by Melanie Rawn
“You never did,” Saavedra remarked pointedly.
He decided then it did hurt, that she should desert him in favor of another. Quietly Sario found the proper charcoal, fit it to his hand, nodded. “’Naddi, you had best go for now. Surely you have classes.”
“None just now.” The boy smiled winningly. “This can be my class—and I will stay out of the way! I promise!”
“Do you like it when others watch you work?”
Ebullience faltered. “No.”
“There will be time later. This is merely the preliminary sketch, you see … later there will be paint, and time for questions.”
Ignaddio looked from one to the other. “You only want me to go because you mean to argue.”
It astonished them both; Saavedra bit into her lip as Sario frowned fiercely to suppress imminent laughter. “Indeed,” he answered gravely, and Ignaddio was so taken aback by being told the truth he merely blinked and acquiesced without further comment. Sario grinned at Saavedra as the boy left. “You see? Your sulks and black scowls are obvious even to that boy.”
“He has seen none of them before,” she countered, “unless you are the object of discussion.”
“Am I often?”
“More often than I prefer!” She sought, found a stray hair, smoothed it away from her face. “Must you be so cruel to him? He wants very badly to be like you.”
“Or be me.” Sario smiled. “It’s now attainable, ‘Vedra, the appointment as Lord Limner … what once was only dreamed is now truth, and all the boys will think they have the talent to take my place.”
“Quite natural, no?”
“Of course, as it should be. But they are fated to be disappointed. I make no plans to be replaced.”
“You will be one day. You must be.” She gestured. “In ten years, fifteen, your knuckles will begin to swell, to lose flexibility …”
“Will they?”
“Unless you have found a cure for the bone-fever, I think so!” She scowled. “Have you?”
He grinned. “Eiha, no.”
She contemplated his expression. “For a man who comprehends very well that his hard-won position must be given to another in twenty years, you seem uncommonly content.”
“Twenty years is a long time, ‘Vedra.”
“You have never believed so before! You always decried the fact that all the Limners failed by forty, died by fifty—”
“And so I still do,” he agreed, “but that does not prevent me from enjoying my position for now.” He waggled a hand at her. “We discussed how you should stand … so stand, grazzo.”
Saavedra did not move. “You were unconscionably rude to ‘Naddi.”
“No more rude than any moualimo was to me. ‘Vedra—will you stand as we discussed?”
“Must you treat him as you were treated? If you resented it so much, then surely—”
“Perhaps resentment is a part of the training. It did make me hungrier.”
“And angrier.”
“Which most likely is a part of the recipe also.” He looked at her patiently, waiting. When she did not alter her stance, he made an inquiry. “Do you mean for us to begin today at all?”
Saavedra, still scowling, muttered in frustration. “Can’t you just begin a sketch without me? There is the background that doesn’t require me at all, and—”
“I want it this way,” he said firmly. “I want to capture every bit of you, from beginning to end.”
“Why?”
He sighed elaborately. “Perhaps I should ask you why you required Alejandro to be present for every single moment as you painted him.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Color rose in her face.
Sario smiled sweetly. “Grazzo. Now, will you take up your position?”
“I thought you wanted to argue.”
“I thought we had.”
“Eiha, no—this was nothing. A skirmish.” She did not seem quite so irritated now, as if the boy’s departure and their habitual bantering eased the situation onto less turbulent ground. “Ignaddio wants nothing more than for someone to approve of his work.”
“Do you?”
“He is promising.”
“Many are promising, ‘Vedra.”
“From many come the few,” she countered. “You were one of many also.”
“But no one else,” he said, “stands where I do today.”
“Oh, no?” She arched expressive brows. “I do—save at this very moment I sit. But that can be changed. I need only to rise, no?”
He offered her the grin she had sparred for, baited for. “You, too, were promising.”
“No more? Eiha, I am desoladia!” One hand pressed her heart, mocking him. “I rather believed there were yet techniques I might still master. But now you say I was promising—”
“I dare say you remain so,” he said, “but you will not permit me to judge if there is worth enough to teach you … if there is Gift in you, although I know there is. But you are afraid.”
