by Melanie Rawn
“As you wish, Your Grace. May I ask—?”
“Matra ei Filho, Andreo! Of course you may ask. You need not abase yourself! What concerns you? Eiha! Perhaps you are as surprised as I was, no? Of course it was your intention that the elder girl—did she refuse to go, after all was said and done?”
Andreo blinked. “No, not at all. You did not speak to her there?”
“At Chasseriallo? No, I only spoke to Edoard and his charming Beatriz. She is a sweet girl. I wish my daughter Timarra had a tenth of her charm. I quite liked her, in fact. The elder girl—what was her name? Momentito. Don’t tell me. Of course.” Renayo snapped his fingers. “Eleyna. No, she was not there.”
“Not there?” The exclamation came from Giaberto.
Not there!
“Nor was Rohario. I sent him off with his older brother to get him out of the Palasso. Eiha!—if only he would think as well as he dresses. So. Eleyna Grijalva was there, was she? Edoard made some confused comments. I didn’t put it together at the time, but now—”
Three taps came on the door. Damiano cracked it open.
“I beg your pardon, Zio,” the young Limner said in a voice meant to be a whisper which instead carried easily to the others, “but you cannot—”
“Is that Cabral?” Renayo clapped his hands together, once, emphatically. “Of course you must let him enter! Zio Cabral!”
Of course you must let him enter! No Limner dared contravene the Grand Duke’s direct order, even in their own sanctuary. Their expressions of consternation delighted Agustin.
The Grand Duke hurried forward to draw the old man into the chamber which Cabral had certainly never seen before in his life. Cabral entered hesitantly. But it was Renayo’s expression that surprised Agustin: the Grand Duke addressed Andreo forthrightly and with trust; Cabral he approached with genuine fondness.
“Zio,” the Grand Duke said, hand resting comfortably on Cabral’s arm, “you asked me to come by when the white iris bloomed. So they have, and I have come to fetch you.”
“You are kind to remember me, Your Grace,” said Cabral, but from his mouth the polite words gained a sudden sweetness. He glanced once around the Crechetta, eyes wide; then he forced his attention back to the Grand Duke. “You also have news of Chasseriallo, I hear. My niece, Eleyna, how is she?”
Renayo burst into guffaws. Agustin could hardly breathe. The Grand Duke and a limner standing in the Crechetta! And, worse, what had happened to Eleyna?
“No one knows how she is! It appears my son Rohario has done the first manful thing of his entire life: run off with a beautiful woman!” Still laughing, he swept Cabral out with him. Their footsteps receded down the hall.
Inside the Crechetta there was stunned silence.
“Curse that woman,” said Nicollo at last in a voice scraped raw with pain.
“Giaberto, prepare a canvas.” Andreo shook himself to life and strode over to an iron lampstand. He adjusted the wick in the lamp, although Agustin had refilled the basin with oil that morning and it burned brightly enough, then turned to face the others. “We must track Eleyna down, quietly, so as not to attract too much attention. It is vital we find her. She knows too much.”
To Agustin’s horror, Andreo turned his grim gaze on him.
“You, mennino. If your sister sends you word, if you hear anything from her at all, you will come to me at once. She knows a very few of the secrets of the Viehos Fratos, but a very few is too many in the hands of those who could use that knowledge against us, who might destroy with one stroke what we have labored so long, so many generations, to build. She must return to Palasso Grijalva. Here she must stay. Do you understand?”
Agustin gulped down his fear. He did understand. He was beginning to understand the power of the Grijalvas very well. “Yes, Lord Limner,” he said obediently.
But in his heart, he knew he would never betray Eleyna.
SIXTY-NINE
Alazais was stupid.
No, stupid was the wrong word. She was blank. She was a white canvas, primed but unpainted.
Sario revised his plans. He had a great deal of work to do before he, her rescuer, could present her to a grateful Grand Duke Renayo. There were always unintended consequences to any action: it simply had not occurred to him that while her physical presence might be reproduced with painstaking exactitude, her mind might not follow her form.
