Rohario grimaced as he rose, this time not only from pain. This was all it took to make a total ruin of the whole grim day. Again he was responsible for the death of someone his father cared for.

He had spent the last two years staying out of his father's sight. Now he would be reminded of the ugly truth all over again: It was Rohario's fault, and Rohario's fault alone, that his beloved mother, Grand Duchess Mairie, had died of the Summer Fever two years ago. He had only wanted some lilies to put in a vase at her bedside. How could he have known that the flower vendors were contaminated with the Summer Fever? His father had never forgiven him.

"I'm coming," he said to Ermaldo. He cast one last beseeching glance toward Saavedra, again catching sight of her eyes in the mirror.

Where is Alejandro?

Was that whom she thought of? Her lover, Duke Alejandro?

"Long dead," he whispered, feeling a sharp sadness at the mystery and tragedy of this beautiful woman's life. Then he followed Ermaldo to the Grand Duke's study.

FIFTY-NINE.

"You were not injured badly, I trust?" The Grand Duke did not look up from the sketch of a Treaty that lay on his desk, nor did he glance at his companion, Andreo Grijalva. The Lord Limner stood half in shadow, head turned to look out the window into the private courtyard of Palasso Verrada, where acacias bloomed. In the pause before Rohario spoke, the Lord Limner moved out of the shadows to look at the young man. The painter lifted an expressive eyebrow, no doubt a comment on Rohario's disheveled clothing. A faint aroma of oil and turpentine sifted through the room, emanating from the Grijalva.

"You have not answered me," said the Grand Duke, still without looking up.

"I am not badly injured," said Rohario. "Your Grace."

"I understand you attempted to save the life of Sancto Leo."

"He was protecting me, Your Grace. Anyone would have tried to help him." "How were you assaulted?"

Rohario suddenly recalled Leo's angry words: "Do you know nothing of what goes on in this city?" "The Iluminarres Procession turned into a riot!"

"So my conselhos have reported. The instigators will be captured and punished."

How could the Grand Duke speak so coolly, after the horrors Rohario had witnessed? "But, Patro, shouldn't we first find out what caused them to start the riot?"

"How kind of you to show some interest in governance, Rohario." The Grand Duke's tone was so sarcastic that Rohario flinched, clenching his hands. The Grand Duke placed a finger over a face on the sketch-from this angle Rohario could not see who it was-and beckoned with his other hand to the Limner. "Andreo, I do not want Count do'Palenssia standing there. If he is standing as far as possible from the do'Najerra representative then it will suggest his son ought to be as far removed from the do'Najerra fortune as possible. I want the do'Najerra heiress for Benetto. He will need all that gold for his upkeep, because he will never be capable of anything except playing with toy soldiers."

Renayo looked up, eyes shot through with unspoken accusations. Rohario cringed. The fever that killed his mother, brother, and baby sister had also permanently crippled Benetto in mind and body. Dismissively, Renayo looked down at the treaty.

"Of course, Your Grace," said Andreo. "I will do what is necessary." He moved to sit in a winged side chair with a red brocade pillow. The tails of his green silk coat trailed down toward the carpeted floor, and his vest, stitched in green and gold thread, showed in its full sartorial glory.

The Grand Duke was, as usual, dressed more simply. He wore a high, doubled-down shirt collar and a bow-tied cravat, nothing fancy, and a saber-gray dress coat in the new northern style, square cut and double-breasted. Clothing did not concern him as long as it was perfectly cut and made of the finest materials. Wealth concerned him.

He rolled up the Treaty, handling the stiff paper with care, and examined two smaller sketches that lay beneath it. Edging closer, Rohario saw that one was a series of pencil studies of half a dozen young women; the other showed a harbor scene, with two ships, four merchants, and offloaded cargo. It looked like a preliminary sketch for a minor Treaty. But it also looked old- fashioned, without the clean-and, in Rohario's opinion, boring and stilted-lines of paintings done in the modern style.

"I don't like these," said the Grand Duke. "They look undisciplined."

The Lord Limner sighed in the manner of a man much put upon. "One of our Itinerrarios returned last month. He was posted abroad soon after his eighteenth birthday, but by going abroad at such a young age, he absorbed fashions from these other countries that are not in line with Grijalva standards. Too much emotion."

Rohario sidled up to the side of the great desk. Renayo, still ignoring him, appeared not to notice he was there. The harbor sketch was interesting, but the miniature portraits caught his eye.

