The Golden Key (33 page)

The journey was vital to the prosperity and peace of Tira Virte, to the future of the duchy as embodied by its Heir, Alejandro, and the heirs to come of
his
body, and embajadorros, ambassadors, could not be relied upon to always address the vital issues in precisely the way Baltran himself might. They tried, blessed be the Mother’s Name, but they could be put definitively out of time by the semanticists the Pracanzan king employed. So Tira Virte paid high honor to Pracanza to prove the suit was desired by Baltran’s decision to go himself—but he also was hungry for what was reputed to be prime hunting along the border of Tza’ab Rih, and he always satisfied his hunger. It was one of the advantages of his rank. Besides, the days of the Desert warriors were ended; he would be in no danger. Therefore he would pleasure himself before riding on to the business of Pracanza.

Meanwhile, there was a certain issue to be settled before he departed. The Duke discussed the work of his Lord Limner
with
his Lord Limner.

“Let me not put too fine a point on it, Zaragosa—your skills are diminishing.” Baltran do’Verrada eyed Serrano with fleeting compassion a moment later overruled by impatience; there was much for him to do. “It grieves me to be so blunt, but I have no time for anything save truth. I commanded a portrait of my son so that I might take it with me to Pracanza … yet what you have offered up is the merest daub, not a true rendering. You know how vital this portrait is, Zaragosa. It opens negotiations for a betrothal!”

The miserable wretch of a limner nodded. Thin shoulders collapsed beneath gaudy clothing grown too large, hands clasped themselves like claws, dismay tempered by pain etched dry arroyos into the flesh of his face. “Your Grace—”

“I simply cannot permit it, Zaragosa.” He snapped fingers at a servant, “
Here
, no, not that shirt; I have wearied of it.” The Duke turned again to his limner. “You know full well how important such paintings are to the art of diplomacy and negotiation. The entire history of our duchy is documented through these works—
Births, Deaths, Marriages, Deeds, Treaties
, and much more—and they
must
be superb. They
must
be perfect. I cannot have any of them be less than as they should be.”

“No,” Serrano murmured, “no, Your Grace, of course not—”

“It is not a good likeness of my son, Zaragosa.”

He flinched. “No, Your Grace, as you say—”

“And if I am to present it to the King of Pracanza to open betrothal discussions, it
must
be a good likeness.” He permitted his hands to be stripped of blood- and sweat-soiled rings so the flesh might be properly washed. “My son is a man much praised for his face, his form, his personal charm. Would you have Pracanza and his daughter take him for less than he is?”

“No, Your Grace, no, of course not—”

“Then what are we to do, Zaragosa?”

The man seemed to wither further: an aged raisin born of once-plump grape. “Your Grace, if I might be permitted to speak—”

“Speak, then! Would I prevent you?”

Serrano offered a sickly smile. “I have been ill, Your Grace. I improve, of course,” he added hastily, “but—I have been ill.”

“The matters of state do not wait on illness, Zaragosa.”

“No, Your Grace, of course not—but I could begin anew—”

“There is no time, Zaragosa; I depart tomorrow for Pracanza. And so I have decided that another painting shall go in place of yours.”

Breath rattled in Serrano’s throat. “
Another
painting? But— Your Grace … Nommo do’Matra,
I
am Lord Limner! I!”

“I cannot present your painting to Pracanza. Therefore I shall present another.” The Duke turned aside, studied a letter drawn up and presented by his secretary, nodded and dismissed him. “We are fortunate that my son commissioned another artist to paint him, thank the Mother, and it shall have to do.”

Serrano was deathly white. “Who?” he rasped. “Who is the artist?”

Baltran waved a hand. “I don’t know his name, Zaragosa. This was a private agreement made between my son and the artist, but I have seen it—it was delivered two days ago—and it is superb. A perfect likeness, full of spirit and honesty. Precisely what I need.”
He paused. “Alejandro does not yet
know
I need it, but he will not protest. It feeds a man’s vanity to know his potential bride shall see him at his best.” The Duke flashed a brief grin. “In my progeny the best is attained; his sister, once grown, shall marry into Diettro Mareia, and the Pracanzan girl for Alejandro will settle this dispute over borders at last.”

Gray as a plague-riddled corpse, Serrano barely nodded. “But surely Your Grace knows the artist’s
family.
”

Baltran do’Verrada laughed. “What, Zaragosa—do you fear I will replace you with a lowly Grijalva?” He shook his head, grinning. “Your place is secured as long as I live, Zaragosa. But this does not mean I must accept inferior work.”

“No, Your Grace—”

“Therefore I suggest you regain your health, so you may also regain your skill.” He gestured crisp dismissal. “You may go, Zaragosa. Dolcha mattena.”

But for Zaragosa Serrano, creeping out of the chamber, the morning was far from sweet.

Sario hesitated only a moment before the tent, then caught a handful of fabric and pulled the door flap aside. He knew what he would find—knew what he
should
find—and was therefore not shocked but relieved, even secretly pleased, by what he saw in the dusky interior: one old Tza’ab man slumped in death beside the rug of now-familiar, now-decipherable patterns.

He knelt beside the corpse, pulled aside the disarrayed robe. Looked upon his handiwork, for which he had not been present.

“Sweet Mother …” Exultation abruptly filled his heart.

It was not pleasure in the man’s death, but triumph, immense satisfaction that he himself had wrought it. And not that he had intentionally killed, but that he had succeeded. It was necessary to succeed. It was necessary to know that he could do what he intended, what he
needed
to do, to become what he must.

