The Adorned

by John Tristan

  “You will need to start a regiment of baths,” Tallisk said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your skin is not in ideal shape yet. There’s some hint of blemish here.” He touched my cheekbones lightly.

  I swallowed. “You wish to tattoo my face?”

  He chuckled low. “No. But it ruins the palette. A regimen of cleansing baths will even out your complexion. I will give Doiran instruction on your care.”

  I stood, holding my jacket in my hands. Tallisk, who’d turned to arrange his sketches, frowned at me.

  “Well?”

  I opened and closed my mouth, very like a fish.

  Tallisk’s mouth twitched. He was almost smiling. “I’m done with you,” he said. “For now. You may go.”

  I ached to remain, to ask him all the questions gathered in my mind. Instead I went, without even a murmur; he closed the door behind me. Once it was shut, I let out a breath, deep and shuddering: a breath I had not been aware of holding.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tallisk did as he promised.

  First, he gave Doiran instructions as to my bathing regimen, specifying with humiliating precision the how and when. Every day he called me to bathe, sometimes twice; the luxury alone seemed stunning to me. There were exotic soaps he had to purchase, and special creams to “even my complexion.” At least I was allowed the small mercy of applying them myself, after I insisted to Tallisk that I would take pains to scrub every plane and crevice of me until it met his exacting standard.

  Second, he arranged for me to watch him at work.

  He waited for a clear, bright morning, then summoned Isadel and me to his atelier. We went together; she wore her usual light, silken robes, without her coat of brocade. A wise choice, I learned; Tallisk had set the braziers working until it felt like midsummer.

  He had his sleeves rolled up, and I glanced at his uncovered arms, where half-faded tattoos lay over corded muscle. Set out before him were a reclining chair and a low table filled with the tools of his trade: bottles of ink, needles, wooden hammers, paints and brushes, calipers and rods. Half surgeon’s tools, half artist’s. A shiver of fascination passed through me at the sight of them.

  “Good,” he said, “you are here. We’ll begin.”

  There were no niceties, no preambles. He simply gestured to the chair.

  Isadel inclined her head. “Shall I disrobe, sir?”

  “No,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I intend to tattoo your clothing. Off with it!”

  She winked at me. I realized she was making a little show of it, for my benefit. She untied the ribbons at her sleeves, and the cord at her waist, and handed them to me. “Will you hold these for me, please?”

  I nodded mutely. She moved as serpentine and languid as the snakes tattooed upon her, taking off her robes and hanging them on a hook beside the door. The snakes moved subtly upon her skin, like painted puppets in a shadowplay; with her every step they shifted, as if they were trying to cling to her curves. There was such ease in her motion; though she was mother-naked, it seemed she wore invisible robes and jewels upon her. I found myself entranced, and jealous; a strange, constricting envy had settled in my chest.

  Tallisk, on the other hand, seemed less impressed by her show. “Sit down.”

  “What will we be working on today?”

  “The flame. As I said last time.”

  She sprawled on the chair and parted her legs. There was a flurry of scarlet petals on her inner thighs; they seemed to be shifting as if breeze-caught. Tallisk sat upon a wheeled stool and rolled it between Isadel’s legs. He pulled closer his worktable, with all his tools and inks. “Etan,” he said, and I started. “Come closer.”

  I came, though slowly. I felt as if I were an intruder on some private thing. Tallisk and Isadel did not seem to feel this way, though; she caught my eye and winked at me again.

  “Don’t worry so much,” she said.

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Quiet, the both of you,” Tallisk said. His broad hand hovered over his tools. He took up a thin paintbrush and a palette of inks and touched the brush to the base of her pubis. The curled dark hair there was clipped short. Slowly, he outlined a small colorless flame. Flame or petal; it was hard to tell. It seemed to straddle both, half flower and half fire.

  Isadel yawned and stretched her neck, then lifted one leg in the air, placing her foot upon Tallisk’s shoulder. He neither moved nor made comment.

  After the flame had been painted, he stood back for a moment, considering. I peered over his shoulder. The ink had dried to a greyish gloss, a guide for his needles.