Which was, perhaps, just as well. Sario could do his own forming.
“You are the Princess Alazais, daughter of King Ivo and Queen Iriene of Ghillas, who are, alas, dead, murdered by a renegade mob. It is no wonder that your memory is weak, your nerves overset, having witnessed such a horrific scene.”
“I am Princess Alazais, daughter of King Ivo and Queen Iriene. They are—” Here her voice caught. “—dead. Alas. I saw, I saw … I saw it happen.”
Sario regarded her with approval. She was a skilled mimic, and she picked up his every word, every emotional nuance, and incorporated them into her fragile being. Just as wood or cloth, paper or plaster provide a surface onto which paint is applied, she was’ the support on which he created the masterwork which would assure his elevation to Lord Limner. He need only apply the final layer— of words and thoughts rather than brushstrokes.
He heard the footsteps on the stairs. Going out, he found a tray of food and drink. It was nothing special, but the rich head of foam on the ale, freshly drawn, the savory meat pies, and aroma of freshly baked bread made his mouth water. He was still weak, though he had slept and eaten more than usual these last three days. But he had been ten days painting her, most of that time in a trance so that he did not notice the passage of day and night. He carried in the tray and, placing it on the table, served them both.
“Princess Alazais is always served by others. She waits for their service, never moving to help herself.”
So she waited, and handled the knife and fork daintily, sipped at the ale cautiously and with more pleasure at a mug of spiced tea, all as he had taught her in the three days since her creation.
“Who are you?” he asked again. “What is your lineage?”
She had a voice more breath than tone, but like a feather, she might be tossed in storm winds and emerge unscathed. “I am Princess Alazais, daughter of King Ivo of Ghillas. My mother Iriene is the second daughter of Fretherik, Prince of Sar-Kathebarg. My father is the great-grand-nephew of King Pepennar the Second of Ghillas who died without issue in the year 1238. The throne of Ghillas passed in time to Enrei the Second, who sired Mechella, who became Grand Duchess of Tira Virte, and Enrei the Third, who died without legitimate children in the year 1287. After the death of Enrei the Third, the throne passed to my father, Ivo, his distant cousin. Thus it passes to me, as last survivor of the Pepennid family and only child of King Ivo.”
“And if a man were to marry you who was himself descended from Mechella de Ghillas and Mairie de Lillone?”
“The Lillone family is a collatoral branch of the Pepennids. Their claim is not as good as mine, since they were only cousins of Enrei the First, his father’s youngest brother’s children, but there are sons, descended through the male Lillone line. …”
Here she hesitated. Was she struggling to remember the many facts he had poured into her or showing maidenly modesty? Even he, her creator, could not guess. Even a blank canvas contains within its substance certain intrinsic, unique qualities.
She went on. “In Ghillas it is preferred that inheritance descend through the male line. That is why the noble houses of Ghillas rejected Renayo’s claim, because it passed to him through his mother. But Pepennar himself established and was confirmed in his claim to the throne through his father’s mother’s kinship to King Enrei the First. She was Enrei’s only daughter and her children alone of his many grandchildren survived to adulthood.”
It was so odd to listen to that gentle voice—which in Ghillas had never uttered a word of greater import than to ask for praise for her latest piece of embroidery or her mastery of a new dan
ce step or her appearance in a new gown—reel off the complicated lineage of the Ghillasian noble family.
“Furthermore,” she continued, each word perfect, “in this terrible time of strife, it is vital that the throne and royal family of Ghillas be restored and that there be no struggle between competing factions lest the rabble that heinously murdered King Ivo and Queen Iriene gain in strength and destroy Ghillas utterly with this plague of restlessness. Where will it end if the common rabble are allowed to sit whenever and as ever they please on the throne of Ghillas, if fishwives and panderers may wield the royal scepter, if innkeepers and street sweepers believe they can govern as well as the King and his advisers, who have been granted by Matreia e Filhei the right to rule as their part in life? Order must be restored or we will all suffer.”
