The Golden Key

by Melanie Rawn

  The next morning, as sunlight penetrated the steep and twisting streets of Granidia, outraged cries and derisive laughter began to ring out. “Qal Venommo!” the well-informed assured their friends—“poisoned pen”—as in every neighborhood people gathered to gawk, point, and believe the hilarious and occasionally salacious drawings that had appeared overnight as if by magic.

  When Arrigo found out, he summoned to his presence all the Grijalvas—limner and Limner—currently in Granidia. Of the twenty-nine, eleven had witnesses that they’d been at home all night in their beds, twelve had similar witnesses that they’d been at one or another of the dances, six had been at Count do’Granidia’s ball, and the remaining six were so feeble they were hardly able to climb a flight of stairs, let alone spend the night racing all over the tortuously sloping streets.

  Arrigo glared at Cabral and Zevierin, the two Grijalvas Mechella had insisted on bringing with her. They were his prime suspects, of course. But he’d seen the latter several times at the ball, dancing with Leilias; the former wore the look of someone who has spent the previous night getting very, very drunk. Indeed, one of the do’Granidia servants had been questioned earlier, and he affirmed that Cabral had sent with clockwork regularity for yet another bottle until shortly before dawn.

  But a Grijalva had done this—this—this insult to the Heir of Tira Virte. Even the cleverest amateur hand could not have worked such vicious slanders in the inimitable Qal Venommo style. A Grijalva had done it. And he knew their accursed vows would keep them silent about which one until the day they died. Not even Dioniso, who was his friend; not even Rafeyo, who was Tazia’s son; not a single damned one of them would have revealed the culprit. And Arrigo knew it.

  “Very well,” he stated flatly. “If I am not to know which Grijalva did this, I will certainly know which Grijalvas will undo it. The able-bodied will take up brushes. Scrub brushes. And if I find one hint of a charcoal line on one wall of Granidia by sunset. …” He let the threat trail off unspoken.

  “Your Grace.”

  He rounded on a stoop-shouldered Limner whose fever-ridden bones benefited from Granidia’s fierce sun. “What?”

  “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but the work cannot be washed off.”

  Another Limner nodded. “I had a look before I came here, Your Grace. It’s—a kind of charcoal that doesn’t respond to solvents of any kind.”

  Zevierin cleared his throat. “He’s right, Your Grace. I, too, inspected a drawing, and—”

  “Nommo Matra ei Filho! Paint over it, then!”

  Hours later, sweating in the harsh noon sun, Cabral paused to press his thumbs against his aching temples. Zevierin looked up from mixing another bucket of white paint. After this day, Granidia would glow like alabaster. In places, anyway.

  “Why don’t you rest for a while?”

  Cabral eyed him. “And again let you do the work I should have done?”

  “Are you getting heatstroke? You make no sense, Cabral.”

  “Don’t I? How’d you hurt your hand?”

  Zevierin replied serenely, “As I told Don Arrigo when he asked about it, I scraped it on the stairs up to the watchtower. Those walls really should be smoothed over, they’re like glass shards.”

  Cabral was having none of it. “Zevi, how did you hurt your hand?”

  “The truth?” He grinned. “Leilias bit me.”

  That wrung a laugh from Cabral. “Don’t you wish! Matra, I thought I’d fall over when Arrigo told you to be more careful of your precious Limner’s hands!”

  Zevierin poured out two cups of water. “I only hurt the left, which doesn’t matter much.”

  “You took a stupid chance last night. Did my sister put you up to it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “All the real Limners knew the instant they saw that bandage.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  After a moment Cabral shook his head. “You’re a fool, Zevi. But—grazzo millio.”

  “In fact,” Zevierin said thoughtfully, “I’m absolutely positive I don’t know what you mean. But you’re welcome anyway.”

  For another twelve bright spring days Arrigo escorted Mechella on the rest of the arranged tour. In Dregez, the last town of any note on the road home to Meya Suerta, Baroness Lissina and a delegation of Grijalvas awaited them. At the death of her husband, the manor house and home farm became hers alone. It was confidently expected that she would will it all to the family, as every other Mistress had done before her. At that time a Grijalva with wife and children would be chosen to oversee the property. It was also secretly hoped that the Grand Duke would ennoble this Grijalva as the new Baron do’Dregez. Because Lissina was healthy as a horse and came from a line whose women lived to a ripe old age, it was assumed that Arrigo would be that Grand Duke. Therefore, certain forward-looking Grijalvas came from Meya Suerta to help Lissina welcome the Don and Dona to Dregez.