For five years now, neighboring kings and princes had been sending painted miniatures of their daughters to Tira Virte in expectation of Don Edoard's coming of age and needing a wife. Most of the miniatures were well-executed; few painters gained court favor if they could not flatter their subjects. But these sketches had real life in them. Names were carefully printed beneath each one: Lady Elwith of Merse, Princess Alazais de Ghillas, Judit do'Brazzina, Countess Catarin do'Taglisi. The first two were lovely young women, the other two still girls of twelve or fourteen, but each seemed so individual that Rohario felt he knew them and could predict how they would act on first meeting. Elwith looked robust, Alazais gentle and shy, little Judit appeared to be suppressing a laugh, and the delicate do'Taglisi countess looked like a rabbit trapped by hounds.

"But he's an ambitious young man," added Andreo. "Works very hard. Thinks of nothing but painting. But he's too much in the thrall of the Old Masters, too opinionated. He seems to think that since he was baptized with the name of Sario, he ought to be given the same authority as the first Sario had. Eiha, these young people!" He glanced at Rohario.

Renayo frowned at the portrait studies. He had gained many frown lines, on his forehead and around his mouth, since Maine's death. "Edoard is not ready for a bride." Then his tone changed utterly. "Rohario. Andreo tells me the young woman did not agree to the liaison. What did you say to her?"

The accusation left Rohario speechless.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," interposed the Lord Limner, "but I interviewed Eleyna's parents myself. They had nothing but praise for Don Rohario's performance, and you can be sure they would criticize any obstacle put in the way of such an alliance. They said Don Rohario was courtly, polite, and presented the offer with every grace and flourish. Any girl might have been flattered. Alas, there is some bad blood on her mother's side. Although she is well-connected on her father's side, on her mother's she is related to Tazia Grijalva. I will say no more on that subject!"

"She doesn't want to be Edoard's Mistress?" Renayo looked up, startled.

"She is ... headstrong, Your Grace. Her grandmother spoiled her with an idea that she could devote her life to painting. Be assured she will accept her duty."

The Grand Duke looked genuinely puzzled. "I saw a miniature of her. She's a handsome enough girl. This is a fine opportunity. Edoard seemed quite taken with her, and I want him to have what he wants now."

In other words, Renayo wanted him out of the way of the new Grand Duchess.

"I assure you, Your Grace. Her parents will talk sense into her. Don Edoard need have no worries on that score."

Traded off as if she were a fine mare at the mercado! Thinking of the rebellious Eleyna Grijalva made Rohario wonder about the rebellious apprentices. Were they, too, pawns in a game over which they had no power?

"Very well." Renayo pushed the portrait sketches to one side and squinted more closely at the harbor study. "Arrange for Edoard and the young woman to stay at Chasseriallo for a few days.

They can consummate the Marria do'Fantome there. Don Rohario can accompany them. Some country air would be good for his injuries and would allow him additional leisure to seek out a new pursuit in life."

The sarcasm dripping from his father's voice was not lost on Rohario, but he was by now almost inured to it. Far worse was the prospect of enduring Edoard's company for that long and having to watch the Mistress resign herself to Edoard's attentions. But women often said No first, in order to increase the reward once they did give in. Rohario remembered Eleyna less as a discrete placement of eyes and mouth and chin and more as a whirlwind of furious energy. He would keep out of her way.

The Grand Duke traced over the harbor sketch with a perfectly manicured forefinger. "Until this young Limner can work in a more precise manner, he will not paint any official documents."

Renayo unrolled the first Treaty-a finished sketch, Andreo's work-and the corners of his mouth played up as he studied it. He smiled so rarely these days. "This will do very well."

Without looking up he added, as an afterthought: "You may go, Rohario."

Rohario gave him a stiff bow, nodded at the Lord Limner, and backed out of the room. He knew his father's style. He was being banished. But he paused before he shut the door. This wasn't right! He should go back in and demand to find out what was going on in the city!

Through the crack, Rohario heard his father speak again. "I don't know what to do about the succession, Andreo. Ghillas is finally ours for the taking, if what our spies say is true. But my children are all fools. Edoard can think only about horses, women, and wine. Benetto is a simpleton. Timarra is afraid of her own shadow and plain to boot. And Rohario-eiha! He's a useless fop. He flits from interest to interest like a butterfly, all pretty colors and no substance. I allowed him to study painting only because Zio Cabral insisted, though it's no fit pursuit for a lord. But after four years he gives it up overnight! For no reason! Matra Dolcha, Andreo. How can I trust any of them with the knowledge I must in time pass on to my successor? Not one of them is worthy of the throne of Tira Virte, much less that of Tira Virte and Ghillas together."

