"I don't like parties either. I suppose Beatriz will be happy."

He sighed. "I hope you will forgive me if I say that I wish I did not need to be here."

"Why do we need to be here?" The idea came to her, as startling as it was unbidden. "I need only finish the portrait. I don't wish to endure the ill-placed pity of your brother's noble guests!"

"Perhaps your family will welcome you home, but I am not at all sure my father will want to see me."

"Why do we have to go home at all?" It came to her with the reckless beauty of a painting done in one inspired sitting. She did not need her family anymore, nor they her. "I have a small inheritance set aside for me by my grandmother. Nothing much, but I could rent a room in Meya Suerta. I could make enough coin to live on, painting Deeds and Wills and Marriages. Many a painter does so." But none of them were women, alone. "Of course it is impossible. It would not be safe or proper."

She examined the portrait of Edoard. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Painters and draughtsmen could always scratch out a living. If she could find wealthier clients. . . but a young woman without father or brother or husband to protect her was fair game in the rough world outside palasso walls.

She spun to face Rohario. Why not? It was risky, of course, but there came a time in life when you had to shut your eyes and leap forward on faith. The audacity of the idea dazzled her. She could not live alone and friendless in Meya Suerta-unless she had a companion, someone safe, a brother.

SIXTY-EIGHT.

Agustin Grijalva sat in one of the stuffy attic closets crammed into the storeroom beyond the Atelierro and tried not to breathe. If he took in too deep a gulp of the stale air, he would cough helplessly. That had happened three days ago, when he had tried this for the first time, and he had barely escaped being caught. Now he fortified himself with a pouch of water and an infusion of fennel in honey.

The plank floor was cold and uncomfortable. His skin ached. He had gotten a terrible rash yesterday, but a salve of aloe had soothed the worst of the stinging pain. Despite that pain, Agustin bent his entire will upon the rectangle of parchment, prepared with oil from his fingers, that he had propped up on his bent knees against a thin piece of wood. At this awkward angle, his neck hurt. His skin pulled and burned. Probably he was going to get blisters all over.

But he did not move. He stared at the detailed sketch, bordered with an elaborate skein of symbols, that he had drawn onto the parchment, using pen and ink mixed with the tincture of his own blood.

He looked at a drawing of the long table that sat at the far end of the Atelierro. The setting sun shone, casting barred shadows along the table, just as he had observed it to do at the seventh hour after midday. At this hour, on the occasion of the Great Feasts of the year, the Grijalva Conselhos met. Once the Conselhos had been only the most senior Limners; now they included any family member, even women, made senior by age or influence.

Agustin intended to spy on them. He prayed to Matra ei Filho that it would work.

He knew he could never sketch every person in correctly, or even guess in what arrangement they might sit at the table, so he had only sketched in the table and the shadows. If he could catch the lighting just right and trigger the spell before the Conselhos assembled, then he could listen in on the whole thing. But was the sketch accurate enough? He had studied Eleyna's drawings-the ones she had sent him from Chasseriallo-with the greatest care, but she had seven years of training beyond him as well as the better eye. Still, he had done his best to place the shafts of light as they would fall over the wood grain, illuminate the highbacked chairs, touch that one square of plush Tza'ab carpet.

"That is the test of magic," Zio Giaberto had said. "For a spell to be triggered, the rendering must he perfect. Nothing else will do."

"What if a man is Gifted with magic hut not with the ability to draw?" Agustin had asked.

"Then his Gift is worthless. But while there are greater and lesser talents, I know of only three cases in our long history of Gifted males who simply could not learn to use their Gift. With enough drilling and practice, even a child with little natural aptitude for art will suffice as a copyist and can serve the family by performing certain routine duties which still demand the use of magic but not, perhaps, any great artistic talent. But do not worry, Agustin, you are not one of those sorry few. Your talents are evident."

"Eleyna should have had my Gift," he had said recklessly.

"I am not interested in having this discussion again, mennino. Your devotion to your sister is admirable but misplaced. Continue with the recitation."

Recite he had, and did now, words from the Folio, to seal the magic, to trigger it. Whispering to himself helped him not to cough. But as he waited, the air grew thicker and thicker by some agency he could not know. Then, as if melded with the air, whispers floated to him.