  As in Granidia, Arrigo was greeted first, rather than as an afterthought. He was wanted for himself, not just for the woman at his side. This was true of the ranking citizens, anyway; the common camponessos still shouted only for Mechella, but Arrigo could ignore that as he was made much of by a score of fawning townsfolk and a dozen flattering Grijalvas.

  He knew what the latter wanted, of course. Tazia kept him well-informed about the inner workings of her family. He was not swayed by the display, and would decide to grant the title of Baron do’Dregez or not as he chose. Still, self-serving as their attention was, he basked in it.

  Mechella knew the Grijalva plan, too. Leilias and Lissina explained it to her the first evening of the visit as they sat in the Baroness’ cheerful little salon overlooking an ornamental fountain. Dregez was constructed in the classic Hassiendia style: a two-storied hollow square with a courtyard garden in the center and a balcony running along all four sides. Its charm for Mechella was in its world-within-a-world feeling, though Leilias was much more taken by the profusion of aromatic herbs growing in beds and boxes amid the brick paving. Dregez was too hot even in late spring for many flowers, but hardy desert herbs thrived.

  As the evening light faded and the three women listened to the plaintive notes of a gittern being played beside the fountain, Lissina also revealed in strictest confidence what no one would know until after her death. In keeping with what she and Baron Reycarro had agreed on, her will left Dregez to Riobira do’Casteya, younger and near-dowerless daughter of Lissina’s beloved namesake, Lizia.

  On hearing this, Leilias laughed until she choked. “The Viehos Fratos will have a collective seizure!”

  Lissina nodded. “It’s a good thing I’ll be dead when they find out.”

  “Eiha, cousin, I promise I won’t let them dig you up and stick you with their paletto knives!”

  Mechella found none of this amusing. “But why Riobira? It’s wonderfully generous of you, and she’s a delightful child and very deserving, and of course you must do with your property as you like—but surely your family—”

  Lissina shook her head. “Unlike Corasson before Your Grace bought it—”

  “I thought we’d agreed to do away with titles!”

  The former Mistress smiled her lovely, translucent smile. “Regretto, Mechella. I was about to say that Dregez has always been highly profitable. I think it unwise for the Grijalvas to have that much wealth—connected to a noble title as well.” She rose and refilled their glasses with iced lemonada flavored with a few drops of the newest import from Merse, a clear liquor distilled from some sort of berry. It lent a nice tang to the citrus, and one could drink quite a bit of it without becoming giddy. “Also unlike Corasson, whose owner died before her Will could be painted, Dregez will not go automatically to the family if I can help it. It pleases me, and my dear Reycarro, to dower Riobira as befits a do’Verrada granddaughter. Lizia named her for him, you know—his full name was Reycarro Riobiro Diegan do’Dregez. And I love the child as if she were my own.”

&nbs
p; Leilias made a face. “What’s all this mysterious motherly glow every woman but me seems to feel?”

  Mechella smiled. “You’ll find out one day, believe me. What I wish to know is how this can be kept secret. After all, a Grijalva will be needed to do the painting.”

  “That’s why I’ve told you this,” said Lissina. “I need a Grijalva, one I can trust, who isn’t thick with the Viehos Fratos. I’ve settled on Cabral.” When two pairs of brows arched, she explained, “One hears things. But I didn’t like to borrow him without asking you, Mechella.”

  “You may borrow Cabral anytime you like. Would tomorrow do for the preliminary sketches?”

  Leilias shook her head. “Not Cabral.”

  “Whyever not?” Mechella asked indignantly. “Are you saying he isn’t competent or trustworthy?”

  “Of course he is—and he’d laugh as much as I did at this joke on the family ambitions. He’d do anything you ask, you know that. But a Will painted by him won’t work. It won’t be—binding.”

  “He’s a Grijalva.”

