The Golden Key (27 page)

The old Tza’ab lightly placed a hand on Sario’s elbow as he stepped toward the tent entrance in pursuit of Saavedra. “No—let her go. It is new to her, this truth. Give her time.”

Sario wrenched away, though little effort was required to free himself of the unobtrusive touch. “New to
me
, also!”

“But you have a greater curiosity, no? And the inner vision.” The old man smiled, spreading palsied hands in an oddly youthful gesture of innocence. “Is it a sin to be curious? No; even I do not suspect your beloved Mother and Son of renouncing curiosity … from it comes your talent, your technique, your hunger for improvement, coupled with the vision, all so you can exalt Their Blessed Names.”

Sario regarded him with some suspicion. Saavedra was gone now, lost within the crowd—and it was true, what the old man said: he
was
curious. “You don’t worship the Mother and the Son.” It was accusation, challenge.

The old man tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his loose saffron-dyed over-robe. “Don’t I?”

Sario evaluated the serene expression. “No,” he said finally. “You are too much Tza’ab.”

“I
am
Tza’ab … could I be more? Could I be less? Could I be anything else?”

It was succinct. “Enemy.”

“Not to you.”

“Why not to me? I am Tira Virteian, and Grijalva—it was both halves of me that caused the downfall of Tza’ab Rih.” Sario offered a superior smile. “His name was Verro Grijalva.”

“Halves of a half,” the old man corrected, indifferent to condescension. “The other half is wholly Tza’ab, and blessed with Tza’ab talent.”

Sario felt his face warm. “Will you insult me with that?”

“Insult you? Claiming you half Tza’ab?” Yellowed teeth were displayed, albeit briefly. “Ai, no—to do so would insult more of me than it insults you!”

Sario shook his head. “But you cannot know if I am half Tza’ab. No one does. No one
can.
We have all married one another so many times, we Grijalvas, or gotten children within
the family, that I may only have but a drop of Tza’ab blood.”

“Look at me,” the old man said. “You came to my tent. You
saw
my tent. You could not read the patterns, but you knew they were for you.”

“Read the patterns?”

“I knew you at once, as you stood before my tent; and how do you
think
I knew you? You saw my tent—and my face is your face.”

Horrified, Sario denied it. “Your face is
old.
”

“My face is ancient,” the Tza’ab agreed calmly, unoffended, “but the bones beneath the flesh do not change.” He tapped his nose with a hooked finger. “Look again, Child of the Golden Wind, and see with an artist’s eyes.”

Thus challenged, Sario accepted. It took no time at all, and less imagination. No wonder at all that the old man, even in the midst of a festival day, knew him. And spoke to him in the name of Verro Grijalva, which was all that was necessary.

That, and the fascination for the makings of his tent.

Frustrated, Sario muttered a street epithet, then turned away from the entrance flap to face the man squarely. “So, I am more Tza’ab than others—I am dark enough for it!—but what is that to me? I am no less tainted, no less accursed by the Ecclesia. It makes no difference at all.”

“It makes every difference. It provides you with the vision.”

“
What
vision? What is this ‘vision’?”

The old man smiled. “The eye of the artist. The eye of Al-Fansihirro.” He went on before Sario could interrupt him. “As for those of the Ecclesia who believe you tainted, they are fools. But not ignorant.”

It astonished Sario. “How can they
not
be ignorant? They claim we use dark magic to fashion life as we wish it … if that were true—Matra! If that were true!—do you think we would permit them to revile us? Do you believe we would remain a lesser family? Do you think we would not
use
the magic to alter our state?”

“You would,” the Tza’ab said, then quietly shifted emphasis. “
You
would.”

“
I
would—I?” Sario laughed sharply. “I am trusted by no man among us, and they are all Grijalvas!”

“Because there is truth in the rumors.”

“What truth? We have no power!”

