Davo blinked. "How do we know?"

"How do we know there are no Riders left, no fragments of the Kita'ab, no man willing to rouse Tza'ab Rih once more?"

"Because-" Davo stopped, then began again. "Because it has been too long."

"Too long?" Raimon twisted his mouth. "How long is too long, Davo, to attempt to reclaim what was precious?"

"But-"

"Do we not do the same, Davo? Each boy born, Confirmed, trained, we pray will be the one to recapture what was lost ... do we not do the same? What is to say the Tza'ab do not wait, as we wait, and train, as we train, the one candidate most likely to reclaim the position? For them, the Diviner; for us, Lord Limner. One and the same, Davo-except they want to destroy Tira Virte, while we wish to preserve it."

Davo clearly struggled with the concept. "But we do not know, Raimon! There may be no truth in it. No truth at all."

"Of course," Raimon agreed quietly. "En verro, I could be wrong. Of course."

"Oh, Matra," Davo whispered. "Oh, Matra Dolcha."

Raimon gathered his Chieva and lifted it to his lips, then pressed it to his heart. "Nommo Matra ei Filho, may there be no truth in any of it."

But he feared very much there was. And with the Ecclesia as an enemy, Duke Baltran surrounded by Serranos, Grijalvas denied entry to the Palasso Verrada and Court-eiha, what was left? Compordotta? But circumscribed behavior was wholly ineffective and definitively deplorable when it enabled enemies to use it to their advantage.

I require a key. Raimon closed a hand around his Chieva. A living key.

FOURTEEN.

Alejandro was, he deduced, formally dismissed, and probably forgotten. His father had spoken; life thus remained as it was. Gitanna was, or would be, gone. But Alejandro's world, despite his father, was changed. Life did not remain as it was, because life for him was altered.

The yearnings he had felt now were answered, and he was more than content to let the question be asked as many times as it could be, so long as the answer was always the same.

But the woman would be different. Patro has proclaimed it.

Bemused, Alejandro watched the powerful figure of that father stride away across the courtyard, bound for the Palasso and ducal duties. There was no hesitation in the effort, no lessening of vigor, no tenderness evident in limbs or joints. Alejandro had seen nothing, ever, that could dim the fire of his father.

Have 1 any? He spread his hands and examined them, turning them this way and that. Have I any of his fire, or am I merely a spark? And one so often doused in his father's impressive presence.

"Merditto," the Heir murmured, scrubbing thick hair into a spiky tangle. He scowled as the Duke climbed the steps and disappeared into the shadowed recess framing the low door; he used a side entrance, not the Portalla Granda. "No. He will save that for the Pracanzans."

Alejandro sighed. He was at loose ends now, denied Gitanna's bed as well as participation in the politics of Court. It was not that he wanted so desperately to be a part of politics-no one living in Palasso Verrada could avoid them altogether-but that he was so easily dismissed, as if he played no part in Tira Virte's welfare.

Hands settled now on hips, Alejandro hooked a booted toe beneath a loose cobble and pried it up from its bed. One sharp kick sent it tumbling across its neighbors. And then he turned on his heel and marched toward the gate, politely refusing the groom who came running up with an offer to fetch him a fresh mount. "No, grazzo-walking will settle my temper!"

And if his father in one breath denied him Gitanna while also offering ducal blessing for his son to seek other women, that is precisely what the son would do.

Alejandro smiled as his disposition recovered itself. It was Fuega Vesperra, after all, and most of the female populace would be out in the city's streets. Perhaps the day was not quite doomed after all.

The old Tza'ab lightly placed a hand on Sario's elbow as he stepped toward the tent entrance in pursuit of Saavedra. "No-let her go. It is new to her, this truth. Give her time."

Sario wrenched away, though little effort was required to free himself of the unobtrusive touch. "New to me, also!"

"But you have a greater curiosity, no? And the inner vision." The old man smiled, spreading palsied hands in an oddly youthful gesture of innocence. "Is it a sin to be curious? No; even I do not suspect your beloved Mother and Son of renouncing curiosity . . . from it comes your talent, your technique, your hunger for improvement, coupled with the vision, all so you can exalt Their Blessed Names."

Sario regarded him with some suspicion. Saavedra was gone now, lost within the crowd-and it was true, what the old man said: he was curious. "You don't worship the Mother and the Son."

It was accusation, challenge. The old man tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his loose saffron-dyed over-robe. "Don't I?".