  Then he began to mix his inks. Red powder, vivid as sunset light, was mixed with a clear oil until it made a thin paste, then thinned again to liquid smoothness. At the last, he took out a plain wooden box. With brisk care, he removed a small silver vial. Isadel’s eyes were fixed on that vial—and the eyes of her snakes, as well. He unscrewed the top. A strange scent suffused the room for a moment: a whiff of hot copper, of the air before a storm. He tipped a single drop of tar-black liquid into the ink. There was a sound like a hissing breath, and the black was swallowed by the red.

  Tallisk’s hand hovered over his tools. He picked up one of his needles. It was not a single sharp point, but a tight cluster of them, affixed to a smooth ivory handle. He dipped it in the red ink. Isadel reclined on the tattooing-chair, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling. There was a slight tension in her limbs, now. I took soft, slow breaths, to keep from holding them.

  When Tallisk struck needle to flesh, Isadel flinched, but only slightly, and only for the first strike. Afterward she seemed to drift in a kind of reverie, heedless of the blood that streaked down her thighs. Tallisk wiped her skin with a soft white cloth. It went red with mingled ink and blood.

  A soft knock sounded. Tallisk drew back with a hiss of irritation. “I am busy.”

  “I know, sir.” It was Yana’s voice. “I wouldn’t disturb you, if it wasn’t—”

  “Open the damned door, then.”

  She did not quite step into the room, but lingered in the hallway. “Sir, Geodery Gandor is here. He asks if he might see you.”

  Tallisk cursed and wiped his brow. “Without even the courtesy to send a message? Tell him he can go to death’s river.”

  Isadel cleared her throat. “Gandor is—”

  “I know!” He stood up and rolled down his sleeves. “Get dressed,” he said to Isadel. “You’re coming with me.”

  “You’ll have to give me a few moments.” She stood up, pulling on her robe; I handed her the cords and ribbons. “To make myself presentable.”

  “No.” His smile was flat and humorless. “If he comes to us without announcement, he shouldn’t expect to see us prepared. You are fit to be seen in my household; that should be good enough for him.”

  Isadel narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

  “Yana.” Tallisk turned toward his key-master. “Tell Doiran to prepare some drinks. As for you...” He turned to me and shook his head. “Just keep out of the way. Understood?”

  I nodded. Tallisk thundered his way down the stairs, with Isadel on his heels; she tried to smooth her hair down as she went. Yana followed them. I was, for the moment, forgotten.

  I stepped back into the atelier. I moved slowly and lightly, my feet soft on the warm floor. The tattooing-chair was in the brightest spot of the room; the shadowy corners held different mysteries. Tallisk’s massive desk, covered in sketches. Drawers, some pulled open, full of strange tools. Books and folios filled with exquisite illustrations; I went and hovered over one of them, open on the desktop. It showed a woodcut of a forest path, crosshatched and shadowy, the trees bent, leering figures over a lone traveler.

  I pulled away, not letting myself turn the pages. I would touch nothing.

  Another corner, I saw, was cordoned off by thick green curtains. Something glimmered behind it; I saw it, over the curtain rail, through the barely overlapping edges of the velvet. Openin
g curtains, that would hardly count as touching something, would it? I slipped my hand between them and drew the curtains lightly apart.

  They hid a small alcove, almost a half-circle, and the entire alcove was lined with mirrors from floor to ceiling. They made a small infinity of sight between them, my reflection multiplied. The light from the windows was cunningly reflected, cool and gleaming: I could see every angle of myself bathed in it. It was strange. It was like seeing through a stranger’s eyes.

  I was about to leave the little alcove when I heard footsteps, and voices. They were raised, though not enough for me to make out the words, and coming closer. Too soon, they had reached the door of the atelier. I froze, drawing back against the mirrors. I was not supposed to be here.

  The voices entered: I heard Isadel’s and Tallisk’s. Was it only the two of them? I waited, silent. I caught the tail of Isadel’s words.

  “All that I am saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Tallisk said. He made a noise halfway between growl and sigh, and I heard the rustle of papers.

