The Golden Key (38 page)

“No, conselhos,” Grijalva demurred. “I use it with moderation.”

“And will you never then wear it at all, even during Mirraflores?”

Alejandro, relieved beyond measure that Grijalva’s arrival shifted the massed intensity from himself to another, waited expectantly. It was a test, he knew; Mirraflores, which marked the restoration of the Mother’s fertility—and thus the fertility of Tira Virte—after the birth of her Son, was celebrated by the draping of vivid bloodflowers throughout the city … and by the wearing of them, real or of silk or colored paper, as personal adornment.

“With moderation,” Grijalva repeated serenely.

Alejandro grinned. ‘
Vedra said he had wit.

Also boldness. Grijalva swept the chamber with an assessive glance, marked out the clustered conselhos individually, examined each, then turned to his Duke with an elegant bow. “Your Grace. I freely confess that I am new to my duties and as new to these
chambers, but if you will permit me, I may be able to offer a resolution to your present difficulty.”

Better-spoken than expected—that will annoy them.
Alejandro opened his mouth to answer, but a massive snort from the man closest to him preempted speech.

“
May
you!” Edoard do’Najerra, the late Duke’s Marchalo Grando, cut crisply through the murmuring and whispers. “
You
may?”

“I may,” Grijalva did not even so much as glance at the older, stout-built man, whom the late Baltran do’Verrada considered a close companion. “If the Duke—” The pause was minute, but considered. “—or
you
will permit me to speak?”

Dark brown eyes were turned from do’Najerra to the Duke, expressing no more than courteous patience. Alejandro, suppressing a brief startled smile, gestured awkward permission instantly. “Sweet Mother, Grijalva—be not so hesitant! If you can resolve this dilemma—”

“And dishonor!” do’Najerra thundered; he had trained his voice on the tourney field.

“—then I shall be most pleased,” Alejandro finished pointedly. He shot the Marchallo a baleful glare. “What does it entail?”

“Merely that for which I am present, Your Grace.” Sario Grijalva’s smile was infinitely sweet. “I shall paint.”

“Paint
what
?” someone shouted from behind the others. “And if that is the remedy you suggest, if you feel it more worthy than the honor of war, why not simply paint Duke Baltran back to life?”

Matra Dolcha
— It shocked Alejandro. Shocked everyone. Even the man who had suggested it. Oddly enough, it did not shock Grijalva; Alejandro wondered absently if anything could. “Bassda!” He was distantly gratified to see that
this
time they listened. They even looked at him. “Bassda,” he repeated. “Nommo do’Matra, that
is
what he is for, no?—the Lord Limner paints. And it is
with
paintings that such things as marriages are made, treaties recorded,
wars avoided.
” Now he had them. He nodded toward Grijalva, who waited in quiet self-possession a pace away from the ducal chair. “If he can settle this war by wielding a brush rather than a sword, I shall be glad of it. Nothing is earned in war—”

Mistake. It set them off again.

“Nothing but
honor!
” a man shouted: Estevan do’Saenza.

“Nothing but
land!
” cried another; Alejandro believed it was Rivvas Serrano, a distant relation to the now-dismissed Zaragosa.

“And lives saved, Your Grace,” put in Edoard do’Najerra, remarkably
sanguine in the midst of clamoring disbelief. “As well as regaining your poor father’s abased body—”

“I can do that,” Grijalva interposed.

Thunderous silence. Then a furious roar.

“
You
can do that!” Now even the Marchalo was angry. “So easily, then? Eiha—shall you paint the body here, and thus it
arrives
?”

A deep voice muttered, “Only the Mother has such power as this.”

“Or a Grijalva wielding dark magic.” It
was
Rivvas Serrano.

Alejandro thrust himself to his feet. “Bassda,” he said sharply, sensing disaster. Saavedra had told him he had a fine grasp of command … eiha, perhaps he might borrow his father’s if he yet lacked his own. “You are here in my presence, by my request, in my service—
you will not speak again unless I give you leave.
”

Shocked faces. Startled eyes. Mouths frozen in mid-word. But not a man spoke. He had not given leave.