". . . Cabral will vote against us again . . . too much influence . . . isn't Gifted, but always had the favor of the Grand Duke . . . hush, here come the others.

A confused jumble of soft noise. Agustin unfroze himself. His shoulders ached. No one was standing outside the closet door, trading secrets. The magic had worked.

"Greetings, cousins. We are gathered here to toast the Feast of Imago with this very fine Palenssia red. I know there is dispute at the Ecclesia about whether the Exalted were pruning back vines destined to produce a white or a red when they were visited with the Image of Matra ei Filho, but I trust we may give thanks to Their Blessed Visitassion with any fine vintage and leave the quibbling to the scholars."

Shared chuckles. Agustin did not get the joke, and in any case, he was annoyed. He could not see anyone. Surely this spell was supposed to allow him to see as well as hear the Conselhos.

Merditto! Eleyna would have done it right. She had helped him with the dream spells, relating to him the secrets of Grijalva magic that Grandmother Leilias had told her. It had all made sense to her. The only time he ever felt as if he could manage what was going on was when he tried to think as he supposed she would.

Eiha! Hearing would have to serve. Of course that was Lord Limner Andreo giving the first toast. But Agustin desperately wondered who else was there-Grandzio Cabral, according to the whisperers he had first heard. But their voices had been so muffled that he could not identify them.

". . . before we adjourn for the service at the Cathedral, I do have a piece of unexpected news to impart. I have just received a courier from Chasseriallo.

"Matra ei Filho! Has there been some disaster?"

"Now, now, Nicollo. Let us not look at things in the worst light always. Let us say instead there has been a change of plans."

"I'll kill her." That was Agustin's mother, definitely.

"You needn't worry, Dionisa." Even through the muffling effect of magic and parchment, Agustin could tell Andreo was as amused as he was irritated. "At least one of your daughters knows her duty to the family."

"Beatrix!"

So many voices, speaking at once, and laughter.

"Matra Dolcha, Cabral, have you no shame?" Dionisa again. "Beatrix has not been protected, she is still so young-and she is fertile!"

"Leilias will have taught her everything she needs to know. I see I underestimated those girls."

"Cabral is right." This was Andreo once more. "Eleyna was the better choice for many reasons, but clearly not the choice Edoard made."

"She pushed Beatrix into it, I just know she did! And I will have her whipped when I get my hands on her! Matra! I'll whip her myself!"

"I assure you, Dionisa, Beatrix will bear no children by Edoard. Now recall this: The Marria do'Fantome has been restored. That is the important thing."

Eleyna was not Don Edoard's mistress. Beatriz was.

Agustin choked. He gulped for air, groped for the cup of water, tipped it over, and dropped the parchment as he broke into racking coughs.

Through the haze of gulping for air he heard their voices continuing, a shift in topic but one he could not follow. He desperately tried to catch his breath. What would they do to Eleyna?

"In here, I think." These words did not come through the parchment.

The closet door opened and he blinked up, still hacking, at Giaberto and, beyond him, at the snow-white hair and bland, seamed face of Cabral.

"Get the boy something to drink," snapped Giaberto as he snatched up the parchment.

Cabral pushed Giaberto aside and pulled Agustin to his feet. "Now, now, mennino. I want you to listen to my voice. Listen to my breathing. When I breathe-like so-"

The sucked-in air sounded a roar in Agustin's ears, which pounded with the beat of his own pulse.

"-then you will breathe as well. Not deep breaths. That will only cause you to cough-there, you see. Just with me. That's right. Now come, take a step. Let's get out of this dusty closet."

By the time they got into the Atelierro, Agustin was still struggling to take deep breaths but the coughing had subsided.

"Here is your son, Dionisa," said Cabral. "I think it would be well to have a sancta in to see him."

"As if a sancta would lower herself to venture into our chi'patro Palasso," said his mother furiously.

"Nevertheless," said Cabral smoothly, "although they may have snubbed you, Dionisa, this is your Gifted son who is having trouble breathing. They will know what to do."

