The Golden Key (82 page)

“I still wish you’d tell me what you intend.”

With a kind of fatalistic grimness, Mechella replied, “I intend to help my husband celebrate his birthday, of course. Why do you think Otonna spent all day letting out the seams of my best gown?”

Tazia’s tenure as Mistress had yielded not only the caza in town but a small manor house built especially for her. Caza Reccolto was aptly named, for it was the final harvest of her twelve years with Arrigo. She was the official owner, but on her death it would revert—like Corasson and all the other properties given to Grijalva Mistresses through the centuries—to the family. Caza Reccolto was about a hundred years old, a half-timbered building in the shape of a
T
for Tazia; Arrigo’s idea of a tribute, Leilias supposed. The crossbar was the front of the house, fully three hundred feet from one side to the other; the rest of the letter was invisible to the rear. As Mechella’s carriage turned into the drive, Leilias saw that the place was ablaze with lamplight at every window like a Sanctia greeting the Birth of the Son on Nov’viva. The music of gambas and gitterns and flutes could hardly be heard for the laughter echoing out the front door—open, even though it was winter, to let in enough cold air to offset the heat of all those lamps and all those dancing, drinking, laughing guests. As Mechella and Leilias descended from the carriage—to the slack-jawed befuddlement of the footmen—Mechella nodded regally to the youth who leaped forward to assist her up the steps. Leilias gulped down a lump of apprehension and followed.

Once inside, any other woman would have been compelled to spend at least ten minutes repairing the damage of an hour’s drive to her hair, clothes, and makeup. Mechella, golden and glowingly beautiful, merely paused in the hall to glance in a mirror and tweak a curl back into place. She wore a gown of raw silk, woven gold in one direction and silver in the other. The point of the low-cut bodice was decorated with a fabulous Tza’ab pearl brooch, drawing the eye to perfect shoulders and full breasts. Tiny pleats provided the necessary fullness at the raised waistline. Soft curls cascaded down her neck, held up by the dainty tiara of pearls that had been her father’s wedding gift. The gown shone like one of those antiquated suits of armor on display at Shagarra Barracks; Mechella was well-girded for war.

Leilias watched her walk calmly toward the source of the loudest
music and laughter. The rustle of silk skirts sounded like the warning of distant thunder; the subtle glitter of the material was like flashing gold-and-silver lightning. War, storms—Leilias shook her head, her anxiety redoubled with the images scattering through her mind. She crept forward, telling herself it was her duty to listen. Although it was a very good thing that Mechella was acting instead of reacting, Leilias wasn’t sure she was wise enough yet to make her actions the right ones. By the abrupt hush and the stutter-scrape of gamba bows, she knew Mechella had been noticed. Gliding closer to the ballroom door, she heard Tazia’s bright call.

“Your Grace! How marvelous!”

“I hope I haven’t come too late and ruined the surprise,” Mechella replied, with such cool aplomb that Leilias joined the footmen in an imitation of an astonished goldfish.

Even more bizarre, Tazia fell in with it. “You’re exactly on time—and by the look on his face, we’ve well and truly surprised Don Arrigo!” Leilias wished mightily that she could catch a glimpse of the man’s face as Tazia went on, “Forgive me for stealing Her Grace away for a few moments. She really must have something hot to drink, it’s shockingly cold outside tonight.”

“I’m quite comfortable, I assure you.”

“I insist. Back to the music! And if anyone says anything
really
interesting while we’re gone, I’ll be furious!”

The two women came across the ballroom threshold and onto the chessboard-tiled floor smiling. The smiles stayed intact even when Tazia took hold of Mechella’s elbow. Then Mechella yanked her arm from the grip and commanded icily, “I require privacy.”

“What I have to say to you isn’t for the gossips, don’t worry,” Tazia snapped. “This way, down the hall.”

Leilias followed, silent as a ghost, past other guest-filled rooms where gilt lustrossos blazed above eye-popping silence. The long hall was a galerria unto itself, every available wall surface occupied with a painting—landscapes, still-lifes, nature studies, even a few maps, but only one portrait. Tazia herself, of course, recently done and done twice life-size by her son Rafeyo, whose signature was in the bottom corner. Leilias paused to curl her lip at the huge image of Mechella’s rival, then hurried down the hall.