“Worth!” She thrust herself from the chair, standing now on the other side of the table. “You think I have none because I will not succumb to your barbs and blandishments? Because you have convinced yourself I am somehow Gifted, despite the fact no Grijalva woman has ever been Gifted, and blame my reluctance on fear?” She shook her head. “Nommo do’Matra—you were always arrogant, but this transcends it! You are not the Son, Sario, to sit upon the Throne beside the Mother!”
“En verro,” he agreed, “but there is indeed a throne, and I stand beside a Duke.”
That blow struck home. He saw her recoil, albeit slight; marked the stiff tension in her shoulders, the taut line of her arms as she planted hands upon the table to brace herself.
“There!” he cried, before she could shout at him. “This is how I should paint you: Saavedra Grijalva, poised on the brink of foul language! Foul, scathing, powerful language, enough to send me to my deathbed, no doubt!” He laughed at her. “Eiha, ‘Vedra, have I stirred you to true anger? Do you fear I will lose myself in such luxury and the trappings of power that no more shall I be your little Neosso Irrado?”
“You have,” she said in a deadly tone. “You have already lost yourself, Sario.”
“And what of you?” he countered. “Have you lost me? Or did I lose you first?”
She blinked. “I don’t—”
“—understand? But you do. You understood and accepted it the day you permitted yourself to bed Alejandro do’Verrada.”
Her face was very white. “And you? Did you not turn from me first, on the day you permitted yourself to study with that Tza’ab estranjiero?”
“I learned much from him.”
“Too much.”
“Enough to please our new Duke. Am I not Lord Limner?”
“That took me—” And she stopped. As if someone from behind had thrust a spear through her spine.
It required no time at all; he had never been slow of wit, nor lacking in knowledge of conspiracies and the will to discern them. The initial retort died so quickly he might never have thought it. In his fist, abruptly, charcoal snapped.
One of her hands pasted itself to her throat, as if to wrench free the cords that gave her voice. The other very tightly gripped the edge of the table, so tightly he saw the blood-blush and white striations in her unpainted fingernails, the rigidity of locked knuckles.
He was both surprised and gratified that she made no attempt to renounce what she had begun to say, that which was, left unsaid, implication enough to answer unasked questions. Explanation was not required.
Empty. Curiously empty. Or perhaps the shock would come later. “So,” he said quietly, “shall you assume the pose we agreed upon?”
She was white to the lips. “You still—”
“—wish to paint you? Eiha, of course. It is for Alejandro, and I serve my Duke in all things.”
The hand at her throat shifted, passed from neck to breasts, to abdomen. And rested there. Intimately. “If—if you
think it wise …”
“Wisdom has nothing to do with a man’s desire to have his amora painted, Saavedra. That is vanity. And possession.” Sario sought, took up another charcoal, “Adezo, Saavedra, please assume the pose.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Martain diffidently uncrated and unwrapped the swathed rectangular parcel, then carefully set it upright on an armless chair. It was not a proper easel, but would do; certainly well enough that Alejandro and everyone else in the chamber might look upon the painted woman and see her worth, though her value was incalculable when one counted not only the dowry but political gain also.
“So.” It was Edoard do’Najerra, the argumentative Marchalo Grando. “Pracanza sires beauty.”
Alejandro looked at him sharply. Too eagerly said … and others in the chamber, moving to approach, to examine, murmured impressed agreement as swiftly.
“His last task!” do’Najerra said, raising his voice so that all might hear. “Baltran’s final concern was for his son’s welfare, and the future of the duchy!”
Agreement, approval, tribute. Alejandro wanted very badly to scowl, but kept his expression bland as watered wine.
“Belissimia,” do’Najerra pronounced with vigor, indicating the portrait.
Agreement. Approval. Tribute.
Blessed Mother, lend me patience … “It is agreed,” Alejandro said lugubriously, “that the woman is beautiful.”