“You have
some
power.” The Tza’ab turned away, moved to a plump cushion, then carefully lowered himself to sit upon it. “Or
you would have been blind to my tent.” A gesture indicated Sario should seat himself upon the rug again. “There is more to learn. And so we begin.”

“Estranjiero,” Sario breathed, “why should I listen to you?”

“Because you are like me,” the old man said simply. “Loyal to what lies here—and here.” He touched his heart, his brow, then smiled oddly. “Perhaps you
are
me—though I am still alive, and it could be argued that it cannot be so with both of us yet living.”

After a rigid moment of bewildered incomprehension, Sario shook his head. “You are moronno luna. A fool who believes he can touch the moon itself and drag it out of the sky.”

The old man laughed soundlessly. “Will you have it so, then? Only the moon, when you might have the Desert?”

“What do you mean?”

“With Al-Fansihirro, all is possible.”

“With—what? What is that?
Al-Fan
—what did you say?”

“Al-Fansihirro. In the lingua oscurra it means ‘Art and Magic’—and there is the first lesson.” The old man’s gray eyes glinted private amusement. “It is a Tza’ab Order, a holy caste, much as your sanctas and sanctos.”

“What kind of order? If it is like sanctas and sanctos, I want no part of it!”

“Like them in loyalty, devotion, lifelong service. Unlike them in deity, means, and methods.” The Tza’ab turned to a casket beside his cushion and sprang the latch. “You see, Sario, there are many things in this world a man may be, regardless of his age, regardless of his birth. I am old, yes—to a Limner I must look like a corpse dug up from the soil!—but I am far from useless. What I know, I can teach …” He lifted the lid. Sario caught a whiff of aged fragrances, saw a scrap of brilliant green silk. “Ai, but
you
will come to understand.”

The old man drew from the casket a slender leather tube. Despite the trembling in his hands, he deftly untied knots, loosened wire, slipped the cap from the end of the tube, then with extreme care drew a rolled parchment from it. Sario, still standing at the entrance poised to flee even as Saavedra, watched in unflagging fascination as the Tza’ab unrolled the sheet. He placed it with care upon the rug, set carved gold weights upon each corner, then gestured invitation.

Sario looked. And was stunned. “Matra …
Matra ei Filho!
” Without volition he fell to his knees. “How did you—how
can
you … Matra Dolcha, how is this possible?”

“With Al-Fansihirro, all is possible.”

“But—but this …” And at last he saw the theme he could not grasp before. The pattern now was whole. “—Nommo Matra ei Filho …”

“Ai, no,” the old man demurred. “In Acuyib’s name!”

Sario had no time for strange names and stranger deities. Chilled bone-deep, soul-deep, a shudder racked him. Trembling did not cease as he stared at the weighted parchment. “Do you know what this is?”

“A page from the
Kita’ab
,” the Tza’ab answered quietly. “Your kinsman, Verro Grijalva, did not destroy it completely.”

Sario stared hungrily, studying the text, the way the letters were formed, the familiar, decipherable hand he had seen and read before, though this particular page was alien.
No—not all was destroyed
…
some he brought back.
…

Some Verro brought back, some Verro gave to his family. For what the old man displayed with such infinite pride and reverence was a page of the
Folio
only Limners ever saw.

The Tza’ab
Kita’ab
, their most holy text.

What was worshiped by Tza’ab as the key to their God was studied by Grijalvas as the key to their Gift.

Inane, inexplicable laughter bubbled up inside Sario’s chest, trying to burst free.
And again I am reading ahead!

Saavedra fought her way back through the festival crowd as far as the Zocalo Grando, then to the fountain before the huge cathedral. Children still clung to marble finials and basins, but she pressed them aside and stepped up on the pediment, leaning forward to plunge hands deeply into the cool water. Unmindful of the spillage, of spray, of the soaking of her clothing, she sluiced water noisily to bathe her face.

