The Creditors' Ball

The Palace of the Captaincy-General glittered beneath the glare of five hundred virgin wax tapers set into chandeliers of cut Bohemian crystal. The warm air reeked of musk, orange-blossom water, and spiced hippocras ladled into embossed silver goblets by retainers in purple livery.

The highest blood of the viceroyalty jostled across the parquet in celebration of the imperial coronation: bankrupt grandees wearing doublets stiff with false bullion, appellate judges in damask gowns, and Genoese merchants bearing their sight-bills like battlefield medals won in the low countries.

Tomás wore a tawny velvet coat borrowed from an old scrivener who had shared his father's guild bench, its starched linen ruff chafing his throat like an executioner's hemp. His presence at the feast was part of their gambit: he had been officially drafted to clerk the ledger of patriotic donations at the lower entrance to fund the ongoing northern campaigns.

Don Beltrán de Vivar held court upon a carpeted dais, muttering into the ear of the papal legate and two captains of the Flanders foot. The high chancellor wore a venomous brow; dispatch riders had arrived at midday with news from Oakhaven—Archduke Morvath's coup put down, Prince Fadrique back on his throne and the contract of his false betrothed torn to pieces before the whole court— imperiling his standing before the viceregal council.

The shawms and bass viols struck up a stately pavan, giving way to a new Italian waltz whose turning rhythm swept the floor and drew the finest courtiers into the swirl.

Beatriz swept through the throng in a swirl of scarlet damask and tortoiseshell fans. She wore silver satin laced with frosted needlework over her stays—a calculated, defiant echo of the northern frost. Her eyes searched the lower gallery until they locked upon Tomás pretending to check a vellum muster of donors.

With deliberate hauteur that brooked no insolence, Lady Beatriz brushed aside the suits of three court gallants and walked straight to the pilaster where Tomás stood.

"The head clerk informs me the new copyist steps a passably graceful measure," she said aloud, pitching her voice for the ears of the watching duennas. "Step to the floor with me, Master Gabriel; the chancery must show it favors industry over empty pedigree."

Tomás bowed with courtly grace, took Beatriz's gloved fingers, and handed her into the center of the parquet.

As their frames aligned in the first swell of the waltz, the chatter died to a distant drone. Tomás locked his right arm about Beatriz's waist; through the heavy corded silk, he felt the taut spring of her spine and the hard silhouette of an iron key tucked deep inside her hidden kirtle-pocket.

"My father carries the master key to the great chest inside his sable cuff," she whispered, her lips barely parting while maintaining an unblemished smile for the gallery. "Tonight he transfers the northern deeds to the guardhouse to execute the seizure."

"The forged roll with your father's old seals is bound and ready in my pallet," Tomás murmured back, turning her across the flags with a clean authority that drew glances from the guards. "But I must enter the seal vault before the watch changes at the midnight bell."

Beatriz closed against his doublet in the turn. Her temple brushed his lapel; the fresh, sweet scent of wild mint and dry ledger-leaf filled Tomás's senses, cutting through the heavy musk of the ballroom.

"The vault key is in my left palm," she whispered, slipping a cold bronze cylinder into his hand as their fingers locked at the end of the measure. "If they catch you, I'll say you stole it from my dressing table."

"They will not halt me, my lady," Tomás whispered back, his fingers closing like an iron vice over the warm metal. "And if I take a quarrel in the dark, your name will never cross my teeth, though they tear my nails with smithing tongs."

Beatriz met his eyes. For one whole bar she forgot to smile for the ladies in the galleries, and Tomás saw beneath it a twenty-year-old girl frightened to death. Then the waltz ended, the court applauded and she was the chancellor's daughter again.