She held back at the kitchen door, flattening to the plaster wall as cooks and kitchen maids prudently fled. Then she inched closer and craned her neck for a full view of the battle.

If Mechella was dressed for it, so was Tazia. Overdressed, Leilias thought acidly. The brocade gown was too busy: huge blue flowers, writhing green vines, no two blossoms or leaves alike, as
if an untalented Grijalva had gotten drunk before slopping paint all over a canvas. But Leilias had to admit that the lace shawl was a marvel, sunbursts delicately outlined in gold thread. Tazia’s tiny, tightly sashed waist made Mechella look enormous, but she couldn’t compete in regal bearing. In height either—though heeled slippers and upswept black hair brought her within a few inches. Leilias wondered if short women really thought such things fooled people into thinking they were tall.

They faced each other in the red-brick kitchen across a massive wooden table laden with tiers of pastries. For several moments neither woman spoke. Then Mechella leaned forward, fists braced on knife-scarred wood. Tazia tilted her head to one side, arms folded, the exquisite shawl slipping a bit from bared shoulders.

“Well? Be quick, I have guests waiting.”

“I have no interest in anything you could say to me, but I advise you to listen carefully to what
I
am about to tell
you.
”

“And that might be?” Tazia asked, faintly smiling.

“Stay away from Court.”

The smile widened.

“Go back to your estates. Go on a journey—preferably to Merse, and the longer you spend there the better. Go anywhere at all. But leave Meya Suerta and don’t come back.”

“
This
is what you drove an hour here to tell me? You could have put it in a letter—phrased less offensively, too. Then again, I’ve heard your spelling leaves your correspondents baffled at best.”

“Offending you is the very last thing I care about. I give you until the Sperranssia holiday to make your arrangements.”

“You
give
me?” Tazia gave a gay little chirrup of laughter, as if she had never enjoyed anything so much or found anyone so deliciously droll in her entire life.

Mechella’s cheeks flushed. “Interrupt me again and I’ll order your packing myself—now, tonight. Believe me in this, you
will
leave Court.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You forget yourself.”

“To the contrary, I know
exactly
who I am. Don’t you?”

Mechella’s back stiffened. She stood straight again, fingers clenched. “I know
what
you are. We have a saying about women like you in Ghillas.”

“But we’re not
in
Ghillas.” With an air of patient sweetness, Tazia said, “Tell me, I’m curious. What precisely do you think you can do to force me into this exile you speak of?”

“A conversation with your husband would suffice.”

Tazia burst out laughing. “You ridiculous creature!”

“How dare you!”

“Next you’ll tell me I’ll pay for this, or I haven’t seen the last of you, or some other tired old cliche. No wonder you bore poor Arrigo to distraction!”

Mechella was quivering with rage. “Chiras!” she hissed. “Canna!”

At the obscenities, Leilias knew all was lost. She shut her eyes and leaned her forehead to the wall, not wanting to hear any more.

“The least you could do is learn proper enunciation.” Suddenly the amusement vanished from Tazia’s voice. “Sow, am I? Bitch? We have sayings in Tira Virte, too. ‘Merditto alba,’ for instance. Literally, it’s ‘white shit’—but the real essence of it is a little different. And entirely appropriate to the high and mighty Princess of Ghillas. What ‘merditto alba’ really means is that you think your shit doesn’t stink.”

There was a brief, deadly silence. Then, in a voice as cold as stone, Mechella enquired, “What was it again? Merditto
Alva
?”

Leilias didn’t understand the crisp ripping sound she heard next, but the angry swish of silk warned her to hurry back down the hall, where she waited as if she’d been there the whole time. Flushed and furious, Mechella strode by without seeing her. Leilias ran to keep up, hoping she’d have the sense not to confront Arrigo.

