The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  “Promise you’ll be sweet to me, Arrigo, when I look like a cow about to have twins.”

  “Even if it looks like triplets,” he teased, and she laughed again. “The last person who called me ‘sweet’ was my mother, when I was about five years old.”

  “Oh, but you look just like a little boy in the mornings, with your hair all rumply and your eyes all soft with sleep.”

  “With not enough sleep! And whose fault is that?”

  “I can’t help it that I love you so much—” Her guileless blue eyes took on a sly glint. “—or that you’re such a wonderful lover. Whose fault is that?”

  “Yours. You inspire me. Which do you think, the gray coat or the can?”

  “The tan. It puts little gold sparkles in your eyes—or is that my fault, too?”

  “Stop looking at me that way or I’ll never get this finished. And it all has to be ready by morning. I leave tomorrow night.”

  The playful gleam vanished from her iris-blue eyes. “So soon? Oh, Arrigo!”

  “There’ll be plenty for you to do. You won’t miss me too much.”

  “I’ll miss you terribly! Don’t be angry with me, but it frightens me, being here without you. All these people—your mother has been so kind, and I’m very grateful, but without you here to guide me I’ll feel so alone!”

  “Everyone loves you, ‘Chella. Remember what my father said? Just be yourself, and no one will be able to resist you.”

  “But it won’t be the same as being at your side. What am I to do if they ignore me once you’re gone? I’m still so unsure about protocol, and manners. I pronounce things wrong no matter how hard try. What if I do something that’s not right?”

  “Don’t work yourself into a state, carrida, it’s bad for the baby. You are Princess Mechella of Ghillas. No one will ignore you. And whatever you do becomes right.”

  “I’m Dona Mechella of Tira Virte now,” she stated proudly. Then, in a smaller voice, “Ghillas seems very far away.”

  Arrigo applied the standard marital remedy for unhappiness. He swept her up into his arms, carried her to the bed, and made love to her amid a sea of silken sheets the exact color of her eyes.

  Hours later, as she lay fast asleep in his arms, he reflected that there was much to be said for a young, beautiful, loving wife. Mechella’s shy and innocent sensuality, her eager attention to his instruction in the arts of love, her gratitude—these were new in his experience, and sweetly intoxicating. Still, as he stroked the delicate skin of her long back, he felt a fleeting pang of longing for Tazia’s bed. He missed her familiar scent and warmth, her sure knowledge of him, the comfortable fit of his flesh to hers. Twelve years. …

  His hand slid between Mechella’s belly and his own hip to stroke the swell that was his child, the first of many strong sons. And daughters, too, pretty little girls with Mechella’s golden hair and delicious giggle. His wife, his Dona, his Grand Duchess, mother of his children. He slept, smiling, certain that when he was far from home his dreams would be of Mechella.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The populace of Diettro Mareia turned out in huge numbers for Arrigo’s arrival. From the port to the Ressidensa Principeia, crowds lined the streets waving bits of sapphire-blue cloth and cheering Arrigo’s horseback progress. He was touched and pleased—until he realized that their shouts were not of “Don Arrigo” but “Dona Arriga”: their way of naming his wife.

  He laughed and shouted to Dioniso Grijalva at his side, “I think I’m a disappointment to them!”

  “It had been rumored she’d come with Your Grace!”

  And so it proved. Principio Felisso della Marei met him at the top of the Ressidensa steps, and they had barely exchanged formal kisses before he said, “But where is your fascinating wife?”

  “Regretto, Highness, she was unable to come with me. She very much wanted to, but my father is concerned for his grandson.”

  “Ha!” bellowed Felisso, beaming all over his wide, wonderfully ugly face. “You hear that?” he yelled to the crowd. “Not half a year wed, and he’s already got her with child! A cheer for Dona Arriga and her son!”

  Dioniso sidled over and, his mouth an inch from Arrigo’s ear, advised His Grace to show the portrait. Arrigo nodded. Dioniso snapped his fingers at a brace of Grijalvas, who between them carried a huge velurro-wrapped painting. Its unveiling brought another tidal wave of sound. Felisso sucked air in through his teeth—the local expression of admiration, which Arrigo found singularly vulgar. A moment later Arrigo himself was sucking air in earnest; Felisso had dealt him a powerful fist in the ribs—the local expression of congratulation, which Arrigo found singularly painful.