“Grazzo.” Alejandro resumed his seat with deliberation, keeping relief from his tone. He could not help but see the thoughtful reassessment in Edoard do’Najerra’s expression. Emboldened, he turned again crisply to Sario Grijalva. “You can do this?”

“Restore your father to life? No. I have no such power, nor does any man.” That was for Rivvas Serrano’s benefit. “But regain his body? Yes. I can do this.”

A growl arose from the mass of men. Rivvas shoved his way through the others so that he came to the forefront, staring furiously at the young man who had replaced his kinsman. “What have we said of the Grijalvas, Your Grace, but that they have recourse to such magics? He admits it—here before us all he
admits
it!” He flung a glance of loathing at Grijalva, then appealed to his Duke. “Your Grace, my own kinsman, Zaragosa Serrano, tried to present evidence to your late father—”

“There was none,” Alejandro interrupted. “I heard of it, of course—who hasn’t?” He shrugged, pleased that now they listened at least to part of what he said before erupting again. “Everyone knows Zaragosa was convinced the Grijalvas dabble in dark magic—”

“And so they do!” Rivvas thrust a hand in the new Lord Limner’s direction. “He has admitted so, Your Grace.”

Alejandro shifted his gaze to Sario Grijalva. ‘
Vedra claims he is clever
…
clever enough to evade this trap? Or am I stripped of my first appointment
? Which would damage him far more than simple inexperience already had. That much he knew of Court; he had to establish control, to establish his own way even with ruthless arrogance,
before he lost them utterly. Tautly he repeated, “You can do this?”

“I can, Your Grace.” Grijalva was unperturbed by the tense ripple of hostility. “It is a simple matter, you see—”

“
Simple matter!
” Rivvas shouted. “To conjure up a body?”

“To paint it present?” Estevan do’Saenza now took his lead from Serrano, stirring further concern. “Your Grace, surely you must see—”

“A simple thing.” Grijalva’s still voice undermined their bluster. A slim, dark hand brought into sight two sheets of folded parchment; Alejandro could not help marking the length of slender fingers, the trained, graceful motions of a man accustomed to precise physical control. “You see—it is here already. The body.” Grijalva smiled faintly at Alejandro, who found himself smiling back without intending to. “What need is there of magic, dark or otherwise, where there are wagons to carry the dead?”

Silence. Even breathing was stilled as each man heard and comprehended what Grijalva suggested.

“Wagon?” someone murmured in stunned disbelief.

“A message accompanied the body.” Into the tense expectancy, Sario Grijalva offered the papers to his Duke. “As I came to the door—” A nod of the head indicated it, “—I was given this for you. A message, I was told, explaining how Duke Baltran came to be killed—”

“Murder!” Rivvas cried, attempting to regain the moment.

“Assassination!” shouted do’Saenza, attempting to assist him.

“Perhaps so.” Grijalva was unruffled; Alejandro envied him his composure. “Perhaps not. And perhaps the Duke should read the message to know; it is addressed to him, and I was told it explained all.” He extended the folded sheets, inclining his head.

“Matra ei Filho—” Deliberation banished, Alejandro stood in a rush and grabbed the parchment from Grijalva’s hand. He hesitated only an instant, then broke the wax and tore the papers open.

Disappointment extinguished hope.
But I can’t
— He looked at them all, loath to admit yet another failure. Instead he appealed to his personal secretary, who had been his father’s. Because of that link, the steadiness in Martain’s eyes, Alejandro managed to recapture his father’s tone of command. “Read these, grazzo.”

Martain accepted and examined the papers. “Regretto, Your Grace—the language of the first is unknown to me … and the other is ruined.”

“The language of the first is not unknown to me.” Grijalva again. This time the disbelief was less explosive, the conselhos more restrained,
but the murmurs that ran through the chamber were in no wise mitigated.

Alejandro handed the parchments back. “What do they say?”

Grijalva accepted the letters, groomed creases from them, scanned them quickly. “Yes,” he murmured, “I know it. The language of Tza’ab Rih.”

