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 more!
… 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 orItinerarrio, 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
A graffiti-crafter, no more!
… 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 orItinerarrio, 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
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