  “Madreia ei Filhio, Cousin, I wonder you leave her bed at all!”

  Deprived of breath and speech, Arrigo managed a smile.

  Dioniso—who, not having been introduced, did not yet exist as far as the Principio was concerned—shattered protocol but proved himself worthy of the Embajadorro’s cap Cossimio had given him before this trip. Bowing low amid the crush of nobility, he shouted at the Principio, “While Don Arrigo has compelling reasons to stay in Meya Suerta—” Much sucking of air as they all paid tribute once more to Mechella’s portrait. “—his friendship for Your Highness demanded that you have the earliest opportunity to admire Dona Mechella!”

  “Friendship?” Another genial buffet, this time to Arrigo’s shoulder. “He wants to torment me, more likely! A portrait instead of the real thing! Quella Bellissima!”

  Breath recovered at last, Arrigo attended to compordotta. “Cousin, I bring to your notice Embajadorro Dioniso Grijalva, my personal assistant.”

  Now that Dioniso existed, he could speak more freely. “I’m glad your Highness likes the painting. A very nervous young limner is standing over there trying to hide his anxiety about its reception. Cabral!” A Grijalva stepped forward, bowed, and did not straighten until Dioniso introduced him. “The young man who painted this masterwork—though admittedly no one could ever paint an un-pleasing picture of Dona Mechella! His name is Cabral, Your Highness, and these others are our kinsmen Zevierin and Rafeyo, Grijalvas all.”

  “Fine work!” Felisso said heartily to Cabral. “Welcome to Diettro Mareia! Now, you walk that picture all the way around the terrace here so they can get a good look at her, but don’t you dare let anybody touch it! My steward will tell you where to hang it.” He paused to admire Mechella’s image once more, hissing prodigiously. “Grandia Bellissima! You are intent on torturing me, Cousin!”

  Inside, down a short hallway and up a long flight of steps, Arrigo found himself in the presence of the Principia Felissa. She allowed him to kiss her forehead, responded with the antiquated lips-and-heart salute that was used only at great holidays nowadays in Meya Suerta, and enjoined him to call her by her personal name, Rosilan.

  “Cousins should not be so formal, eihia?” she asked with a flirtatious wink. “I won’t keep you, for you must be tired from your journey. We dine privately tonight, just the three of us, and you can tell me about married life.”

  “I was hoping for some advice about just that, Cousin,” Arrigo replied with a smile. “You have so happy a union—and so many children! Though to look at you, I would never believe you had one child, let alone eight!”

  “Nine,” Felisso corrected. “You’ve made a good start, Arrigo. Just go on getting her pregnant!” So saying, he dealt his wife a hearty slap on the backside. She laughed and sank a fist into his substantial belly, and this was Arrigo’s introduction to the rulers of Diettro Mareia.

  Rosilan was as beautiful as Felisso was ugly: she with honeycolored skin, he dappled with freckles; she dainty of figure and features, he like a wine cask on short legs, with a nose that took up the majority of his face. But their eyes were the same hazel-green, and their hair was the same curly dark auburn, and their hands were alike in that the thumbs were oddly elongated. The similarities were unsurprising, for their mothers were sisters and their fathers’ fathers had been brothers. The
presentation of their brood—four sons, five daughters, all auburn-haired, all plain as peasants, and none showing the slightest sign of intelligence behind their hazel eyes—was Arrigo’s introduction to the dangers of inbreeding.

  Later, alone with Dioniso in one of the Ressidensa’s suffocatingly ornate suites, he said, “‘Cousin’ I may be to the Principio, but Grazzo do’Matra the relationship dates back four generations! Did you see their litter?”

  “Litter, indeed, Your Grace—that should’ve been drowned mercifully at birth.”

  Arrigo reclined in a long, low, preposterously carved and gilded chair. “Tell me, if it’s not too intrusive, how do the Grijalvas avoid the demonstrable perils of consanguinity?”