  “But not a Limner.” Her tone supplied the differencing capital. “It was explained to me recently. Those like Cabral, capable of fathering children, are incapable of painting certain kinds of pictures. One potency precludes the other, if you get my meaning.”

  Lissina frowned. “I don’t, and I’m not sure I wish to. These are matters for Grand Dukes and Grijalva Limners, not for us.”

  Mechella did not share her opinion. “Who told you this, Leilias?”

  “Zevierin.”

  “I see.” After a moment’s keen scrutiny that made Leilias want to squirm, Mechella continued, “As it happens, Zevierin is with us on progress. I trust him as fully as I trust Cabral. Will he do, Lissina?”

  “On your recommendation, of course. Grazzo, ‘Chella,” she added, almost shy with the diminutive. “You’ve eased my mind of a great burden.”

  Lissina showed them to the pretty bedchamber allotted Mechella and said good night. Otonna had readied the room with all the little things brought along as reminders of home: framed pencil portraits of Teressa and Alessio drawn by Cabral, an embroidered pillow worked by Riobira, a few favorite books, the rosewood clock. As the maid unhooked Mechella’s bodice, Leilias tried to excuse herself. Mechella asked her to stay. Leilias hinted that she was tired. Mechella seemed not to hear.

  “Will that be all, Your Grace?” Otonna asked as she finished brushing out Mechella’s long golden hair.

  Leilias said sweetly, “Have you an appointment with that good-looking steward—what’s his name, the one Lissina trusts with everything?”

  Mechella laughed. “Otonna! Serving me doesn’t extend to falling in love with someone who can supply you with information, just because he can!”

  “Eiha, Your Grace, I confess it—his information interests me not at all!”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” She paused, weaving her hair into braids with her own hands. “Speaking of acquiring knowledge … Leilias, how ‘recently’ did Zevierin tell you about the Limners? One day ago, five days ago—or the night you and he ran all over Granidia scribbling on walls?”

  This time she did squirm. “Your Grace, I don’t know what—”

  Mechella giggled. “Otonna, did you see the one of that woman as a sow so old the butcher turned up his nose and the tanner wouldn’t even take her for her hide?”

  “A masterpiece, Your Grace,” the maid chuckled. “But my own best favorite had her captain of the good ship Tira Virte—sailing straight into the Corrazha Morta off the Niapali coast. Zev—regretto, I meant to say whoever drew it—gave a true feel for why a sailor’s courage dies on sighting those rocks!”

  “I missed that one,” Mechella lamented. “How many were there in all, Leilias?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Your Grace.”

  Iris-blue eyes laughed at her in the mirror. “Eiha, too bad. I suppose no one else would be able to tell me either?”

  “I doubt it, Your Grace.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  They were in a dusty village half a day out of Dregez when it happened. Otonna was the first to see a too-swift movement in the crowd, but she was far from where Mechella and Arrigo stood on the Sanctia’s narrow porch. Leilias, on the lower steps with the delegation of Grijalvas, was jostled by the rippling effect of someone shoving through the crowd. Cabral saw the small disruption and frowned. Mechella noticed it, too, from the corner of her eye, and glanced away from smiling attentiveness to the alcaldeyo’s welcoming speech on behalf of his village. At that moment a strange spherical object, iron-gray and trailing a feather of white smoke, arced into the air.

  Someone screamed. Arrigo pushed past the two resident sanctas to wrap his arms around Mechella and propel them both stumbling into the open Sanctia doorway. The flowers in her arms went flying and she tripped over the hem of her gown, Arrigo’s steely embrace her only support. There were more screams, a crack of metal on stone, and then acrid smoke stung her nose and eyes. Arrigo pulled her farther into the Sanctia. She struggled against her husband’s grip, freeing herself to wipe tears from her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Mechella? Are you?”

  “Y–yes,” she said shakily. “What happened? What was that?”

  “Stay here, I’ll go find out. But if it’s what I think it was—” He shook his head grimly. “Stay here.”

  Through the open doorway she saw a cloud of thin smoke. Beyond it, people fled in all directions. The elderly sancta lay on the porch, the young one kneeling at her side weeping. Village notables choked and coughed their way down the steps. Arrigo was nowhere in sight.