Agustin was hauled off to bed and, later, given over to the attentions of a robed and wimpled sancta whose forbidding gaze was as stony as the statues in the Cathedral. But once Dionisa left the chamber-at the sancta's direct order-and the old woman examined Agustin, her features softened.

"Poor boy," she said. "You remind me of my great-nephew, all bones and big eyes. How old are you? Just hold up your fingers. Don't talk. Fifteen, is it? That is the same age I was when my parents dedicated me to the Ecclesia." Agustin wanted to ask if she, like him, had had no choice in the matter of her profession, but he dared not. "Let me listen to your lungs. What's that I smell on your breath? Fennel? Something you brewed for yourself? You have good sense." She said this approvingly, as Eleyna would. Agustin could not imagine Eleyna this old and wrinkled, but the sancta had an iron strength about her that reminded him of his sister.

Not like Beatriz. But Beatriz was now Don Edoard's mistress . . . the thought triggered another spasm of coughing.

The sancta clapped her hands, loudly, and Dionisa hurried in. "I want a cup of boiled water."

"But-"

"I want it now."

Agustin could not quite laugh through his coughing, but he would have liked to, at the expression on his mother's face.

"Have you always had this sort of coughing?" the sancta asked him. "Do you get colds easily in the wet season? Is it worse at certain times of year? Don't speak. You need only nod or shake your head. Have you always felt a little weaker than the other children? Is it sometimes hard to catch your breath? Yes, yes." The sancta sighed, caught herself, and turned just in time to intercept the cup of hot water. Rummaging in her woven pouch, she brought out a box and, opening it, sorted through little bags. Agustin could tell they were herbs and flowers, but by this time he could smell nothing.

She made a hot tea for him. After a few sips his spasms subsided.

"You have weak lungs, my child. There is little I or any other healer can do about it. You must walk frequently, not sit indoors all the time-as it appears you do with that pallor you have-but not overexert yourself. An infusion of coltsfoot, licorice, and manzanilla will help you through attacks. If you balance yourself between resting and exercise, eat well, drink a little wine but not too much, you can live a normal life. It is up to you. Do not let your mother bully you. There now. I will go tell your mother and father these same things."

She blessed him and left.

Agustin stared bitterly at the ceiling, plain white, appropriate for the room of a boy who was supposed to think of nothing but painting, creating images against that white in his mind's eye. He was a Gifted Limner, after all.

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop tears. What point was there in crying?

There was nothing he could do about it. He took another sip of the tea and felt his lungs open a bit more.

He could never have any of the things he really wanted anyway: sons and daughters to dandle on his knee, a house of his own, a life that belonged to him, not to his mother and the Grijalva family. What did it matter if his lungs were weak? He would die young in any case.

He was a Gifted Limner.

And he wished desperately that he was not.

Dionisa refused to let him out of bed for two days and did not let him have pencil and drawing paper to while away the time. He was grateful to be allowed out of bed the third morning after the Feast of Imago. He was, in fact, sitting in his mother's parlor taking a light breakfast of rolls and cheese and licorice tea when Cabral came in, unannounced.

"Your color is better," Cabral observed. "What were you thinking about so pensively, young man?"

"About how to protect Eleyna," Agustin blurted out.

"I trust that Eleyna can protect herself, but I take your meaning. Right now you must think about protecting yourself. You have been spared censure thus far because of your illness, but I am come to warn you that you are to be called before the Viehos Fratos. Which means I cannot be present."

Agustin choked on a piece of bread, coughing, and managed to finish swallowing without having a new attack. "Are they going to do something awful to me?"

"Do not mention to them that I spoke with you. Listen carefully. They will threaten you, since they do not like to be trifled with. I thought it a clever trick myself, but I have always been at a disadvantage with the Gifted, you understand, and am more likely than they to think it amusing.

But many boys died during the Summer Fever. You are a rare commodity now, Agustin, the commodity on which Grijalva wealth is founded. They will threaten you but cannot risk harming you, not unless you show yourself a serious threat to them, which you and I know you are not.

Eiha! I hear someone. Be brave."

Cabral vanished through one door just as Giaberto and Dionisa walked in through the other.

