be not so foolish.
Sario put on dark tunic and baggy trousers, soft felted slippers, and went out from his tiny estudo’s cell into the corridors. Hetook with him candle, flint, and striker, but did not light it; he tucked all into his voluminous tunic pocket—accustomed to chalks, bits of dried resin, pigment powders—and made his way all the way back to the narrow corridor so close to the Crechetta. He slipped behind the painted curtain, into the chamber beyond; climbed and descended stairs, reached at last the narrow lath-and-plaster door. There he paused, lighted the candle, and put his hand upon the latch.
It was in him to know if they knew, any of them, that he and Saavedra had discovered the odd little closet. If the residue of her sickness remained, noisome as it might be, they were safe; if someone had cleaned it away, they were discovered. And no doubt a search would be instituted, no matter how subtle, to discover who had been in the hidden closet over the Crechetta during Chieva do’Sangua.
He was himself prepared to clean up Saavedra’s mess, though he ought to make her do it. But he would not; he took responsibility for urging her to accompany him, though he had not expected such a weak stomach. It was a task he set himself, to learn if they knew, and if they did not he would make certain they never did.
Sario lifted the latch and opened the door. The candlelight, even from a poor stub of lumpy, pungent wax and smoking wick, filled the entrance and fled like vermin up the twenty-eight stairs, pausing only at the edge of the slant-ceilinged closet itself.
Movement. Sario froze.
They know—they’ve found out
—
Again movement, coupled with a voice made raw by screaming, thickened by crying. “Who is that? Is someone there?” A scrabbling from above. “I beg you, aid me … O Blessed Mother,
aid
me—”
Sario gulped breath.
Matra Dolcha, are we found out
? No, surely not; would he be asked for aid if so?
Unless it be a trap
— His hand trembled, and the flame nearly went out. He steadied it with effort, groping one-handed for the latch.
If we are found out
… And then into attenuated illumination at the top of the stairs scrabbled a body, which huddled itself precariously on the sharp-angled cusp of the tiny closet floor and the narrow staircase.
Sario, startled for the first time in his life into abject and utter silence, stared gape-mouthed at the man.
“Have you come to help me?” The man braced himself against the walls with racked, bone-fevered hands, knuckles swelling flesh obscenely, lumps and calluses disfiguring what had been agile fingers, disciplined fingers, now wrenched awry until what the manused to steady himself was little more than warped, misshapen claws. Gold glinted briefly in the rich folds of costly fabric; he had been a vain man, once, who catered to self-adornment. “Are you there?”
The candle spilled light into all but the most distant of the corners. And yet the man asked if Sario were there.
I am
… but he said nothing, could say nothing at all, not yet; merely swallowed heavily, painfully, and gazed in sickened fascination upon the opaque milky substance that filled the man’s eyes.
The body was young, the flesh, the bones, the hair, the features. He was in all ways, in all things, Tomaz Grijalva, fine-boned and blazingly talented, Gifted and gifted. But Neosso Irrado.
And duly disciplined.
Realization was absolute:
This is what it was for.
The direst punishment that could be visited upon a Gifted Grijalva: discipline of the damned. As indeed this man was damned.
Sario’s voice echoed softly in the confines of flame-washed imprisonment. “You will never paint again.”
Tomaz spasmed. “Who is that? Who is there? What do you want? Have you come to gloat? Is this a part of the punishment?” Startled from balance, he scrabbled for purchase with ruined hands. “Who are you, cabessa merditto?”
Sario laughed. He could not help himself. “Neosso
Sario put on dark tunic and baggy trousers, soft felted slippers, and went out from his tiny estudo’s cell into the corridors. Hetook with him candle, flint, and striker, but did not light it; he tucked all into his voluminous tunic pocket—accustomed to chalks, bits of dried resin, pigment powders—and made his way all the way back to the narrow corridor so close to the Crechetta. He slipped behind the painted curtain, into the chamber beyond; climbed and descended stairs, reached at last the narrow lath-and-plaster door. There he paused, lighted the candle, and put his hand upon the latch.
It was in him to know if they knew, any of them, that he and Saavedra had discovered the odd little closet. If the residue of her sickness remained, noisome as it might be, they were safe; if someone had cleaned it away, they were discovered. And no doubt a search would be instituted, no matter how subtle, to discover who had been in the hidden closet over the Crechetta during Chieva do’Sangua.
He was himself prepared to clean up Saavedra’s mess, though he ought to make her do it. But he would not; he took responsibility for urging her to accompany him, though he had not expected such a weak stomach. It was a task he set himself, to learn if they knew, and if they did not he would make certain they never did.
Sario lifted the latch and opened the door. The candlelight, even from a poor stub of lumpy, pungent wax and smoking wick, filled the entrance and fled like vermin up the twenty-eight stairs, pausing only at the edge of the slant-ceilinged closet itself.
Movement. Sario froze.
They know—they’ve found out
—
Again movement, coupled with a voice made raw by screaming, thickened by crying. “Who is that? Is someone there?” A scrabbling from above. “I beg you, aid me … O Blessed Mother,
aid
me—”
Sario gulped breath.
Matra Dolcha, are we found out
? No, surely not; would he be asked for aid if so?
Unless it be a trap
— His hand trembled, and the flame nearly went out. He steadied it with effort, groping one-handed for the latch.
If we are found out
… And then into attenuated illumination at the top of the stairs scrabbled a body, which huddled itself precariously on the sharp-angled cusp of the tiny closet floor and the narrow staircase.
Sario, startled for the first time in his life into abject and utter silence, stared gape-mouthed at the man.
“Have you come to help me?” The man braced himself against the walls with racked, bone-fevered hands, knuckles swelling flesh obscenely, lumps and calluses disfiguring what had been agile fingers, disciplined fingers, now wrenched awry until what the manused to steady himself was little more than warped, misshapen claws. Gold glinted briefly in the rich folds of costly fabric; he had been a vain man, once, who catered to self-adornment. “Are you there?”
The candle spilled light into all but the most distant of the corners. And yet the man asked if Sario were there.
I am
… but he said nothing, could say nothing at all, not yet; merely swallowed heavily, painfully, and gazed in sickened fascination upon the opaque milky substance that filled the man’s eyes.
The body was young, the flesh, the bones, the hair, the features. He was in all ways, in all things, Tomaz Grijalva, fine-boned and blazingly talented, Gifted and gifted. But Neosso Irrado.
And duly disciplined.
Realization was absolute:
This is what it was for.
The direst punishment that could be visited upon a Gifted Grijalva: discipline of the damned. As indeed this man was damned.
Sario’s voice echoed softly in the confines of flame-washed imprisonment. “You will never paint again.”
Tomaz spasmed. “Who is that? Who is there? What do you want? Have you come to gloat? Is this a part of the punishment?” Startled from balance, he scrabbled for purchase with ruined hands. “Who are you, cabessa merditto?”
Sario laughed. He could not help himself. “Neosso
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