"You are young yet, and still healthy, Your Grace," said the Lord Limner calmly. "You will have other children."

Rohario stiffened and turned away. There stood Ermaldo, surveying him with his usual air of disdain. Was it common knowledge that Grand Duke Renayo despised his own children? Aching in every joint and muscle, Rohario limped back to his suite. Listlessly, he directed his servant to pack. There was no point in staying here.

SIXTY.

Beatriz always told her to come in the back way, through the servants' quarters, but Eleyna hated subterfuge. She pushed her black curls out of her eyes with the back of a hand and marched up the front steps of the Grijalva compound. The two old men sitting side by side on a bench beside the shop door watched her dramatic arrival. One lowered his gaze; the other smiled.

Eleyna didn't know whether to be furious or relieved.

"Davo!" She addressed the man with lowered eyes, a servant who had for sixty years ground and mixed paint for the Grijalvas. "You must close and bar the shop for the day!"

"Sit down, mennina," said the other man. He patted the bench. It was so old that the wood was as smooth as polished stone. "Where have you been?"

She had not expected to confront Grandzio Cabral. Expecting her mother, she was already primed for a great argument, and the words poured out. "I went to the hangings. The Shagarra Regiment rounded up twenty men accused as ringleaders of the Iluminarres riots and dragged them before the magistrate. The men weren't allowed to plead their own case! And now- only ten days later!-twelve of those men were hanged. What kind of justice is that?" "Swift justice, mennina," said Cabral mildly. "Or are you thinking of giving away your bedchamber to a family of beggars now?"

"There will be trouble all through the city. This very afternoon!"

"Be trouble in the hall if you don't pretend you've been here with me all afternoon, Maessa Eleynita," retorted old Davo, coming to life as he always did when he thought Eleyna was threatened. She had won his heart long ago, begging him-not her Grijalva uncles-to teach her the mysteries of pigments and paints. He sat with his back to the open shutters. The scent of oils and solvents, the life's blood of the Grijalvas, drifted out from the shop.

"You're my only advocate, Davo." She took his stained, gnarled hands in her own.

"You're a good girl."

"You ought not to be walking to such places unescorted, Eleynita," said Cabral in that same mild voice.

"I'm a respectable widow. I'll do what I want!"

"You want to watch men hanged?"

"Someone must witness! I sketched. Here." She sat on the bench next to Cabral and rested her sketchpad on her dress, careless of the fine green silk. Opening the book, she paged slowly through it. "Look how restless the crowd is." Individual faces, the cut of a coat or gown, tableaus of men watching and glimpses of children darting through the crowd: She had caught them all.

"They built the gibbets by the marsh. The shop ought to be closed for the day, as a protest if nothing else. Those men weren't allowed to speak on their own behalf."

"That isn't our decision to make, carrida meya."

"To allow the men to speak? Or to close the shop?" She hesitated, then rushed on. "Don't you ever mind it, Grandzio? Taking their orders, living under their thumbs? And you twice as old as any of them?"

"Of whom are you speaking?" She heard the reserve in his voice. He glanced at Davo, but Davo had served the family for so long it was impossible he not suspect.

It was not the politic thing to say, but Eleyna had never let that stop her. "The Viehos Fratos.

The men who wear the sigil of the Golden Key."

Cabral did not reply for a long while, but he gestured with one hand and old Davo got up obediently and retreated into the shop. Here, in the peaceful Grijalva compound, the executions seemed very far away, as indeed they were: They had taken place on the opposite side of town, as far as possible from Palasso Verrada. Here, at Palasso Grijalva, was like another world, one not torn by the press of bodies, by the angry whispers and exhalation of fear and hatred, by the awful jerk and sway of the executed men dangling from the noose. Here was quiet sun and a street slumbering in siesta. A cart piled high with lemons and limes trundled past. Two children rolled hoops at the intersection. From down the arched tunnel that led into the main courtyard, Eleyna heard the faint singing and laughter of the serving girls, washing clothes in the stable trough: "My beloved awaits me at the fountain."

"Leilias spoke freely with you," said Cabral at last, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "You know she did! Grandmother believed in my gift!"

"As do I, mennina."

Eleyna shut her eyes on sudden tears, bowed her head, and laid it on his hands. His skin bore calluses and lesions, the legacy of his years of grinding harsh pigments and tempering them into paints. "Now that Grandmother is dead, you are the only one who believes in me."

He stroked her hair gently. "The Itinerarrio, Sario, has been looking at your paintings. He is one of the Gifted, and he admires your work."