  “Your Grace!” Cabral was with her suddenly, his eyes red and streaming with tears. “’Chella, are you hurt?” When she shook her head, he mumbled a prayer of thanks. “Come into the sunlight and let everyone know. Half their panic is because they think you’re dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Rapidia, Your Grace, before they trample each other.”

  She stepped out onto the porch, coughing as some of the dissipating smoke again stung her throat. At sight of her, the young sancta cried out to the Mother and Son in gratitude. Others called the news that their Dolcha ‘Chellita was unharmed, and slowly the scene calmed down. It was just as it had been on her return from Casteya: her presence was enough.

  “Where’s Arrigo?” she demanded of Cabral.

  “I think he’s helping chase down the culprit. As for what happened—” He didn’t finish, for Leilias had elbowed her way to Mechella and a moment later Otonna flung her arms around her mistress, sobbing.

  “Oh, Your Grace, I thought for a certainty we’d lost you!”

  “I’m perfectly all right—or would be, if you’d stop strangling me.” She smiled and wiped Otonna’s cheeks.

  A few Grijalvas took their turn reassuring themselves of Mechella’s safety. Their reddened eyes overflowed with involuntary tears. At last Arrigo ran panting up the steps.

  “The filho do’canna got away,” he snarled. “Did anyone see the thing hit? And where did it end up?”

  The village alcaldeyo, trembling from his pointed red velurro cap to his shiny green leather boots, tottered up to where they stood. “Your Grace, someone kicked it out of the way, I didn’t see where—oh, Dona Mechella, forgive us!”

  “Forgive you for what?” she asked blankly.

  “No one saw where the iron ball went?” Arrigo swore under his breath. “Eiha, in the manner of assassins, it’s probably long gone. No evidence.”

  Leilias gasped. “Assassins?”

  “It was a Tza’ab device, called by them na’ar al’dushanna—’fire and smoke.’ Either this one didn’t work exactly as planned, or it was only a warning.” He dragged his sleeve across his forehead to mop up the sweat. “They stuff chemicals into a sphere with a wick attached. When it’s lit, the smoke can be an irritant or a lethal poison.”

  Mechella swayed with shock. Cabral steadied her with an unobtrusive hand at her back.
She hardly noticed.

  Leilias said, “The sancta took the worst of it. But she’ll recover. They’ve taken her to her chambers.”

  Cabral spoke quietly. “I believe you’re right, Your Grace. It was both a failed device and only a warning. There was little smoke, and what there was did no serious hurt.”

  “But why would someone do this?” cried Mechella. “Who could hate us so much?”

  “Not here,” Arrigo said gruffly. “Come, we’ll find someplace private within the Sanctia where we can talk. Cabral, attend us. Leilias, unpack some wine, Her Grace is too pale. And Otonna—washing water, at once.”

  “Oh, Your Grace,” moaned the alcaldeyo. “This was the work of a moronno luna, no one to do with our village—you must believe this—”

  “Of course we do,” Mechella told him. “Go and wash the sting from your poor eyes, Maesso Birnardio. Would it be all right if we stay the night here? I’m far too upset to continue our journey as planned.”

  “Stay—” He pressed his fists to his tear-stained cheeks. “But we have no castello nearby, not even a proper caza. Nowhere fitting for Your Grace to place her head—”

  “In Casteya last year, I slept in my carriage. Even a bed of hay in someone’s barn would be more comfortable than that!”

  “A barn—yes, we can do that.” He started off to arrange it, caught himself, turned to bow to Mechella, again to Arrigo, and finally scurried from the Sanctia steps, wiping his eyes all the way.

  “Are you hurt?” Arrigo asked worriedly of his wife.

  “No. But we must show these good people that we don’t blame them and feel safe in their village. Besides, if they catch this person, I want to ask him myself what complaint against us could make anyone do such a thing.”

  A short while later everyone’s eyes had been rinsed as a precaution and they sat in the Sanctia schoolroom drinking wine from chipped pottery mugs. Speculation about the attack got them exactly nowhere. In Cabral’s opinion, it was Tza’ab doing. Arrigo pointed out that this could be what they were intended to think. Knowledge of the na’ar al’dushanna was not limited to the Tza’ab, though they were the only ones cowardly enough to use it. Neither could anyone come up with a reasonable explanation of why this had occurred.