“I know,” he said. “I know it, now.” So much power, so much magic, so many ancient skills possessed by no one else in Tira Virte, not even the Viehos Fratos, who did not know they themselves and their vaunted Gifts were no more than leavings on the platter presented by Al-Fansihirro.

Sario, privy to private humor, smiled in perverse appreciation.
In the Blessed Name of the Mother and Her Most Holy Son, we serve Acuyib of Tza’ab Rih.

Irony of the purest sort. Certainly heresy.

He was meant to go to Tza’ab Rih. Meant to seek out and rouse in the name of Acuyib the Riders on the Golden Wind, to give life and breath and heart to a people left too long without it. But he would not. Such was not his goal.

“I want to paint,” he told the old man. “I want to paint what has never been painted. I want to be what we have not been for three generations, broken by Nerro Lingua. I want to be best of them all, my argumentative Viehos Fratos, best of every Grijalva, every Limner, best of every
Lord
Limner since the very first was appointed.” He paused. Waited. Was not answered. “You see, there is much for me to do. There is no time for me to be and do what you desire, and Tza’ab Rih is not my home. Its people are not my people. You are not my father.”

Silence. Quietly he let slip the drapery behind him and knelt on the rug beside the dead Al-Fansihirro, the last of his Order save the man who had murdered him.

I am no longer the same. I am more than I was, more even than I believed I could be, than I told Saavedra. This old man has given me a key even as the Viehos Fratos have.
He shut his hand over the device dangling against his breast.
I can’t be afraid. I can’t permit it. I am what I am, what I’ve always wanted to be … but there is more yet. And Raimon has given me leave.

He would have done it anyway. But Raimon had given him leave.

Sario studied the silk, the pattern, the ingredients used, there on the rug beneath his knees. He read its meaning at once; Il-Adib had extended a sacred blessing, offered enduring strength.

Irony again. Sario shut his eyes, wet his lips, then murmured words of lingua oscurra, broke the pattern, scattered branches and blossoms. Quickly he took from beneath its carved weights the fragile sheet of parchment, rolled it carefully, slipped it back into its protective rune-warded tube, then laid it carefully atop other tubes within the brass-bound thornwood casket.

“I will preserve the
Kita’ab
,” he said, “not for what it is to Tza’ab Rih; not for what it is to the Viehos Fratos, ignorant of its truths … but for what it shall be for
me.
” He closed the casket, reset the latch, briefly traced the carved glyphs incised in wood. Lingua oscurra, warding sacred contents. “My
Kita’ab
,” he said. “My key to true power.”

Sario laughed. Indeed, a chieva. Chieva do’Sihirro.

In silence he rolled up the thin, rune-woven rug that had so fascinated
him, tucked it beneath his arm, carried it with the casket out of the tent.

Within minutes of his departure the body would be found, he knew, the tent destroyed. The old man had been visible outside of the fabric, but never the tent itself. Without the rug, without the lingua oscurra warding its presence, the house of Il-Adib now could be discovered.

A Tza’ab tent within the walls of the enemy, though its viper were slain, would not be tolerated.

Alejandro took her to the private solar granted the Duke’s son within Grijalva walls, and told her the truth. He saw the color drain from her face, saw the imminent collapse of her legs, and caught her elbows before she could fall. At once he guided her to a chair and helped her settle into it with some degree of grace and self-control.

“’Vedra,” he said, “I am as shocked as you, but is it so bad a thing?”

One hand gripped the smooth pale column of her throat, naked of adornment. “Of course it is,” she managed. “Nommo do’Matra, Alejandro—
my
painting to be presented to the King of Pracanza?”

He attempted humor. “Eiha, at least it speaks well of your work, no?”

“No,” she declared. “It speaks well of nothing but that he has stolen something from you—and from me!”

“Eiha, yes, I suppose you might put it that way.” He prowled around her chair, less amused now. Absently he clasped his meat-knife, drawing it a half-inch, clicking it home again. “But he is the Duke, after all, and what is mine is his.”

“It was a gift to you.”

“I commissioned it.”

“I refused payment.”

He smiled. “So you did.”

Tightly she said, “Had I meant it to go to the Duke, I would have sent it to the Duke.”

Alejandro laughed. “Arrtia’s temperament? Not many would dare to criticize Baltran do’Verrada!”

“He deserves it for this, no?”

He halted his pacing, his clicking of the meat-knife, reassessed her agitation.
My poor arrtia
— “’Vedra, amora meya, what would you have me do? Ask for it back?”

“You could.”

Stony-toned. Stony-faced. He did not know how much was truly anger, how much was regret, how much was fear that her talent, good enough for him (though only because he insisted it was; she refused to believe him), was not good enough for the Duke. Nor for the King of Pracanza and the King of Pracanza’s daughter.

Matra Dolcha, lend me strength. I would not hurt her, given another way. But neither do I wish to be hurt.
He moved behind her chair, set hands upon her shoulders, took solace in the contact and offered comfort all at once. “I can’t ask for it back. My father left two weeks ago, and the painting is with him. But I have only now had the courage to tell you.” He sighed, feeling her stiffen into immobility; first the painting appropriated, now he confessed to not informing her at once. “And I should think— should
hope!
—it more important to you, to us both, that a betrothal is imminent, rather than the portrait has been appropriated.”

“Stolen, Alejandro?”

He squeezed cold flesh gently, seeking familiar response. Thumbs caressed. “Does it mean nothing to you that I am to be married?”