Relief from heat, from humidity; a cooling of the flesh, but the warmth of anger remained. And she did not know why. He was an old man, Tza’ab or no; what could he do? Did it matter that he knew what blood was in their veins? Everyone knew, when the surname was declared. Even if a single Grijalva were free of Tza’ab blood, the taint adhered regardless. All because a party of women, in service to the Duchess Jesminia, were kidnapped by Tza’ab warriors.

No. That was wrong. It wasn’t the kidnapping itself that tainted the women, but the subsequent rapes and the bearing of bastards sired by the enemy. And that
of
all the women thus treated, only the two Grijalvas had not killed themselves from shame or retired from
society into various Sanctias. The Grijalva women bore their half-breed children, kept them, and adopted the shunned infants of the other women. And in Palasso Grijalva all the children of rape were also allowed to conceive and bear children.

The Ecclesia would prefer that all of the women died or retired, and that all of the infants had been exposed.
Droplets chased down her face. Saavedra clung to the basin, hair completely undone now and dangling into the fountain. Her knuckles were pale beneath taut flesh.
And then there would be no chi’patros, and perhaps no Nerro Lingua, and the Ecclesia would not have to trouble themselves with us.

And no Saavedra Grijalva. No Sario.

Saavedra closed her eyes. Damp lashes met wet cheeks.
What will the old man do
?

“Belissimia,” said a voice, “are you here unattended?”

She started, clutching again at the basin as she opened her eyes to look at the speaker. The sun glazed her vision, but she saw the silhouette: tall, male, informally clad in shirtsleeves and breeches.

“I am free to be,” she answered.

“And all to the better.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Is there something you want of me?”

There was laughter in his tone. “What is there a man
should
want of a woman?”

She flung back soaked curls and was pleased to see him shy from a spray of water. Hastily she scrubbed dampness from her brows, blotted dripping chin. “There are many things a man
may
want,” she said, “but only one a man like you might consider, asking a young woman if she is unattended.”

He laughed softly. “Fuega Vesperra,” he said. “Am I wrong to think of conception?”

“But it isn’t
conception
you care to pursue,” she countered. “Only the preliminaries, the danza before the fact.”

“So, you have me … and shall we celebrate the festival in the only appropriate way?”

“The only way
I
intend to celebrate it is alone,” she declared, “and—appropriately—at home.”

“Your unkindness leaves me desoladio!”

“As it leaves me desolad
ia.
” Saavedra smiled brightly. “Why not cool it in the fountain?” She scooped up a handful of water and splashed it at his face.

“Canna!” he cried furiously, and clamped a broad hand around her wrist. “I should drown you for that!”

“No,” another voice said. “I think not. Nommo do’Verrada.”

“Do’Verad—” The first man broke off hastily and released Saavedra’s wrist. “It’s done. Do you see? Done!”

“I see,” the other said gravely, “and now you may go. Adezo, if you please—though the latter is merely a courtesy; it pleases
me
that you go, and I am the one who matters.”

“Adezo,” the other blurted, and made his way off at once.

Saavedra offered the newest arrival a broad grin. “You have a fine gift for command!”

“Do I?” He shrugged. “It was the name, no more. It carries some small weight.”

“The Duke’s name?—I should think so!”

“Not the Duke’s. Mine. He knew me, that chiros.”

“Yours? But—wait …” Saavedra moved so that the sun no longer shone in her eyes. She saw him clearly now, as she had seen him before, if from a greater distance, and knew him by the sketch Sario had disdained. And it was Sario’s oath that came up to fill her mouth. “Merditto!”

“Yours, or mine?” Don Alejandro grinned crookedly. “His, most probably; he was a crude chiros.”

“Oh,” she said in dismay, staring into his face. “Oh, I did not get it right. Your nose!”

“My—nose?” He touched the indicated feature. “What—what is not right about my nose?”

“No, no—not
your
nose—mine!” Aggravated, she sighed and muttered self-abuse. “The shadow is wrong … the line here—do you see?” She touched the bridge of her own nose. “It is off—I made it off.”

“Off?” He was clearly still bewildered. “Regretto—but I have no idea what you are talking about.”