“And a princess,” do’Najerra added; to that wholly unnecessary observation his Duke did at last cast a mildly irritated glance, and the Marchalo Grando had the unexpected grace to color, to cough, to become fascinated by a nonexistent scuff on a perfectly-tended boot.
“And a woman,” Martain murmured for ducal ears only; after years of service with Baltran do’Verrada, and half as many spent prying the Heir’s comfit sticky fingers off various letters, he had the right of familiarity.
Alejandro grinned briefly, then trimmed it back to a slight, meaningless smile offered to the others. “We shall consider,” he said, “and contemplate, and in all ways weigh the worth of the alliance between Tira Virte and Pracanza.”
“But, Your Grace!” Do’Najerra forgot all about his boot. “Your Grace—your father had already done so … I recall quite clearly discussing the advantages of such a union!”
“You may have discussed them. I never did. I was not consulted.”
“Your Grace, this was what your father desired! This is what he set out to Pracanza for—”
“And what he died for, en verro!” Rivvas Seranno. Of course.
Agreement, unmodified by approval or tribute. Alejandro clamped his teeth tightly shut. One upraised hand quelled the murmuring; it was Estevan do’Saenza who was slow to still, standing next to Rivvas Serrano. I would do well to separate them, Alejandro thought, much like a moualimo separates unruly estudos.
He gifted them all with a steady smile of unflagging self-confidence. Watching Sario Grijalva handle the twenty men with such ease had offered inspiration. “The world is different now than it was but weeks ago, when my father lived—”
“En verro!” Serrano declared vehemently. “Matra Dolcha, the day those bells were tolled … Nommo Matra ei Filho, I thought my heart would break!”
Alejandro raised his voice. “As I said, the world is different now, and we must not forget that one small change may alter the significance of events—”
“Small change!” Estevan do’Saenza, collar cutting into fleshy throat, took on a most unflattering hue. “You call the death of Baltran do’Verrada a small change?”
“Within the world, weighed against the scope of all the duchies and principalities and kingdoms, yes,” Alejandro said. “We are a small duchy, important only to ourselves.”
The indrawn breath of shock multiplied by twenty astounded conselhos became the noise of catastrophe. Alejandro realized it and cursed himself, caught Martain’s slight movement from the corner of his eye, forced himself to relax. I need Grijalva here with me. He is better suited for this than I. But Grijalva was elsewhere, and the new Duke had no one but himself. What would he do in my place?
He answered himself swiftly and took two strides to the painting propped against the chair. “Do you doubt me?” he asked, so quietly they had to silence themselves to hear. “Do you doubt the wisdom of a man who must weigh his present and future against his father’s past?” Now he loosed the restraints on his tone. “Eiha, you should not; I would suggest that the King of Pracanza is just this moment reevaluating me!”
That caught them. They had none of them thought of that.
“And perhaps he shall find me wanting, no? I am not my father, as you have all been at pains to remind me … and perhaps the Pracanzan king thinks less of me as Duke than he might as Heir to a man in his prime—do you believe it possible? Do you think he might reconsider and ask for the portrait back?” He dropped one hand to loosely grip the frame. “Is it not possible that Pracanza may decide I am not worthy of this admittedly beautiful woman?” He shrugged. “After all, a man who cannot lead his conselhos into common cause in something such as this can hardly be counted on in matters such as war.” He paused. “No?”
It roused them all into protest: of course he was worthy; of course he could lead them into common cause; of course Pracanza would believe him ideal for his daughter.
Quietly Martain murmured, “You have them, Your Grace.”
As quietly, “Do I? Good.” Alejandro grinned brilliantly, and the men in the chamber responded as predictably as any crowd would to the dazzling good looks and high humor of the man who so closely resembled the ruler they had lost.
And then Rivvas Serrano made a comment about the Pracanzan painting, about the Pracanzan artist, and reminded them all that the current Tira Virteian Lord Limner was a Grijalva—a Grijalva!— who was expected to facilitate the documentation of all matters relating to their city and their duchy.
Triumph faded. “Merditto,” Alejandro murmured as quarreling broke out afresh.