  “We keep excellent records, Your Grace,” was the laconic reply.

  “Yes, but—after all these centuries of mating Grijalva mainly with Grijalva …”

  “There are the occasional unfortunates,” Dioniso admitted. “But because the truest Gift descends in the female line, it is possible to marry outside the family and still produce a talented painter.”

  “So there’s an infusion of new blood every so often? Very wise. I hadn’t known that about your women.”

  “On this journey, I will tell you several things you do not yet know about the Grijalvas.”

  There was that in the Limner’s voice that made Arrigo glance up. “Things my father knows?”

  “Things only Grand Dukes and the Viehos Fratos know.”

  “Such as?”

  Dioniso hesitated, as if he’d already said too much, then shrugged. “For the present, I may say only that it would be helpful if you and the Principio exchanged personal tokens at some point. A lock of hair, perhaps.”

  “A—?” Abruptly he remembered that Tazia always insisted on cutting his hair herself, carefully gathering the clippings for immediate burning. His laugh sounded nervous even to him as he said, “Surely you don’t believe old superstitions!”

  “Facts, Your Grace. With a brush made of the Principio’s hair, it will be possible to paint an icon to inspire faith with us as well as with the Mother and Son. The Grand Duke mentioned to you that such an icon, painted to the Principio’s tastes, is my duty here.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Usually collection of … personal effects … would fall to a Grijalva, and you would be unaware of it. But I believe you deserve to know such things.”

  “Before I become Grand Duke?” Arrigo sat straight up. “Tell me at once, Dioniso—is my father ill? Does he have only a short time left? Is that why you—”

  “Your father is in perfect health, Grazzo do’Matra, and with Her blessing will live many long years.”

  He exhaled in relief. “Then why are you telling me such things?”

  “I don’t agree with the Viehos Fratos that Heirs should be kept ignorant until succession. How much more good you can do for Tira Virte if you know!” He paused again. “I have broken certain vows by telling you even this much. I hope you won’t think that any vows to you will be broken as lightly.”

  “No, no, not at all,” Arrigo said distractedly. “You do this to help me and our country, and I’m grateful. I’ll remember it.”

  “By your leave, then, I’ll go make sure the portrait is hung properly. These Mareians are notoriously clumsy of hand and eye.” He gestured with a grimace to the vulgar display around them, and Arrigo laughed.

  Dioniso bowed himself out, taking a moment in the hall for a private chuckle. Then he hurried to the gallery, not only to educate the servants in how to hang a painting but to begin the education of Rafeyo.

  What Rafeyo learned that afternoon about the respect due Grijalva art was augmented that evening by a lesson about the obligations of a Grijalva arrtio.

  With Don Arrigo dining privately with the Principio and Principia, the rest of his little delegation was free to seek their meal at one of the city’s best restaurants. Dioniso—drawing on the experiences of another life—recommended the Fructio di Marei, telling his Grijalva brethren that one could hear better rumors elsewhere, but they were after gusto tonight, not gossip.

  “And the gusto here is said to be superior even to the Quattrei Astreia,” he told them as they entered the establishment, a small cavern of a room hung with gleaming brass lustrossos that glistened candlelight onto fine glassware laid out at the dozen tables. The innkeeper, overhearing his food praised beyond the most celebrated restaurant in Aute-Ghillas, beamed and escorted his Grijalva guests to the best table—exactly as Dioniso intended that he should.

  The innkeeper flourished huge squares of snowy linen onto each lap. Bending close to Dioniso’s ear, he whispered in very bad Tira Virteian, “Quattrei Astreia not so good now?”

  “As good as ever it was—I was there this year.”

  Along, satisfied sigh. “Bonnito Gusto, amiccio meyio!”