Confront him she did, but not in the way Leilias feared. A brief pause in the hall to regain control, a squaring of her shoulders, a smoothing of her hands down her gold-and-silver skirts—and from the salon doorway Leilias saw Mechella glide sedately toward her mortified husband, place a hand on his arm, and lean up to kiss his cheek.

“Bonno Natallo, carrido,” she said, her accent flawless. Then, turning to the shocked and secretly delighted guests—who would all dine out on this for months—she produced a smile to outdazzle the blazing lustrossos. “Forgive me if I don’t stay. I only wanted to surprise Arrigo as arranged. Have a lovely evening—no, dolcho meyo, you needn’t see me home.”

Leilias half-strangled on repressed laughter. He’d stay, all right. She’d left him no choice. He would stay, and endure every bright social smile that hid rampaging speculation, every sidelong glance of sly amusement. And so would Tazia—once she recovered from Mechella’s parting shot.

But minutes later in the dark carriage, when they were clear of the torchlit drive, Mechella burst into tears.

“’Chella, you mustn’t,” Leilias soothed, stroking the golden
curls. “She knows now you’re someone to be reckoned with, you showed her for the bitch she is—don’t cry, ‘Chella, please.”

“You h-heard?”

“Every single syllable—which you pronounced perfectly, by the way. Especially when you called her ‘merditto Alva’!”

Mechella gave a choked little laugh. “That
was
a good one, wasn’t it?”

“Brilliant! Now, dry your eyes. We must put you to rights before we get to the Palasso. You’ll have to go past some guards, and they’re dreadful gossips.”

Mechella shuddered. “Gossip! No one will talk of anything else for the next year! He doesn’t love me, he never d–did—they all know it, Leilias, they all laugh at me and p–pity me behind my back.”

Leilias wanted to shake her. “It’s either one or the other, they can’t do both. You can make yourself into what she called you—a ridiculous creature—and they’ll have every right to laugh. Or you can make yourself pathetic, and they’ll be justified in pitying you. Or …”

“Or what?”

“You can show them all the woman you showed Arrigo tonight.”

“Oh, Leilias—that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done!”

“Nonsense. Keeping yourself from clawing that woman’s eyes out—now,
that
must’ve been damned near impossible!” This time Mechella laughed more easily, so Leilias added, “Is that why you had your hands clenched so tight? Your nails must’ve sliced into your palms!”

They reached the Palasso near midnight. Descending from the carriage, Leilias nearly tripped over a trailing length of lace. By lamplight she saw the pattern: sunbursts outlined in gold. Mechella saw the direction of her gaze and gathered the material in both hands as they went up the steps.

“He gave her my shawl, Leilias,” she whispered, forlorn as a child. “
My
shawl. It tore when I grabbed it off her shoulders, but I just couldn’t bear it any more, seeing her wear what my people gave to
me
—”

“Let me take it to the maker, I’m sure it can be rewoven good as new.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! She’d know I’d been careless of her beautiful work, I’d be too ashamed.”

Which, Leilias reflected as she coaxed Mechella to give her the lace, was one of those vital details that would make the tale of this night resound to Mechella’s credit. It was reminiscent of the way
her Grijalva cousins sketched out the composition of a painting. Telling little touches here and there were minimal in and of themselves, but taken altogether these unpretentious truths added validity to a portrait. First the lacemaker, then the lacemaker’s friends, and then all Meya Suerta’s common folk would know about this night exactly what Leilias
wanted
them to know—and embroider the whole story as finely and creatively as this shawl. The Courtfolk would hear—and possibly believe—Tazia’s version. But the
people
loved Mechella.

“I’ll take care of it,” she assured Mechella, and smiled to herself. “Shall I come up with you? No, I see Otonna is waiting. Dolcho nocto, Your Grace. Try to sleep. Everything will be well, I promise.” Eiha, yes, she would see to
that.

By early afternoon Dioniso had heard two conflicting but equally diverting versions of the previous night’s scandal at Caza Reccolto. So the portrait of the future was taking shape, he mused, and it was time he began adding his own brushstrokes. He knew just where to start.