He was infertile, not unable. As he had told her once. As was proved time and again when he desired a bedding, though all too often the fire of his loins sublimated itself in art.

Only she understood him. Only she ever had.

Sario opened his mouth to speak, to explain what had happened, what the stranger had told him, to share with her as always what was in his heart, but Saavedra herself forestalled him. She slid a quick, wary sidelong glance at the old man as he came in beside her, then looked only at Sario. He could see she was frightened. And also rigorous in duty. "You are summoned." She clipped her words. "Seminno Raimon."

He could not help himself. "Let him wait."

It shocked her. "Sario-"

"Let him wait, 'Vedra." It was not what he had intended, this whip-quick, decisive tone. But urgency fed him now; he sensed a completeness and purpose, as if a pattern never known broken was abruptly mended. And the old man's expression, oddly, was serenely satisfied. "What he has told me-"

"What?-in his 'hidden language?' In his hidden tent?"

"The tent isn't hidden, 'Vedra-"

"I didn't see anything until he brought me inside!"

"I did. I saw from the end of the street!"

"So you did," the old man said complacently. "Acuyib has blessed you with the inner vision."

Saavedra did not lack for decisiveness. "You have been summoned," she repeated. "Matra Dolcha, Sario, have you forgotten what you are?" She indicated with a subtle movement of her head the chain and key against his breast, tangled in creases of wilted, soiled lawn. "We are not to refuse the responsibilities of our family."

"What does Raimon want?"

A second quick, slicing glance at the old man. "I don't know," she said tersely. "But-he was not himself."

Sario grimaced. "He is of the Viehos Fratos. No one may be himself, once he is of their number."

"Sario!" Color stained the delicate tones of her face, so that the bone of her jawline stood out pale in taut relief. "This man is estranjiero!"

"Not here." The old man's rebuke was gentle but crisply definitive. "Not within my home. And no more estranjiero than either of you, who share my blood." "Your blood!" Shocked. Angry. Uncertain of all but confusion. "I am a Grijalva-"

"And chi'patro," the old man reminded her. "Both of you. I myself am not. I can count back all of my generations to Acuyib's Great Tent itself, but you are more than what you believe."

"Tza'ab," Saavedra breathed. "That's what you are. I recognize the turban from the painting . .

. from Piedro's Death of Verro Grijalva. It is a different color, but it is the same."

"Ai, I am found out!" The old man, unexpectedly, retained most of his teeth, though they were stained yellow; now he flashed them briefly. "Zev'reina, I beg you-give me time-"

"I have none!" She was, Sario noted with an artist's detached eye, white and black at once: white of face, of lips; black of eye as pupils dilated. "And neither does he have time." She turned sharply to Sario. "You are summoned to Seminno Raimon."

"Let him wait." The Tza'ab quietly echoed Sario's words of a moment before. "Truly, you will see the sense in it. I promise."

"And what is it worth, your promise?" Sario had never seen Saavedra so rude before, or so frightened. "What are you to us? Estranjiero-foreigner and enemy-"

"Not to you. None of those things. One is not estranjiero or enemy within these walls, beneath my roof, breathing the very air exhaled by Acuyib." The ancient face reflected no hurt, no offense, that she should be so discourteous in a place he had welcomed her. "You have come home, Children of the Golden Wind. And at least one of you will never stray again."

THIRTEEN.

Forty-three years had not yet robbed Duke Baltran of a powerful, easy grace. Smoothly he hooked his right leg forward across the pommel, then simultaneously turned in the saddle and kicked free of the left stirrup to jump down all of a piece, landing lightly and balanced as a fencer. The informal dismount had not been taught by the Premio Chevallo charged with instructing him in equine mastery as a boy, but adopted as a time-saver by a vigorous, active young man. It made him feel young to employ it even now, despite the occasional twinges in his knees. It was easier-and politically sound-to let the others see him so vigorous than to admit to the first depredations of bone-fever, a common complaint of folk living in a city built so near marshland. The Grijalvas were riddled with it.

Far better to be of another family entirely than that sadly weakened bloodline! One silver- banded rein was draped across the stallion's massive neck; the other the Duke tossed at the young groom come out at a run from the stable block to tend his master's mount.

Baltran did not hesitate as his companion, clattering up to join him, also dismounted-as quickly, though with markedly less grace as he briefly caught spur in stirrup-but strode across the flagged courtyard even as he stripped leather gloves from his hands. Nor did he hesitate as that companion hastily threw reins at the horse-boy and scrambled to catch up; both men were tall, but the Duke had had more years to accustom himself to the length of his stride.

"Patro-"

"I have told you, no?" Baltran deposited the dusty gloves into the waiting hands of a servant come out to aid him even as he walked toward the Palasso. "It simply is not done." "But-"

"There are reasons for it, Alejandro. Can you imagine what your mother might say?"

Alejandro matched him now stride for stride, moving with loose-limbed ease that promised to echo his father's grace if he ever finished growing. "Why would she have to know?"