She looked up, aware her cheeks were warm. "I haven't met him yet. Since the Iluminarres riot, Mother has kept me in the matron's courtyard, painting portraits of those awful lapdogs the court ladies keep. Matra ei Filho, now Grand Duchess Johannah wants a portrait done of her grey- hounds. She saw the miniature I did of Countess do'Casteya's pugs, and she wants me to do another of hers, only with the greyhounds in a pastoral scene, by a farmhouse. It makes me sick!

Look at these! Look!" She pulled away from him and flipped through the pages of her sketchpad.

"Children dressed in rags. Men who could barely walk for hunger, all come to the hanging-but for what? People spoke of Ghillas. There was a terrible rumor going around that seven days after the bread riots the common folk in Aute-Ghillas burned the palace there and put the king to the sword. Is it true?"

The rumor did not appear to surprise him. "How could I hope for such news to be true?

Everyone knows that we Grijalvas serve the Grand Duke. If the Grand Duke is attacked by people who believe such rumors, then so will we be attacked."

"That's true, I suppose. Like a disease, jumping from one city to the next. It still wasn't right to hang those men like that, though."

"You had a customer in looking at your Battle of Rio Sanguo."

"You're trying to distract me. Nicollo told me I ought to burn it. But it isn't a disgrace, though he may think it one." She tilted her head to one side, catching a sudden fusillade of faint gunfire, a harsh melody borne on the breeze. "Matra!"

Cabral got up from the bench and took a few nimble steps down to the avenue, staring along the empty street. His hair was as pale as the zinc white they used in painting the coldest, purest whites, but he walked with the vigor of a man of forty. Almost eighty he might be, but he was stronger than Gifted painters half his age. Had he ever regretted his health, or wished he could trade it for the Gift? She never had the courage to ask.

Now he merely shook his head. "Nothing. Go into the hall, Eleynita. I'll take care of things here." He clucked reprovingly. "These are hard days."

She kissed him on the cheek and hurried inside, her mood entirely changed. Who had come to look at her painting? Would it be bought? Perhaps chosen for display at Galerria Verrada?

"No!" Eleyna recognized Agustin's voice. A moment later the boy came pelting out of the arcaded walkway that led to the gardens. He saw Eleyna and veered toward her. "I won't go through the Confirmattio," he muttered, hiding behind her. "It's so degrading."

"Agustin!"

"There are other ways to know. Why do I have to be tested, except so they can do to me what was done to them? I won't do it!"

She sighed. There they came, their voices like the mutter of the crowd at the hangings: an uncle, three male cousins, and her mother. She braced herself.

Dionisa strode forward first, sweeping her old-fashioned bustled skirt past a tight turn where the arcade emptied into the courtyard. She advanced on her daughter and son with the confidence of a woman who has achieved the ultimate authority: mother to a Gifted son. She fixed her glare on Eleyna. "It isn't enough that you act in this way, is it? You must infect him as well. Go at once to your chamber. I will speak with you later."

"I won't go," said Eleyna softly.

"He's as loyal as a dog to her," muttered her uncle, Giaberto.

Agustin huddled closer behind her. Although he was now taller than she was, although he was now fifteen, he could only sustain short spurts of defiance. His artist's soul was like a fine piece of porcelain: admire it, handle it gently, and it will transform a room with its beauty; drop it and it will shatter. Eleyna was not so delicate. As Dionisa ever reminded her, wishing her son had been born with fiery resolve and her daughter with the more demure sensibility.

"This is Conselho business," objected Nicollo. "You may go, Eleyna."

"Then Agustin will go with me. Come, Agustin." But she trembled as she said it and not just with anger. It was not wise to push Viehos Fratos too far. They had powers that others did not.

She had learned that the hard way, five years ago.

"I have had enough of this!" Nicollo was furious.

"Let her go," said Dionisa, "and take the boy, for now. It is only a formality, after all. He has shown his skills already." Always they shrouded the Gift in secrecy, even when speaking among themselves. "We will discuss what to do next."

At moments like these, Eleyna admired her mother for the way Dionisa imposed her will upon her male relatives. Agustin was a rare thing; there had been few boys in this last generation who had passed the Confirmattio-she had heard Leilias comment on it many times. Leilias had borne two Gifted sons herself, but no other Grijalva woman since had given birth to more than one.

Dionisa knew the worth of what she had; the Viehos Fratos knew that she knew, and knew also that she would not sit back and let them take the boy without her guiding the hand that wielded the paintbrush.

Eleyna did not trust her mother. But having said she was going, she could hardly object now.