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palm. “Name it, then.”
“Revoke the Ducal Protection of the Grijalvas.”
He stilled.
“Is it so much, Baltran? They traffic in dark magic … they plot to replace my family in all things of importance—”
“Gitanna—”
“—and no doubt they would as soon replace
me
with one of their chi’patro women—”
“Gitanna.”
“—and if they are not stopped, they will destroy you, Baltran, you and your family—and claim the duchy for themselves!”
He withdrew from her warmth, her wheedling, her woman’s warfare. Without assistance he could not dress completely—and the servants were under strict orders not to enter the bedchamber— so he donned his clothing unassisted: hosen; loose summer-weight lawn shirt, crimped cuffs and collar untied; soft, thin-soled leather shoes, studded with polished brass at toes and heels. He did not attempt the doublet with its formal and convoluted intricacies.
“Baltran!”
He turned to her, clasping the massive, ornate bedpost with a long-fingered hand as he leaned forward. On the forefinger glinted the ducal ring, bloody red in a shaft of midday sunlight slanting through shutters left ajar.
“For this, I will not blame you, Gitanna … not entirely. They seek to use you in this, when I refuse to listen to their pleas otherwise; eiha, I suppose I cannot blame them for that—they believe what they believe—but I will not lie abed with the same political pettiness that chokes the Court. Recall what is between us, viva meya, and that it has nothing to do with politics or Grijalvas.”
She was very pale, luminously so. “But it was politics that brought us together! There, at Court—my brother brought me there for you, Baltran—”
“Or for any wealthy, influential man who might be seduced by your redoubtable charms; it happened to be his Duke.” The hand,partially obscured by pleated cuff, tightened upon the bedpost. “You know nothing of what you request, Gitanna. You know nothing of Grijalvas.”
“I know they are riddled with baseborn bastards, Baltran! And can even you name how many of them now have Tza’ab blood in their veins? Can even you swear they do not answer that blood, and plot revenge upon Tira Virte for their defeat at Rio Sanguo?”
“They are Grijalvas,” he said steadily, “all of them. Their unfortunate ancestors—who, I remind you, had no choice in their circumstances!—were accepted as such by the Duchess Jesminia herself, may the Matra ei Filho bless her gracious name—” fingertips to lips, to heart, “—and no one in the do’Verrada family shall ever neglect to serve her wishes in this.”
“That was more than one hundred years ago!” Gitanna cried. “She is long dead, Baltran—and surely she would admit that the blood of her own family is more important than the blood of either Grijalvas
or
Tza’ab bandits!”
“Grijalva blood, spilled in that battle—that is why it became known as the River of Blood, Gitanna, there was so much!—is one of the reasons the do’Verradas rule today,” he said quietly. “You forget yourself, Gitanna. You forget your history.”
“I know my history, Baltran!” She sat upright now, bed linens wrenched up to modestly cover what a scant hour before had given him so much pleasure. “Oh, yes, bless the name of the gracious Duchess Jesminia who took in those defiled Grijalva women and welcomed their half-breed bastards—but look also at what it has brought us! They live now as serpents in the very bosom of Tira Virte, in Meya Suerta itself. If the Tza’ab chose to attack, they would have confederates right here, Baltran!”
“The Tza’ab as a unified enemy were destroyed utterly at Rio Sanguo,” he said patiently; it was not a new argument, though never had it issued from her lips. “Additionally, without a holy man to lead them—what
remains
of them—they will never again attempt to take back the lands that now are ours.”
“But they
did
lay waste to the borderlands,
“Revoke the Ducal Protection of the Grijalvas.”
He stilled.
“Is it so much, Baltran? They traffic in dark magic … they plot to replace my family in all things of importance—”
“Gitanna—”
“—and no doubt they would as soon replace
me
with one of their chi’patro women—”
“Gitanna.”
“—and if they are not stopped, they will destroy you, Baltran, you and your family—and claim the duchy for themselves!”
He withdrew from her warmth, her wheedling, her woman’s warfare. Without assistance he could not dress completely—and the servants were under strict orders not to enter the bedchamber— so he donned his clothing unassisted: hosen; loose summer-weight lawn shirt, crimped cuffs and collar untied; soft, thin-soled leather shoes, studded with polished brass at toes and heels. He did not attempt the doublet with its formal and convoluted intricacies.
“Baltran!”
He turned to her, clasping the massive, ornate bedpost with a long-fingered hand as he leaned forward. On the forefinger glinted the ducal ring, bloody red in a shaft of midday sunlight slanting through shutters left ajar.
“For this, I will not blame you, Gitanna … not entirely. They seek to use you in this, when I refuse to listen to their pleas otherwise; eiha, I suppose I cannot blame them for that—they believe what they believe—but I will not lie abed with the same political pettiness that chokes the Court. Recall what is between us, viva meya, and that it has nothing to do with politics or Grijalvas.”
She was very pale, luminously so. “But it was politics that brought us together! There, at Court—my brother brought me there for you, Baltran—”
“Or for any wealthy, influential man who might be seduced by your redoubtable charms; it happened to be his Duke.” The hand,partially obscured by pleated cuff, tightened upon the bedpost. “You know nothing of what you request, Gitanna. You know nothing of Grijalvas.”
“I know they are riddled with baseborn bastards, Baltran! And can even you name how many of them now have Tza’ab blood in their veins? Can even you swear they do not answer that blood, and plot revenge upon Tira Virte for their defeat at Rio Sanguo?”
“They are Grijalvas,” he said steadily, “all of them. Their unfortunate ancestors—who, I remind you, had no choice in their circumstances!—were accepted as such by the Duchess Jesminia herself, may the Matra ei Filho bless her gracious name—” fingertips to lips, to heart, “—and no one in the do’Verrada family shall ever neglect to serve her wishes in this.”
“That was more than one hundred years ago!” Gitanna cried. “She is long dead, Baltran—and surely she would admit that the blood of her own family is more important than the blood of either Grijalvas
or
Tza’ab bandits!”
“Grijalva blood, spilled in that battle—that is why it became known as the River of Blood, Gitanna, there was so much!—is one of the reasons the do’Verradas rule today,” he said quietly. “You forget yourself, Gitanna. You forget your history.”
“I know my history, Baltran!” She sat upright now, bed linens wrenched up to modestly cover what a scant hour before had given him so much pleasure. “Oh, yes, bless the name of the gracious Duchess Jesminia who took in those defiled Grijalva women and welcomed their half-breed bastards—but look also at what it has brought us! They live now as serpents in the very bosom of Tira Virte, in Meya Suerta itself. If the Tza’ab chose to attack, they would have confederates right here, Baltran!”
“The Tza’ab as a unified enemy were destroyed utterly at Rio Sanguo,” he said patiently; it was not a new argument, though never had it issued from her lips. “Additionally, without a holy man to lead them—what
remains
of them—they will never again attempt to take back the lands that now are ours.”
“But they
did
lay waste to the borderlands,
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