Sario evaluated the serene expression. "No," he said finally. "You are too much Tza'ab."

"I am Tza'ab . . . could I be more? Could I be less? Could I be anything else?"

It was succinct. "Enemy."

"Not to you."

"Why not to me? I am Tira Virteian, and Grijalva-it was both halves of me that caused the downfall of Tza'ab Rih." Sario offered a superior smile. "His name was Verro Grijalva."

"Halves of a half," the old man corrected, indifferent to condescension. "The other half is wholly Tza'ab, and blessed with Tza'ab talent."

Sario felt his face warm. "Will you insult me with that?"

"Insult you? Claiming you half Tza'ab?" Yellowed teeth were displayed, albeit briefly. "Ai, no-to do so would insult more of me than it insults you!"

Sario shook his head. "But you cannot know if I am half Tza'ab. No one does. No one can. We have all married one another so many times, we Grijalvas-vas, or gotten children within the family, that I may only have but a drop of Tza'ab blood."

"Look at me," the old man said. "You came to my tent. You saw my tent. You could not read the patterns, but you knew they were for you."

"Read the patterns?"

"I knew, you at once, as you stood before my tent; and how do you think I knew you? You saw my tent-and my face is your face."

Horrified, Sario denied it. "Your face is old."

"My face is ancient," the Tza'ab agreed calmly, unoffended, "but the bones beneath the flesh do not change." He tapped his nose with a hooked finger. "Look again, Child of the Golden Wind, and see with an artist's eyes."

Thus challenged, Sario accepted. It took no time at all, and less imagination. No wonder at all that the old man, even in the midst of a festival day, knew him. And spoke to him in the name of Verro Grijalva, which was all that was necessary.

That, and the fascination for the makings of his tent.

Frustrated, Sario muttered a street epithet, then turned away from the entrance flap to face the man squarely. "So, I am more Tza'ab than others-I am dark enough for it!-but what is that to me? I am no less tainted, no less accursed by the Ecclesia. It makes no difference at all."

"It makes every difference. It provides you with the vision."

"What vision? What is this 'vision'?"

The old man smiled. "The eye of the artist. The eye of Al-Fansihirro." He went on before Sario could interrupt him. "As for those of the Ecclesia who believe you tainted, they are fools.

But not ignorant."

It astonished Sario. "How can they not be ignorant? They claim we use dark magic to fashion life as we wish it... if that were true-Matra! If that were true!-do you think we would permit them to revile us? Do you believe we would remain a lesser family? Do you think we would not use the magic to alter our state?"

"You would," the Tza'ab said, then quietly shifted emphasis. "You would."

"I would-I?" Sario laughed sharply. "I am trusted by no man among us, and they are all Grijalvas!"

"Because there is truth in the rumors."

"What truth? We have no power!"

"You have some power." The Tza'ab turned away, moved to a plump cushion, then carefully lowered himself to sit upon it. "Or you would have been blind to my tent." A gesture indicated Sario should seat himself upon the rug again. "There is more to learn. And so we begin."

"Estranjiero," Sario breathed, "why should I listen to you?"

"Because you are like me," the old man said simply. "Loyal to what lies here-and here." He touched his heart, his brow, then smiled oddly. "Perhaps you are me-though I am still alive, and it could be argued that it cannot be so with both of us yet living."

After a rigid moment of bewildered incomprehension, Sario shook his head. "You are moronno luna. A fool who believes he can touch the moon itself and drag it out of the sky."

The old man laughed soundlessly. "Will you have it so, then? Only the moon, when you might have the Desert?"

"What do you mean?"

"With Al-Fansihirro, all is possible."

"With-what? What is that? Al-Fan-what did you say?"

"Al-Fansihirro. In the lingua oscurra it means 'Art and Magic'-and there is the first lesson."

The old man's gray eyes glinted private amusement. "It is a Tza'ab Order, a holy caste, much as your sanctas and sanctos."

"What kind of order? If it is like sanctas and sanctos, I want no part of it!"

"Like them in loyalty, devotion, lifelong service. Unlike them in deity, means, and methods."

The Tza'ab turned to a casket beside his cushion and sprang the latch. "You see, Sario, there are many things in this world a man may be, regardless of his age, regardless of his birth. I am old, yes-to a Limner I must look like a corpse dug up from the soil!-but I am far from useless.

What I know, I can teach . . ." He lifted the lid. Sario caught a whiff of aged fragrances, saw a scrap of brilliant green silk. "Ai, but you will come to understand."

