The plague had engulfed Meya Suerta, a selfish, unrelenting conflagration of infection that presented itself as high fever and swollen, blackened tongue. It killed nobility and commoners alike throughout the city, then cruelly invaded the rest of the duchy. All in Tira Virte lost loved ones, providers, servants, masters. But no family suffered as much as the Grijalvas.

We still suffer. And so they did. In addition to killing nearly two-thirds of the family, the Nerro Lingua had also rendered much of the male seed infertile. Even now, sixty years later, the Grijalva family suffered depredations of the loins as well as of ducal favor; far too many males died before age fifty, and they had not placed one of their own at Court since the Nerro Lingua.

The last Grijalva Lord Limner died in the plague, as so many Grijalvas died, and was replaced by, of all things, a Serrano.

The Grijalvas quite naturally expected it to be an interim appointment only-had they not sent a limner to Court for the thirty-five years prior?- but such confidence proved misplaced. Except for their successful production of materials used by limners, they were overlooked. Too many of them had died, too many important, talented, established Grijalvas; in the aftermath of plague, as they struggled to recover, other families less stricken overtook their places.

The rival Serranos, of course, jealous of their recovered ducal favor, argued that the Protection issued by Alessio I was wholly enough, better, in fact, than Grijalvas deserved. In return Sario called them such epithets as she would not herself speak, and was quite rightly beaten for it; such blatant criticism, precociously clever-tongued or no, was not permitted on the family premises.

But Saavedra knew it was true, what Sario said; Zaragosa Serrano, Duke Baltran's Lord Limner, was naught but a passable hand, a man with neither heart nor inspiration.

A graffiti-crafter, no morel . . . and why the Duke had seen fit to appoint Zaragosa in his late father's place was beyond Saavedra's comprehension. They all of them, every Grijalva, knew he was worthy merely of the common art of the road. Either copyist or Itinerarrio, certainly no better, and yet his was the vital task, through his paintings, to document in detail the business of the duchy.

"Here-'Vedra, here!" Sario snatched at her hand again and dragged her into a tiny closet large enough for only a chamber pot, or perhaps a cluster of brooms; but there was a heavy canvas curtain-exquisitely painted, of course-instead of a wall, and even as she framed a question, Sario jerked fabric aside. "Through here-beware the steps."

Indeed, there were steps. He was not large enough to truly drag her, but his weight tugged unceasingly at her shoulder. He was as intensely passionate about secrets as about his art; eiha, but she did not blame him. He was Gifted, she was convinced, and such true artists as Sario, so talented, so brilliant in their burning, countenanced no interference by any individual, even a moualimo.

Surely they see it in him. Surely they know what he is. . . .

Surely they did. And perhaps it was why they were so harsh with him, to cap the naphtha flame that would not burn out, but could, in its power, consume even its source.

I have nothing of that gift. No, of course not; she was a woman, and the Gifted were only male. But she was gifted to some degree, surely. Sario even said so. When he knew she doubted her talent.

So much between them, so many bindings on them. Even now. Even this.

'"Vedra, here-" He darted around a corner, down another set of shallow steps, loosed her hand long enough to unlatch and pulled open a narrow, lath-and-plaster door, then nodded at her.

"Go up! Go up quickly, and I'll latch the door from inside!"

She reluctantly moved into the opening. "Sario, there is no candle!"

"Fourteen steps, twice over. Count, 'Vedra. Or you will have me believing you are a cabessa bisila!"

She counted. Her steps lagged, but she counted. He came up behind her, as promised; she could hear his eager breathing in the confines of the narrow staircase. "Where are we going?"

He hissed her into silence. "Bassda! They'll hear!" Up and up, fourteen steps twice, and a low- roofed storage chamber. Hastily Sario ducked in the darkness, then flattened himself against the door. "Down here."

She could sense the wall before them. Carefully she felt about, located the stone brickwork, then knelt. "I can't see any-"

He caught and yanked on her hand, whispering frantically. "Down here, moronna! Bassda!"

Saavedra flattened on her belly, even as he did on his own. It was a supremely undignified posture in such a small, crowded space, and the stone beneath her body was cool through the thin weave of her linen tunic and baggy trousers. Summer sandals scraped toe-leather into brickwork.