“And you,” he finished, “are the one person behind whom the noble families of Ghillas, the neighboring princes, the landed classes and the wealthy merchants will all stand.”
She gazed at him solemnly with those brilliant blue eyes. Eiha! Perhaps he had overdone it, made her too perfectly beautiful when she had actually been a pretty girl but not more than that.
“I am the rightful Queen of Ghillas,” she said.
He smiled and patted her on the head as he might a pet dog, were he the type of person who kept pets. She was, indeed, beautiful, built a bit more voluptuously than she had been in real life, all of which was blatantly apparent on a young woman clad now only in a thin chemise. She stirred not one iota of sexual response in him, but for decades now only painting made him feel fully alive. The other was merely a brief moment of satiation.
She waited as he mulled over in his mind what he needed to teach her. He must bring in a woman to teach her to embroider. Alazais had loved to embroider—little pillows, sleeves, hems, ribands, hats, reticules, all manner of frilly things necessary to a pampered lady of the court. A gift of one of the princess’ handicrafts had been a mark of favor at Ivo’s court.
She also must learn a better Ghillasian accent. He spoke to her in equal measure in Ghillasian and in his own language, but he could not reproduce her original charming accent. The real princess had been a quick study in languages, perhaps because she also had a good ear for music.
That, too. She must hear music so she could recognize concertos, learn to sing a few appropriate songs. She must learn to dance. She must know wine. No one would credit a Ghillasian princess who, no matter how traumatized, could not distinguish between her reds and her whites.
And though she would of necessity arrive dressed humbly, in order to lend a certain rough verisimilitude to her story, she must also know cloth and clothing, be attuned to the nuances of fashion. The real princess had loved to “dress up,” as she had in her naive fashion called it. She had been even more naive than the young Mechella, if that were possible, but Mechella had possessed a fine eye for color and a strong natural sense for cut and weave. The real Alazais had not been so blessed. This Alazais would have the best of taste.
This would all take much longer than he had planned.
He let her watch as he penned a note—he must tutor her in her letters as well—which he would have sent to Arguena, to let her servants know there had been an unspecified delay. Then he made a list, which he had her copy, of everything they would need. In this, as in everything else, she was a quick study.
“Work on forming your letters,” he said to her, “until I return. Always remember that you must speak of your past to no one until I give you leave. You are always in danger. We must keep your identity secret.”
“I will speak of it to no one,” she agreed.
He left the tray of empty plates and cups by the door and went down the stairs slowly, examining the mural painted there. The painting moved by elaborate stages up the stairs and down again, following the trail of the steps of the proprietor who ran the wine shop and kept Sario supplied with food, drink, clean linen and clothing, the necessities of life, when he was in residence in his attic hideaway. The painting itself was bordered by wreaths of vines and flowers and plants; within this border, a man serves his master with fidelity and devoted affection; he raises his own family and passes this duty on to a son or nephew, who in his turn climbs and descends the stairs. Into this innocuous if startling stairway storybook Sario had painted—and repainted, when the painting needed to be renewed—his own blood and tears as well as oils and essences from the herbs and flowers represented: violet for Faithfulness, plum for Fidelity, vervain for Enchantment, and belladonna for Silence.
He had painted similar, if better disguised, spells into the trim that surrounded the doors and windows of the wine shop. Thus was the shop sealed. So had he found refuge here for three hundred years, in the old market district of the city, which had not changed much over the centuries. He had renewed the painting as the old Arriano and would renew it again just before he discarded this body. Coming into the back room of the shop he startled the proprietor, a robust man in his forties who was, at this moment, examining a printed tract.
“I beg your pardon, Maesso.” The proprietor jumped to his feet and crumpled the stiff paper in his hands.
“Is that a broadside?” asked Sario, curious to know what had caused Oliviano to color such a deep stain of purple. “Something subversive, I trust?”
“Nothing at all, Maesso.”
“Let me see it.” It was indeed a printed broadside, crude letters and poor ink quality, bemoaning the Grand Duke’s resistance to convening the Corteis and protesting the recent executions. “Dangerous sentiments.” Sario handed the page back to Oliviano. “I trust you will burn this?”