"She wouldn't have to know, Alejandro, but she would. Women do. The servants attending you and your mistress would know, and they would whisper of it to their friends, who would then know, and the friends would tell their friends, and soon enough the women attending the Duchess would know-and there you have it. The Duchess herself would know, and she would have plenty to say."

"I could keep her elsewhere."

"Your mother?" Baltran grinned at his son's horrified expression. "No, no-eiha, have you no sense of humor?" Still walking, he began to unlace the cords of his leather hunting doublet. "Ah, but no, there is no humor in this-I should recall it myself. It is never amusing when a boy wishes to take his first mistress." More laces undone, the chest-flap pulled wide, the garment divested and shed into the deft hands of his body-servant. "I have no objection if you wish to keep a mistress, Alejandro, but I would suggest you select another."

"But I want her, Patro-"

"Why? Because she took you to a place you had never before experienced? Because she made you feel things you had not expected to feel?" Baltran, taking pity-his son's face was white and tense-halted and swung to face his Heir. "Matra, I know-I do know, Alejandro . . . but it cannot be done. It should not be done."

"But I am the Heir . . . and if I desire it-"

"Alejandro." Baltran summoned patience. "Alejandro, you are indeed the Heir, and you will be able to do many things in life when and as you wish them. But they should only be done after much thought."

"I have thought, Patro."

The Duke waved the body-servant away despite the sweat-soiled folds of shirt clinging to his torso; he would not strip here in the courtyard, and neither would he make his son trail him into the Palasso like a submissive puppy begging for attention. "You have thought, Alejandro, yes. I have no doubt. But there are details perhaps you have not considered."

"Details?" Given ground to stand, courage kindled: Alejandro was less rushed now and coolly insistent. "I want her. You don't. What more is there than that?"

"Political concerns."

"She's a mistress, not a princess ... what value does she have in politics?"

Baltran untied soiled cuffs and began to roll back full sleeves, displaying thick, tanned forearms. "She was my mistress, Alejandro-and she is a Serrano. While she may well seek an alliance-perhaps even a marriage-with a wealthy nobleman, it would not serve for her to leave my bed for yours." The son was annoyed. "You have another woman in yours, Patro."

The father grinned easily. "So I do. And for all you know, it may even be your mother . . . but that is not your concern. You must think again, Alejandro, and see what lies ahead. Gitanna Serrano, cast off from the Duke but given to the Heir . . . aside from the problem of your mother's reaction, there would be the reaction of the Court."

"What does it matter which woman I take to bed?"

"Because it does. It always does. It must-unless she be a comely maid-servant pitifully grateful for the attention . . . but such a woman would not be a part of the politics, merely a convenience. That is of no moment. If you wish to tumble such, you have my blessings-but if you wish to install a woman in the Palasso you must take greater care."

"Patro-"

"Bassda, Alejandro ... I weary of this subject. You have my word on it: Gitanna Serrano is not to be your mistress. She served to make you a man and so you are, but you would be better served to look elsewhere for a bedpartner. Perhaps to the do'Brendizia, or the do'Casteya-the Serranos have been elevated quite enough, grazzo, with Zaragosa as Lord Limner, Caterin as Premia Sancta, and Gitanna in my bed!" He shrugged broad shoulders. "It was unwise of me, but I was smitten by the mennina. It lasted longer than expected . . . eiha, it happened; what more can I say?

As for now, I cannot dismiss either Zaragosa or the Premia Sancta-"

"-so you dismiss Gitanna."

The Duke laughed, amused. "It is somewhat easier to replace a mistress than Lord Limner or Premia Sancta, yes? In the former case, I should have to die; and in the latter, she would."

"And that is why? You cast her off because of politics?"

Baltran's grin faded. "I cast her off because I wearied of her constant prating against the Grijalvas, her repeated demands that I revoke the Ducal Protection-Matra Dolcha, I hear enough of that from the Premia Sancta!- and because I prefer another." He shrugged dismissively. "You will see, Alejandro . . . when a man is offered the choicest of innumerable wines, he often prefers to sample the grapes before selecting the variety he wishes to drink after dinner." He softened his tone, curbed the irony; he remembered his own impetuous youth and how detached condescension infuriated him. "Alejandro, I assure you of this: you are not in love with her. She is your first woman, and you are quite understandably infatuated with her. Eiha, aren't we all infatuated with our first?" He grinned reminiscently; Trinia had been exquisite to look at and generous in bed. "But there will come a woman, and there will come a time, when you recognize the difference."

"One woman, Patro?"

"One," Baltran answered soberly. "I knew, once. I knew it instantly."

"But-it was not my mother."

"Eiha, no ... I care deeply for your mother, Alejandro-I respect and admire her, and there is no question of my affection for her-but no, she was not the one. That one died."

It shook the Heir visibly. "Died?" "Bearing the son who would have been your half brother." The Duke glanced away, staring briefly at the sun. That time was passed, and more passed now. "Regretto, filho meyo-but I must go in and refresh myself. There is an embassy due from Pracanza later today, and I must prepare for it."

"Pracanza? Do you think they are seeking terms?"