  And good eating they had. Dinner consisted of seven exquisite courses, each presented by the innkeeper himself while his wife and the wine steward debated vintages and a strolling gamba player serenaded them with favorites from Tira Virte. Cabral, who had grown up outside the Palasso with a stepfather who adored dining out whenever he was in town, was impressed; Zevierin and Rafeyo were overwhelmed. A simple appetizer of bread topped by olives and mushrooms was followed by bowls of creamy herbed rice, fish stuffed with almonds, and a lightly dressed salad of greens and fruit to cleanse the tongue before the beef was served. This came in medallions fanned with sliced potatoes and red onions drizzled with a spicy-sweet sauce. After apple tartlets, cheese and biscuits, and tiny cups of strong black coffee, the feast ended with the innkeeper’s wife pouring short glasses full of clear liquor, each nestled in its own little silver tub of ice.

  The three older men took it on themselves to further Rafeyo’s culinary education. Dioniso lectured on wines, Cabral on meats and cheeses, and Zevierin on the intricacies of sauce. The tendency of every growing boy to inhale his food was scowled out of Rafeyo with orders to savor every mouthful or he’d offend the innkeeper. But what awed the boy most was not the meal or the wines but the deferential service and the respectful nods of patrons who recognized the Grijalvas by their distinctive gray feathered caps.

  “At home,” Rafeyo confided in a whisper, “only the Fratos are treated so. I feel like a Lord Limner!”

  And behaved as if he were. But his dignity was at last defeated by the clear liquor that ended the meal. Deceptively smooth on first sip, he didn’t notice the pepper flavoring until it grabbed him by the throat. When he finally stopped coughing, he wiped his eyes and at Cabral’s urging drank a whole glass of water straight down.

  Dioniso leaned back in his chair, a smile on his lips. “Don’t look so downcast. You disgraced no one—not yourself, or us, or the Grijalvas, or Tira Virte. In fact, it’s a great compliment to this house that you nearly choked to death on their homebrew. They may even give you a bottle.”

  Rafeyo looked alarmed, then grinned. “I’ll be sure to accept politely—and then give it to an enemy!”

  “Remind me to stay on your good side,” Cabral chuckled. Nodding to his left, he said more softly, “That’s an interesting turban that woman has on.”

  “A Tza’ab?” Rafeyo’s eyes went wide. “Here?”

  “Of course not.” Dioniso didn’t even give the woman a glance. “Turbans are current fashion here. But I agree, Cabral. It’s interesting. I noticed it earlier.”

  “Why?” Rafeyo demanded. “I think she’s ugly.”

  “Not shy, are you?” grinned Zevierin, a Limner about Cabral’s age. “The headdress indicates growing taste for things Tza’ab, which Tira Virte supplies to all other nations the way it supplies limners—through a strict monopoly. Now, this control of popular Tza’ab goods would make our merchants even richer than they are—if Principio Felisso hadn’t begun secret negotiations with the Tza’ab Empress.”

  “Bypassing our monopoly,” Cabral finished, “and breaking a treaty that goes back a hundred years. We’re here to persu
ade the Principio otherwise.”

  “It’s kind of boring, though, isn’t it?” the boy asked. “I mean, painting a treaty to stop a war is one thing, but—”

  “Not one to waste your energies on anything less than the grand canvas either,” Dioniso observed. “Do you have any idea how much Tira Virte makes off import taxes on Tza’ab rugs, cloth, jewelry, glass, and pitch?”

  Rafeyo did not.

  Cabral gave a shrug. “Much Grijalva work has to do with such ‘boring’ things. You don’t paint to serve your own talents, Rafeyo, you paint to serve your country and your Grand Dukes.” All at once he nudged Zevierin. “Stop gaping at that woman over there, or I’ll tell my sister.”

  Zevierin blushed darkly and glowered. Cabral grinned at him.

  “Who are you watching?” Rafeyo asked. “Is this one pretty?”

  “Very. Two tables away. Don’t turn and stare, Rafeyo, it’s not polite. Besides, her husband is with her, and worships her.”

  Dioniso brushed crumbs off the tablecloth. “The gamba player has been performing for them alone when he hasn’t been gracing us—and he won’t take any money from them for it. So, Rafeyo, what can you tell me about them? Quick glances only.”

  His gaze darted over his shoulder a few times. Hesitantly, he began, “They’re married, but not very long because they’re still crazy in love.”