The old man drew from the casket a slender leather tube. Despite the trembling in his hands, he deftly untied knots, loosened wire, slipped the cap from the end of the tube, then with extreme care drew a rolled parchment from it. Sario, still standing at the entrance poised to flee even as Saavedra, watched in unflagging fascination as the Tza'ab unrolled the sheet. He placed it with care upon the rug, set carved gold weights upon each corner, then gestured invitation.

Sario looked. And was stunned. "Matra . . . Matra ei Filho!" Without volition he fell to his knees. "How did you-how can you . . . Matra Dolcha, how is this possible?"

"With Al-Fansihirro, all is possible."

"But-but this ..." And at last he saw the theme he could not grasp before. The pattern now was whole. "-Nommo Matra ei Filho ..."

"Ai, no," the old man demurred. "In Acuyib's name!"

Sario had no time for strange names and stranger deities. Chilled bone-deep, soul-deep, a shudder racked him. Trembling did not cease as he stared at the weighted parchment. "Do you know what this is?"

"A page from the Kita'ab," the Tza'ab answered quietly. "Your kinsman, Verro Grijalva, did not destroy it completely."

Sario stared hungrily, studying the text, the way the letters were formed, the familiar, decipherable hand he had seen and read before, though this particular page was alien. No-not all was destroyed . . . some he brought back. . . .

Some Verro brought back, some Verro gave to his family. For what the old man displayed with such infinite pride and reverence was a page of the Folio only Limners ever saw.

The Tza'ab Kita'ab, their most holy text.

What was worshiped by Tza'ab as the key to their God was studied by Grijalvas as the key to their Gift.

Inane, inexplicable laughter bubbled up inside Sario's chest, trying to burst free. And again I am reading ahead!

Saavedra fought her way back through the festival crowd as far as the Zocalo Grando, then to the fountain before the huge cathedral. Children still clung to marble finials and basins, but she pressed them aside and stepped up on the pediment, leaning forward to plunge hands deeply into the cool water. Unmindful of the spillage, of spray, of the soaking of her clothing, she sluiced water noisily to bathe her face.

Relief from heat, from humidity; a cooling of the flesh, but the warmth of anger remained.

And she did not know why. He was an old man, Tza'ab or no; what could he do? Did it matter that he knew what blood was in their veins? Everyone knew, when the surname was declared.

Even if a single Grijalva were free of Tza'ab blood, the taint adhered regardless. All because a party of women, in service to the Duchess Jesminia, were kidnapped by Tza'ab warriors.

No. That was wrong. It wasn't the kidnapping itself that tainted the women, but the subsequent rapes and the bearing of bastards sired by the enemy. And that of all the women thus treated, only the two Grijalvas had not killed themselves from shame or retired from society into various Sanc- tias. The Grijalva women bore their half-breed children, kept them, and adopted the shunned infants of the other women. And in Palasso Grijalva all the children of rape were also allowed to conceive and bear children. The Ecclesia would prefer that all of the women died or retired, and that all of the infants had been exposed. Droplets chased down her face. Saavedra clung to the basin, hair completely undone now and dangling into the fountain. Her knuckles were pale beneath taut flesh. And then there would be no chi'patros, and perhaps no Nerro Lingua, and the Ecclesia would not have to trouble themselves with us.

And no Saavedra Grijalva. No Sario.

Saavedra closed her eyes. Damp lashes met wet cheeks. What will the old man do?

"Belissimia," said a voice, "are you here unattended?"

She started, clutching again at the basin as she opened her eyes to look at the speaker. The sun glazed her vision, but she saw the silhouette: tall, male, informally clad in shirtsleeves and breeches.

"I am free to be," she answered.

"And all to the better."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. "Is there something you want of me?"

There was laughter in his tone. "What is there a man should want of a woman?"

She flung back soaked curls and was pleased to see him shy from a spray of water. Hastily she scrubbed dampness from her brows, blotted dripping chin. "There are many things a man may want," she said, "but only one a man like you might consider, asking a young woman if she is unattended."

He laughed softly. "Fuega Vesperra," he said. "Am I wrong to think of conception?"

"But it isn't conception you care to pursue," she countered. "Only the preliminaries, the danza before the fact."

"So, you have me . . . and shall we celebrate the festival in the only appropriate way?"

"The only way I intend to celebrate it is alone," she declared, "and- appropriately-at home."