Edoard do’Najerra took a single long stride forward and tore the letter from Grijalva’s hand. “Tza’ab Rih!” Clearly it was unbelievable, and as unacceptable. “No one reads that language. It is the enemy’s tongue—”

“And the enemy has sent back your dead Duke.” Sario Grijalva cast an apologetic glance at Alejandro. “It seems he went hunting near the border of Tza’ab Rih on the way to Pracanza, and met with an accident—”

“Treachery.” The word was forced between Marchalo do’Najerra’s clamped teeth. “Baltran was murdered. We know this. And now the Tza’ab admit it?”

“The Duke was
not
murdered.” Quietly Grijalva recaptured the much-abused letters. “The accident was the kind any horseman might encounter. Duke Baltran, you see, was thrown from his mount.” He shrugged. “Upon landing, his neck was broken.”

“Lies. It was assassination.”

“Was it?” Alejandro deflected do’Najerra’s startled glare by looking instead at Grijalva. “Is that what it says?”

“And also that there were witnesses.”

“The Tza’ab,” do’Najerra stated flatly.

“Tira Virteians,” Grijalva corrected. “The Duke’s party accompanied him.”

“Then why are they not here?” Alejandro asked before anyone else could; and someone would. “Why are we not brought word from those who were
with
my father?”

Grijalva gestured. “Duty, Your Grace—and yet more tragedy. The Duke’s party accompanied him to propose a betrothal between you and the Pracanzan Princess—that duty they carried out.”

Alejandro nearly gaped. “They went
on
to Pracanza?”

“Most of them. What it says, Your Grace, is that your father died moments after being thrown from his horse, but had time enough to command them to complete the embassy to Pracanza. That the interests of Tira Virte were best served by making the peace with Pracanza and binding it with the marriage.” He shrugged elegantly. “Apparently the rumor of assassination was no more than that, Your Grace.”

“Rumor!” Alejandro sat down abruptly. “Rumor …” He looked
now at do’Najerra. “You would have me go to war on the basis of
rumor
?”

The flesh of his heavy face deepened in hue. “Would you have me fail my poor Baltran on the word of a
Tza’ab
?”

“It apparently was not meant to be merely the word of a Tza’ab,” Sario said. “Two of the Duke’s party accompanied the body with the aid of the Tza’ab, to see it safely back to Meya Suerta. But the party was attacked by border bandits. Some of the Tza’ab were killed outright, as was our own Dio Ormendo. Antoneyo Barza was wounded and died later on the way, but not before he wrote a note.” He held up a smeared and tattered paper. “Unfortunately the paper became damp and the ink ran, but it is Antoneyo Barza’s signature and seal… I must assume the Tza’ab brought this note to confirm their own.”

“Trickery,” do’Najerra rasped. “I don’t accept my poor Baltran died in a fall from his horse. And it is too convenient that Barza’s letter is ruined!”

“I can question the Tza’ab who escorted the wagon, if you wish,” the young Lord Limner said, “but the bodies are here as well. Why not let the late Duke and Antoneyo Barza tell us the truth?”

Incensed, Marchalo do’Najerra challenged instantly. “And can you read a body as well as you read Tza’ab?”

Sario Grijalva did not look away from the furious, powerful man. “To paint the living,” he answered quietly, “one must study the dead.”

Saavedra’s new room was not a room at all, but a
set
of rooms: three altogether. It startled her first that so much could be given to one person, secondly that they would give such to
her.
A small bedchamber, a fractionally larger sitting room, and an airy, many-windowed chamber that opened onto a north-facing balcony overlooking the central courtyard with its gurgling marble fountain.

“Lord Limner’s quarters,” she murmured, drifting from one room to the other and to the other, astounded and delighted by so much light and spaciousness. “There, I think, for the worktable, and the easel should stand
there
—” And she broke off into guilty laughter, that she should so easily settle into such luxury.

So much to do
… there was her trunk to unpack so that clothing might be freshened, personal things to set out, and of course the vast array of the requirements of her work: canvas, stretched and unstretched; papers; boards; stoppered pots of ground pigments;
boxes of brushes, knives, tools; rattling jars full of amber and gum acacia; sealed bottles of poppy oil, linseed, glue, inks; baskets crammed with favorite charcoals, chalks, dip pens … so
much
to find a place for— “—and so much room in which to place it!”