“Yes, Maesso. I will do it now.”
Sario detested these new polite honorifics, Maesso and Maessa, which were now the fashion in the merchant and guild quarters of the city; they were a bastardization of the old guild title of Master. But he had learned to change with the times. “I need some things, Maesso Oliviano. As you know, my sister has sent me her niece from Ghillas—” It was a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it, but it served to smooth over awkward questions. “—and I need a woman to come in, for ten or twenty days, to tutor her in the gentler arts. You know the city well. She must be a woman of gentle birth, born in Ghillas or the daughter of Ghillasians, one who can speak the language with a pure accent, one who can embroider, who can play the lute and teach my niece a few songs, a few dance steps.”
The proprietor had by this time recovered from Sario’s discovery of the broadside. He was a canny merchant; his father had been content to run the wineshop quietly during Dioniso’s life. Oliviano had, with Arriano’s permission, expanded his business even as Meya Suerta itself had expanded.
“It will take a few days.”
“See that it is done quickly, and I will see that your eldest daughter is provided with a good dowry.”
“You are too generous!”
“I think not. This woman must, in addition, board with you and your wife while she teaches my niece.”
“Eiha.” Oliviano mused over this request. His father would have responded without questioning; Oliviano, about forty now, did not defer to the “young” Sario as he had to Arriano. “We can find room.” Disconcertingly, he winked at Sario. “You mean to marry the girl to a young man of good family? She is certainly pretty enough.”
Sario’s hackles went up. He did not like to be spoken to this familiarly. “That is my business, not yours. Do as I ask and you and your family will be rewarded.”
“As you wish, Maesso.” The proprietor bowed.
Satisfied, Sario climbed the stairs back to the attic, where he found Alazais carefully copying her letters. She had a beautiful hand, and it disturbed him just a little bit to see those fingers, which yesterday had been ignorant of forming letters, copying his precise writing so perfectly.
Maessa Louissa was a woman with diffident manners, a thin face, a perfect Ghillasian accent, and a gown that was as faded as it was finely made, perhaps ten years out of fashion but pre
cise in every detail. She was the only daughter of Isobella, a lady-in-waiting who had come from Lillone with Grand Duchess Mairie and then fallen out of favor for falling in love—without her mistress’ permission!—with a handsome captain of the Shagarra Regiment. Dismissed from ducal service, abandoned by her lover, Isobella had raised Louissa in straitened circumstances and educated her so she might teach compordotta and various of the gentle arts to young women of Meya Suerta who wished to better themselves.
Louissa had never seen a portrait of Princess Alazais of Ghillas nor, Sario supposed, was she curious enough to ferret out the secret or even suppose there was one. She was poor, unmarriageable, and desperate to earn a good wage so she might keep herself and her mother, who had a weak heart.
Indeed, after the second day, she poured out her troubles to Alazais, who listened with a sympathetic manner which Sario approved of even while he sketched various studies of Maessa Louissa’s face in order to block out the sound of her soft but persistently irritating voice.
So she taught Alazais for the rest of the month of Imago and into the month of Penitenssia, at whose end the year ended. What year was it? Eiha! It was hard to keep track.
Alazais learned to accompany herself on the lute, simple tunes. Her voice was clear and unaffected. She learned a number of the simpler court dances, during which Sario deigned to partner her while Louissa beat out time and hummed the melody in her reedy soprano.
And Alazais embroidered.
“I have never had a pupil take to this art so swiftly!” Louissa exclaimed one morning, displaying a square of linen covered with a delicate green ivy-wreath pattern. She looked as proud as if it had been her own daughter—the daughter she would, of course, never have.
Sario merely nodded, but he, too, was proud. He had painted into Alazais the potential to do these things. She was a magnificent piece of work. When Louissa went back to her pupil, he went back to his sketching, licking a finger and placing a touch of his saliva onto the pencil. He had done several perfect renditions of Louissa. He need only wait until he was through with her to make sure she would never speak of the work she had done here.