"Demands," Baltran answered crisply, turning toward the Palasso. "That's all they ever make, the Pracanzans. Demands."

"What kind of demands, Patro?"

Baltran paused, then clapped his tall son on the shoulder. "No need for you to concern yourself just yet! Enjoy your newfound manhood, Alejandro, and know in good time I will introduce you to the intricacies of diplomacy- and Pracanzan demands!"

In the private, sunny solar that had housed so many stimulating and pleasant discussions with Arturro Grijalva, Raimon leaned against a pillar in false nonchalance and contemplated the man who sat in the chair, one hand filled with a goblet of wine and the other with his key and chain, chiming them absently in his cupped palm as if he tested the weight of coin.

Raimon crossed arms across his chest, shoulder blades set firmly against masonry. He was not at ease, but the posture allowed him to seem as if he were. "It will be Otavio."

The other twisted his mouth thoughtfully, considered it, then sighed and nodded. "I see no other possibility."

"He is not an Arturro."

"No man is an Arturro." The other shook his head. "I approve no more than you, Raimon, but I think 'Tavi will not prove a disastrous Premio Frato. He is not a stupid man."

"Only shortsighted. Arrogant. Unwilling to consider how things change-how things must change, to affect greater change."

"Eiha, it is difficult for an older man, Raimon." Davo, eight years senior, grinned. "You may feel the same when you are 'Tavi's age."

Raimon was not amused. "I doubt it."

Davo's smile faded. "So. What do you propose, then?"

Raimon lingered a moment, then scraped himself off the pillar and moved to the high, arched window. The scent of vine blossoms was heavy as a cheap perfume sold to the peasant women, the camponessas, on festival day, underscored by the thick humid weight of freshly trimmed grass below in the courtyard, where gardeners labored. In summer everything grew profusely, warmed by heat, nursed by moist air ... others departed the city at the worst of the season, but Grijalvas never did. There was work within the Palasso. Always work.

Raimon sighed quietly but did not turn. He spoke to the air framed by the hand-smoothed embrasure. "I think we must undertake to serve our own designs."

"Raimon! Matra Dolcha, it is well you say this to me. Do you know what would happen if another heard you say so?" "Most probably Chieva do'Sangua."

Davo now was alarmed. "And do you not care? Does it not distress you-"

Raimon turned sharply. "What distresses me is that we have our first and best opportunity to place a Grijalva at Court in several generations, and it will be thrown away by a moronno who detests a boy more gifted-and Gifted!-than he."

Davo gestured. " 'Tavi has always been difficult-"

"Otavio is impossible, and you know it!" Raimon caught and held his breath, reestablishing self-control, then blew it out in a noisy exhalation. "I know. I do know. And perhaps it is only my fear speaking, Davo-but I do fear. You know as well as I that Sario is our best hope."

"Only if he is controllable," Davo reminded. "Nommo Matra ei Filho, Raimon-I have never known a Grijalva so difficult to deal with!"

Raimon smiled faintly. "Not even me?"

Davo laughed indulgently. "Eiha, you had your moments . . . but you also displayed sense, Raimon. Eventually."

Beneath his cuff, the flesh of his wrist sent a ghostly reminder of the pain of the Lesser Discipline. "Eventually," Raimon echoed. "But have you another course to suggest?"

Davo did not hesitate. "There is no other."

"Then what-"

"Because we cannot take it into our hands! That is not how we conduct ourselves." Davo shook his head. "Compordotta, Raimon-always, the behavior must be correct."

"Even if it is wrong?"

"You know why," Davo said quietly. "Without the controls of compordotta, without the promise of the invocation of such things as the Lesser Discipline and the Chieva do'Sangua, we could become monsters."

"Otavio might argue Sario is a monster."

"And he may. But only if the boy is given leave to act improperly. And without the guidance of the Viehos Fratos, without the proper preparations, he will. Sario is-Sario."

"And if we do not see Sario named as Lord Limner?"

Davo shrugged. "Then we wait."

"For how long? Fifty years? Five hundred?" Raimon shook his head. "We have been resoundingly fortunate the do'Verradas have thus far sired clever, astute Dukes, but that could change ... the incursions and depredations of Pracanza and other countries could well rob us of our strength and make it a simple matter for war to come upon us. A war that might destroy us."

Davo's expression stilled as if he had heard words beneath the words. Slowly he said, "You mean the Tza'ab. It isn't Pracanza or Ghillas or any of the other countries that concern you, it's the Tza'ab." Raimon sighed and collapsed against the wall beside the window, letting stone uphold his spine as he shut his eyes wearily. "En verro. I do fear them."

"They were destroyed, Raimon! The Diviner was killed, the Riders of the Golden Wind defeated, the Kita'ab itself burned. By our own kinsman! The tribes were left in such disarray they will likely never again serve a woman even if she calls herself their Empress-and no male has been born to the Diviner's line in nearly a century. They are no danger to us. They have lost their heart, their soul."

Raimon lifted the back of his skull from the wall and looked hard at Davo. "How do we know?"