alejandro. Can you imagine what your mother might say?”

Alejandro matched him now stride for stride, moving with loose-limbed ease that promised to echo his father’s grace if he ever finished growing. “Why would she have to know?”

“She wouldn’t
have
to know, Alejandro, but she
would.
Women
do. The servants attending you and your mistress would know, and they would whisper of it to their friends, who would then know; and the friends would tell
their
friends, and soon enough the women attending the Duchess would know—and there you have it. The Duchess herself would know, and she would have plenty to say.”

“I could keep her elsewhere.”

“Your mother?” Baltran grinned at his son’s horrified expression. “No, no—eiha, have you no sense of humor?” Still walking, he began to unlace the cords of his leather hunting doublet. “Ah, but no, there is no humor in this—I should recall it myself. It is never amusing when a boy wishes to take his first mistress.” More laces undone, the chest-flap pulled wide, the garment divested and shed into the deft hands of his body-servant. “I have no objection if you wish to keep a mistress, Alejandro, but I would suggest you select another.”

“But I want
her
, Patro—”

“Why? Because she took you to a place you had never before experienced? Because she made you feel things you had not expected to feel?” Baltran, taking pity—his son’s face was white and tense—halted and swung to face his Heir. “Matra, I know—I do know, Alejandro … but it cannot be done. It
should
not be done.”

“But I am the Heir … and if I desire it—”

“Alejandro.” Baltran summoned patience. “Alejandro, you are indeed the Heir, and you will be able to do many things in life when and as you wish them. But they should only be done after much thought.”

“I
have
thought, Patro.”

The Duke waved the body-servant away despite the sweat-soiled folds of shirt clinging to his torso; he would not strip here in the courtyard, and neither would he make his son trail him into the Palasso like a submissive puppy begging for attention. “You have thought, Alejandro, yes. I have no doubt. But there are details perhaps you have not considered.”

“Details?” Given ground to stand, courage kindled: Alejandro was less rushed now and coolly insistent. “I want her. You don’t. What more is there than that?”

“Political concerns.”

“She’s a
mistress
, not a princess … what value does she have in politics?”

Baltran untied soiled cuffs and began to roll back full sleeves, displaying thick, tanned forearms. “She was
my
mistress, Alejandro—and she is a Serrano. While she may well seek an alliance—perhaps
even a marriage—with a wealthy nobleman, it would not serve for her to leave my bed for yours.”

The son was annoyed. “You have another woman in yours, Patro.”

The father grinned easily. “So I do. And for all you know, it may even be your mother … but that is not your concern. You must think again, Alejandro, and see what lies ahead. Gitanna Serrano, cast off from the Duke but given to the Heir … aside from the problem of your mother’s reaction, there would be the reaction of the Court.”

“What does it matter
which
woman I take to bed?”

“Because it does. It always does. It must—unless she be a comely maidservant pitifully grateful for the attention … but such a woman would not be a part of the politics, merely a convenience. That is of no moment. If you wish to tumble such, you have my blessings—but if you wish to install a woman in the Palasso you must take greater care.”

“Patro—”

“Bassda, Alejandro … I weary of this subject. You have my word on it: Gitanna Serrano is not to be your mistress. She served to make you a man and so you are, but you would be better served to look elsewhere for a bedpartner. Perhaps to the do’Brendizia, or the do’Casteya—the Serranos have been elevated quite enough, grazzo, with Zaragosa as Lord Limner, Caterin as Premia Sancta, and Gitanna in my bed!” He shrugged broad shoulders. “It was unwise of me, but I was smitten by the mennina. It lasted longer than expected … eiha, it happened; what more can I say? As for now, I cannot dismiss either Zaragosa or the Premia Sancta—”

“—so you dismiss Gitanna.”

The Duke laughed, amused. “It is somewhat easier to replace a mistress than Lord Limner or Premia Sancta, yes? In the former case, I should have to die; and in the latter,
she
would.”

“And that is why? You cast her off because of
politics
?”

Baltran’s grin faded. “I cast her off because I wearied of her constant prating against the Grijalvas, her repeated demands that I revoke the Ducal Protection—Matra Dolcha, I hear enough of that from the Premia Sancta!—and because I prefer another.” He shrugged dismissively. “You will see, Alejandro … when a man is offered the choicest of innumerable wines, he often prefers to sample the grapes before selecting the variety he wishes to drink after dinner.” He softened his tone, curbed the irony; he remembered his own impetuous youth and how detached condescension infuriated him. “Alejandro, I assure you of this: you are not in love with her.
She is your first woman, and you are quite understandably infatuated with her. Eiha, aren’t we all infatuated with our first?” He grinned reminiscently; Trinia had been exquisite to look at and generous in bed. “But there will come a woman, and there will come a time, when you recognize the difference.”