Agustin would have found the theatrics amusing had he not been quaking. Giaberto's expression was grave, and Dionisa looked furious and worried at the same time. Maybe he could have been brave if Eleyna had been here. But he was alone.

"Stop cowering!" his mother snapped. "You remind me of a cringing kitchen maid who's just been caught with her hand in the syrup jar." She broke off, hurried over to him as he sat, staring, too terrified to move, and stroked his shoulders. "Now, now, ninio. You know I will protect you.

No one will hurt you. Giaberto and I want only the best for you. But you must act like the little man you are and go with your uncle now."

Used to obeying the commands of his elders, Agustin went.

They waited for him in the Crechetta, eleven dour men, the youngest his fifth cousin Damiano, the eldest a distant cousin who at forty-five was curled into the final stages of the bone fever that was killing him.

Agustin found he could examine old Zosio dispassionately. He would never have to suffer the agonies of failing hands and joints: his lungs would kill him first. This bleak thought gave him heart to face them down.

Lord Limner Andreo lifted a hand. "You may sit, Giaberto. Agustin, you will stand, there."

Agustin complied, standing where they all could see him. The Limners glared at him, except young Damiano who, face in profile to the rest, winked at him. Nicollo looked positively surly where he sat twisted in a chair; his complexion had the pasty dullness of a man whose life is draining from him.

"Do you know, Agustin, how the Gifted discipline those of their own kind who disobey the stringent rules we have set for ourselves?" He shook his head. Terrified, he nevertheless clung to two thoughts: Cabral had told him he was valuable, and he was going to die young anyway, whatever else they might do to him.

Andreo went on sternly. "We have been given a great Gift but also a terrible responsibility, and we owe service to the Grijalva family and to the Grand Dukes of Tira Virte. You know of the sacrifice made by Verro Grijalva. You know of the capture of his sisters by Tza'ab bandits, of their rescue by the first Duke Renayo. You know they are honored above all other women for their mercy and generosity in bringing the chi'patro children into the Grijalva lineage. You know also that our family was not murdered by the mob during Nerro Lingua only because of the intercession of Duchess Jesminia. All these things we Grijalvas remember. We live on the sufferance of the do'Verrada family, just as they prosper because of our aid to them. Thus, together, we increase Tira Virte's fortunes.

"But we are never safe when plagues strike the city and whispers of black magic race through the streets again, when our name is still mentioned with mistrust in the Sanctias-or when any rash boy realizes the power he holds in his hands can be used for his own selfish gain.

"You do not yet understand the power that lives in your hands, but you must now learn what it is to be disciplined by your peers. Damiano, bring the portrait of Domaos."

By this time, Cabral's bracing words had been washed away by the flood of Andreo's lecture.

Andreo's bland, staring eyes, old Zosio's racking cough (worse than his own), their collective frown, all combined to leave Agustin in a state of near panic.

Damiano returned with the portrait, and a fine portrait it was, too, of a handsome young man with burning, ambitious eyes and the broad shoulders of an athlete.

Andreo looked as grim as if he were about to pronounce a sentence of death. "Domaos Grijalva chose his own fate. He was brash enough to believe he could have an affair with a do'Verrada daughter and not pay the price. The Viehos Fratos were merciful in his case: he was banished and forced to live his life as an itinerant painter-not an Itinerarrio, a chosen ambassador who may be received at every court with the greatest honor, but a mere traveling artist who must take what work he can."

Andreo paused to give Agustin time to envision the awful fate of Domaos Grijalva.

But why would it be so bad? All contracts in Tira Virte were paintings: as the old saying went, one word might have ten meanings or no meaning at all. There was always work for a good artist.

"In time, Agustin, you will paint a portrait of yourself, your Peintraddo Chieva, by which you will prove yourself worthy of a place among the Viehos Fratos. It will be painted with your own sweat, your tears, your saliva and urine and seed, with your own blood. It will hang in the Crechetta." Andreo motioned toward the walls of the old chamber, adorned with the portraits of the living Limners.

"What do you think would happen if we burned that painting?"

His tears and sweat, mixed in ink. Burning . . . four days ago a rash had erupted over him, like a sunburn. He shuddered, began coughing.