"Sario," this time very softly, "what do you-"

"Here." He clasped her hand, carried it against the wall, to a separation between it and stone floor. A seam, a crack between wall and flooring. It ran nearly the width of the tiny closet. "Come close, 'Vedra-you can see into the Crechetta."

For the moment she cared less about the chamber below than the one they inhabited. She could think of no good use for a storage niche so difficult to reach, coiled away like a serpent in the belly of Palasso Grijalva. "Why is this chamber here?"

'Ask questions later, 'Vedra. For now-" his voice tightened, "look upon the Chieva do'Sangua."

Zaragosa Serrano waited in perfect silence until he had the attention of his Duke. "You know it is true, Your Grace. Have I not said it was true?"

Baltran do'Verrada lingered at the window. The thick glazing was wavy and warped, distorting the view beyond: the meticulously-groomed courtyard and gardens outside the ducal apartments of the Palasso Verrada. In high summer the grass was verdant, the lush vegetation in full bloom, the citrus trees weighted with rich, succulent bounty that graced his table each morn- ing; but his spirits were not so moved as to be seduced away from a more serious concern.

Matra ei Filho, grant that the child be born safely, and my Duchess recover swiftly. Fingertips to mouth, to heart. It was good he had summoned Zaragosa; he needed the distraction.

The Duke swallowed wine from the gem-studded silver cup-chilled by snow brought down from the Montes Astrappas, the mountain border between beloved Tira Virte and haughty Ghillas-and turned slightly to admit the slender limner into his awareness. A quiet glance over a shoulder earned him the full panoply: riotous color of every fabric and texture, and-Matra Dolcha!-a thing perched on young Serrano's head.

He did not look directly at Zaragosa Serrano-he would not favor him so highly, not immediately-lest the man gain even more arrogance. "Is that a new hat?"

Thus reminded of his neglect, Serrano snatched the feather-bedecked scrap of crimson velvet from his head. "Your Grace, a trifle, no more."

Do'Verrada grunted. "An expensive trifle, no?" And ostentatious, as always. He sipped more wine: pale spring-hued vinho bianco, Lacta do'Matra, of course; his favorite summer vintage, and the most favored of all Tira Virteian wine exports. I must have the Master Vintner in to see how the season fares.

"Your Grace, I am honored by your generous reception of my talent. And, Your Grace, speaking of talent-"

Do'Verrada cut across the circuitous circumnavigation of the topic; he spent entirely too many hours of his life listening to the like from Courtfolk. "You believe I should revoke the Ducal Protection of the Grijalva family."

Serrano spoke with an impassioned zeal that betrayed his insecurity. "Oh, Your Grace, I do believe it justified, Your Grace! ... in view of what they are."

"Mere copyists? You would not give them the benefit of true artistic talent, I know, but they have served Tira Virte and her Dukes very well for many years, Zaragosa, which is precisely why my great-grandfather issued the Protection. And even the Serranos should be grateful; without the Grijalva paper, canvas, and materials such as paints, where would your folk be? Still scrawling graffiti frescoes on new walls wet with peasant urine?" He permitted himself a smile as Zaragosa went white as the Matra's Blessed Milk; the current Lord Limner's talent had indeed first been discovered in the back alleys of Meya Suerta. "They have served art equally as well as the duchy, Zaragosa. They have-and know-their place."

"They wish to climb too high, Your Grace-and they will use dark magics to do so."

Do'Verrada turned now to face him fully. "I have spoken with several of the Courtfolk-it need not be said who they are, of course, so do not ask me with those eloquent eyes!-in order to learn more of this power you speak of. There are those who speak instead of your jealousy, Zaragosa, those who say you bear the Grijalvas ill will for no sound reason beyond fear you will lose your place."

Zaragosa Serrano colored. The splotchy flush clashed horrendously with his red-and-purple doublet and particolored hosen. "Your grace, the Serrano family has held the confidence of the do'Verradas for decades-"

"Yes, of course, but do you fear you will be dismissed as Lord Limner? You personally, Zaragosa?"

"Your Grace, I-"

"Do you fear your talent is threatened by that of the Grijalvas?" Or perhaps your color choice? Perhaps I should look again at your most recent paintings, yes?