“Your Grace.” Serrano, followed by do’Saenza, worked his way to the front of the multi-hued cluster of men. “Your Grace, forgive our presumption, but we must in all honesty admit our deep concern with the man you have selected to be Lord Limner.”
“Your concern,” Alejandro began, “runs only so deeply as your jealousy of the Grijalvas, who have supplanted your own family.”
“Your Grace!”
“Eiha, be not so dramatic in your reaction, Rivvas. I may not have sat upon my father’s lap during councils, but I have ears, do I not? I know very well how deeply runs the enmity between Grijalva and Serrano.”
“For just cause, Your Grace.”
“For no cause!” Alejandro shot back. “For no cause in which you—or anyone—have provided evidence!” He shook his head. “Merditto, Serrano, you are all of you cabessas bisilas! And I am expected to listen to your counsel? How? Why? What is there you may offer me save recriminations born out of jealousy and fear?”
“Your Grace.” This time it was Edoard do’Najerra, solid of frame, stolid of temper. “Your Grace, do you blame us for concern? We knew Zaragosa, were accustomed to Zaragosa—”
“Accustomed enough that you held him in contempt,” Alejandro retorted. “Or have you forgotten all over again that I have ears?” He clasped one, tugged it twice, then released it. “I think it far too soon to judge Sario Grijalva beyond what he has yet done, which comprises very little other than the mere insignificance of halting a war …” He let that make itself felt, saw the verbal slap register. “… a wholly unnecessary war that surely would have killed many of us, and as many Pracanzans; a war which all of you supported on the basis of a rumor.” He looked at no one now save do’Najerra. “I trust him at this moment more than I trust you, Marchalo, in regard to the ability to divide truth from falsehood, and with just cause.” The latter for Rivvas Serrano. “He has been named, has been acclaimed, is Lord Limner. Accustom yourselves to it.”
Do’Najerra held himsel
f in tight control. “Your Grace, there is concern that they might rise to overtake us. Forgive me, Your Grace, but even your mistress—”
“—is a Grijalva. Indeed.” Alejandro swept them all with a scathing glance. “Can none of you count? Do you forget overnight the facts of our past? In my father’s time there were four Serranos of vast and abiding influence: Lord Limner, mistress, Premia Sancta, conselho.” He looked directly at Rivvas. “Only two left, after so many years … eiha, do you see the sun setting over Familia Serrano?”
“It’s not that, Your Grace.”
“No? Then what is it, Serrano?”
Rivvas did not shirk it. “Magic.”
Alejandro fell back a step in mock astonishment. “I had forgotten! Dark magics! Yes!” He turned, slipped behind the chair, clasped each top corner of the frame. “Rivvas, what kind of magic? Evil, I must suppose, for you to use it against him … well then, of what is he capable? We’ve already established he cannot paint a dead man back to life, en verro—what, then? Shall we invite him to paint this woman to life?” Alejandro indicated the painted image with an elegant gesture. “She is truly alive, after all, if in Pracanza. Why not save the time otherwise wasted on a long and arduous journey and merely have him paint the Pracanzan princess here … why not have him mumble some words, breathe powder over the image, and conjure her into being? No? But, Rivvas—you want so very badly to convince me he can do evil things with this magic … eiha, what would you have him do?”
“Make himself Duke,” Estevan do’Saenza said sharply. “If the Serranos are correct and Sario Grijalva does know magic—”
“Then he would have to kill each and every one of you in addition to me,” Alejandro said. “And possibly even every citizen of the city, no?” He shook his head. “Do you truly believe it is possible for one man to usurp control of an entire duchy?”
“Verro Grijalva might have.”
“Verro Grijalva died saving his do’Verrada Duke from assassination in the aftermath of war.” Alejandro did not look, though everyone else did; behind him, on the wall, hung the massive original of Piedro’s spectacular Death of Verro Grijalva. A similar painting by another Grijalva, Cabrallo, hung on the opposite wall. “And Sario saved his particular do’Verrada Duke from war, which often is nothing more than mass assassination, no?”