"Your Grace, they are the next thing to half-breeds, barbarian Tza'ab bandits-do they not acknowledge this themselves, Your Grace, with reference to chi'patros?" Serrano was in full spate now, like a cataract unhappily squeezed by too many fallen boulders. " 'Who is the father?'-they admit it, Your Grace! They are riddled with Tza'ab blood. And they are as nothing compared to the Serranos, who are pure in blood to the days of the great Duke Alessio I. We do not name bandits and bastards in our ancestry!"

Quietly do'Verrada asked, "Then why do you fear them, Zaragosa?"

"I have told you, Your Grace-"

"That they have some unknown and unnameable power." Do'Verrada sighed. "Do you know, I was at the Galerria today. I took my son, that he might be acquainted with such things as he must know. There was a clutch of Grijalva children there." He paused. "They appeared nothing worse to me than children, Zaragosa-perhaps even Serrano children."

"They are not!"

Do'Verrada lifted an eloquent eyebrow; Serrano had forgotten the honorific. "No, indeed; as you say, some of them are descendants of those first bandit-bred Tza'ab chi'patros. But a man, looking on them, sees nothing but what he sees when he looks on any family. Children, Zaragosa."

"Your Grace, I have told you what they are!"

"You have told me what you believe they are-and, do you know, I very nearly succumbed? I believed, Zaragosa. For a moment, one moment, standing there before my Marriage, I believed ...".

"Your Grace, you should believe-"

"... and then I recalled that if it were true, what you tell me, how could it not also be said of Serranos?"

"Your Grace!"

The Duke smiled. "Oh, admittedly you are pure in blood to the time of my ancestor, the great Duke Alessio I. But it might yet be argued that this is nothing more than Court politics, Zaragosa, and that you, seeing fresh talent in the Grijalvas growing beyond the execution of common and fair copies made of your paintings-and wishing to vehemently deny such self-described blasphemy!-seek to damage them so there is no chance any of that family might be appointed to the position you yourself hold."

"Your Grace! My family has held this position for nearly sixty years!"

"And before that, Grijalvas did."

"Three of them only." Immense derision. "And very briefly."

"Three. Caught between Serrano and Serrano." Do'Verrada smiled. "It might be argued that you wish to discredit those who may be worthy of the position you yourself hold. Well, I say let there be proof."

"Proof! But, Your Grace, we know it to be true!"

"Who does, Zaragosa?"

"The Serrano family, Your Grace! We know it."

"Then provide me with proof."

"Grijalvas were not always painters, Your Grace. They were common craftsmen, no more, manufacturing such things as true limners require."

"That is your proof? The development of artistic talent? But, Zaragosa, it might then be argued that you yourself-and your father before you, and his father's brother before him-claim a share of these magics, this dark power. Three Grijalvas served as Lord Limners prior to your great- uncle's and father's appointments to the post-and then were replaced. By a Serrano."

"They grew frightened, Your Grace, and returned to the common crafts so as to avoid exposure."

"Leaving the appointment as Lord Limner to your grandfather's brother? Come, Zaragosa, why would a family of such power as you describe willingly step away from Court? It makes no sense."

"Has anyone ever accused the Grijalvas of having sense, Your Grace?"

It was a small-spirited, mean-minded insult. But it angered the Duke. "Despite their lack of nobility, the Grijalvas have been closely allied with Tira Virte and the do'Verradas for more than one hundred years, Zaragosa. Are you forgetting Verro Grijalva? Despite his common birth, he was perhaps the greatest captain the armies of Tira Virte have ever known. There is no doubt he would have been named Marchallo Grando over all the armies one day-had he not perished defending my grandfather, Duke Renayo." More tellingly, so Zaragosa would not miss it: "Had he not died in Renayo's arms."

Serrano wisely was silent.

Do'Verrada signed. "Surely you understand I cannot have it said I would countenance revocation of the Protection without proof, Zaragosa. The Court is riddled with political dissension; only a fool would give this rumor credence without proof."

Grudgingly: "Indeed, Your Grace." "Then provide it, Zaragosa. Show me proof that the Grijalvas have this dark power you speak of, and-if indeed there he sustainable proof-then I will revoke what my grandfather instituted.

They will have to leave Meya Suerta and become no more than Itinerarrios, all of them, making their way as they can on the roads of the duchy. And no hope of ever rising once again in the armies, in trade, or of sending one of their own to Palasso Verrada as Lord Limner."

Serrano's face was still; he spoke stiffly through a compressed mouth. "Proof, Your Grace, is often difficult to obtain."

"But necessary." Do'Verrada smiled, though there was nothing of humor in it. "Eiha! But I may have a new son or daughter before the day is out, and I weary of this topic. Put on your new hat with its elegant purple feather-so elegant, Zaragosa!-and find me this proof. Only then shall we speak of this again."

"Your Grace." White-faced, Zaragosa Serrano turned smartly and strode from the chamber.

Wisely, very wisely, he did not put on his new hat with its elegant purple feather until he was out of the ducal presence.

"Moronno," Do'Verrada murmured. "If a Grijalva should replace you as Lord Limner, at the very least, half of it shall be of your own doing!"

Saavedra's belly clenched. This was wrong, wrong, to witness the Chieva do'Sangua. It was denied to all but Limners, the Gifted males, for a reason; and even though she had no doubt Sario would one day be admitted to the ranks, he was yet a boy and not admitted-and she only a female. If discovered, they would be severely punished.

"What if they find us?" she whispered. "Me they will beat, but you- eiha, Sario, would they deny your Gift?"

"They can't do that," he whispered back. "The Gift is too important, too powerful. They need me."

So secure in his talent. . . but she was not. She knew no security save that which was offered any Grijalva woman: the chance to bear children, to increase their numbers again and to provide hope that any male-child born might be Gifted as Sario was.

Saavedra shivered. The saliva dried in her mouth. Though cramped, she touched her lips, her heart. "Eiha, Matra ei Filho, protect us both-"

"Bassda!" Sario whispered vehemently. "If you are such a moronna, go. I will not miss seeing this because of you-"

She could leave . . . she could, but she knew she wouldn't. He would make her suffer for it; and, for all that, a perverse curiosity, dreadful in its birth, undeniable in its growth, transfixed her to the stone.

She put her cheek against the brick floor. Through the crack she could see the central portion of a large chamber-the Crechetta, Sario called it- though its sides were cut off by the abbreviated width of the seam. It was a completely enclosed room, a whitewashed interior chamber within Palasso Grijalva, with neither casements nor lamps to light it. Only a single fat candle on a tall twisted-iron stand set against the wall, and also an easel, a shrouded painting upon it, and a sturdy wooden chair. "Peintraddo Chieva . . ." Sario whispered, his head pressed against hers.

"What? What is that?"

"A masterwork. A self-portrait. I will be required to paint one as well, to be approved as a Limner. All Gifted are." His breath gusted against the floor. "It must be a Peintraddo Chieva!"

Men's business, and boys'; Saavedra felt lost in Sario's murmurings. She wondered uncharitably if he shrouded so much in secrecy and half-spoken comments merely to tease her cruelly, to remind her that what he could know, she could not. He had done it to others. He had never done it to her.

A windowless chamber, a single candle set on iron, a covered painting on an easel, one lone chair. Stark, minimalist, empty; oddly naked.

And then men came into the room.

She knew them all. Gifted, each one; Master Limners-Viehos Fratos, in the private tongue of Grijalvas-wearing the Chieva do'Orro on chains at their throats, or dangling nearly to hips after the fashion of sanctas and sanctos who wore on cords the sacred keys and locks of their respective orders. It signified their piety and devotion to, like gender with like gender, the Mother and Son.

The keys of the Grijalvas meant something else altogether.

Thin of breath, she again touched fingertips to lips, to heart.

Those in the chamber mimicked her.

For a moment Saavedra knew sheer panic; had they seen her? Did they mock her?-and then realized no, of course not, they merely prepared to undertake a ceremony that naturally would be done in the names of the Mother and Son, for all things done in Tira Virte were in Their Blessed Names.

Even blasphemy?

"Matra Dolcha," she murmured breathlessly. Where did such a thought come from? "Sweet Mother, protect me-"

"Bassda, 'Vedra!"

"Bassda yourself, cabessa merditta!" Much stronger insult, that; head of excrement instead of brain of pea. "Do you know what they are going to do?"