  “Roberd, listen.” Isadel had said his name. It was the first time I’d heard it spoken in this house since Maxen Udred had left. Tallisk did not rebuke her, as I’d half expected, but simply ignored her. She sighed and went on. “Count Karan’s eye might not be keen entirely for my art—”

  He barked a short laugh.

  “But there are others,” she went on, “who see me when he contracts me. Others who mark your work.”

  “Those ‘others’ are not my patron.” He growled out the word. “What when he tires of you, Isadel?”

  She went quiet for a moment. When she next spoke, there was venom in her tone. “Perhaps I should recommend the boy to him, then.”

  “The boy,” Tallisk said, in a low tone, “has no ink, as of yet.”

  She laughed. “What does it matter, if he doesn’t contract for the art?” When Tallisk said nothing, she spoke again, her voice now light with feigned airiness. “You have a design planned for him, then?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “You’ll begin on it soon?”

  “That seems self-evident.” There was a noise, a snap: a book dropped heavily on the desktop. I flinched.

  “And what about me?”

  “I inked you not an hour ago.”

  “A show,” she said. “For the boy. You’ve left the flame unfinished. You know I can’t show myself until it’s done. When will you complete it?”

  “When I decide it.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I don’t suppose you recall it is my contracts with Count Karan that put the wine on your table?”

  “I recall it well enough,” he said, almost spitting out the words.

  “So you have no love for him,” she said. “Does that mean his money is worthless?”

  “I’ll decide what has worth or not, in this house.”

  “And I suppose you reckon the boy to be worthy indeed.”

  There was a hush; then the low rhythm of Tallisk’s breathing and his steps across the room. Isadel let out a startled cry.

  “Let go of me!”

  He steered her to the door; she trailed curses behind her.

  “I said let go!”

  “With pleasure. Now, you leave.”

  She did. I heard the retreating patter of her steps. Tallisk caught his breathing. He paced around the room. I heard his heavy footsteps come nearer and nearer to me, as if he were a circling wolf. My heart skidded a painful beat. I held my breath.

  “Come on out of there,” he said. He nudged the curtain aside with his foot.

  I closed my eyes a moment, wishing myself away from my own stupidity, then shuffled out of the alcove. As my head emerged, he thrust his fingers into my hair, dragging me out of the mirrored sanctum. He gave me a shake, then another, like you might to chastise a dog, then let me go. I rubbed my head and looked up at him. His cheeks were reddened, and his mouth twisted in a grimace, on a knife’s edge between smiling and shouting.

  “Get out of here,” he said. “And don’t let me see your face for a while. Understand?”

  My lips moved to frame an apology.

  He made a rough, sweeping gesture, hands brushing me aside. “Out!”

  I went, then, as fast as I could without running.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whatever Tallisk thought of my intrusion, he did not see fit to mention it. For a few days I barely caught a glimpse of him; his meals were delivered to his office or his atelier. Still, it was his house, and I was his Adorned—I was sure I could not avoid him for long.

  Until then, I had been spending most of my days in the library. I shared it most often with Isadel; it was her favored haunt. She was there now, sprawled on the tiny sofa, while I sat at the desk, leafing through a folio of Northern woodcuts. Now and then, she made a sound—almost a laugh.

  I glanced over at her. “What are you reading?”

  She held up her book. It was a history of the bandit wars; one of the newest books in Tallisk’s library.

  I smiled. The village boys in Lun had been mad for bandit tales. “You like histories?”

  “It’s not history that’s my interest.” She shut the book. “Half the Sword-nobles you’ll meet in the city earned their accolades back then. It’s good to be informed.”

  “Aren’t there more recent wars to be worried about?”

  She snorted. “Only a few pretend this war had much to do with honor. The bandit wars were fought for noble cause; you’ll find the nobles prefer to remember those deeds.”

  I shrugged. It made little difference in my eyes; either way, there was blood spilled.

  “Etan.” Isadel shifted on the sofa. “Is it true that Gaelta do not take the soldier’s oath?”

  The question surprised me. “You could ask Doiran. I’m only half-Gaelta.”

  “Which means you’ve a foot in each world,” she said. “That’s not an insight to be scoffed at.”

  I blinked at her. “Not becoming soldiers doesn’t mean we’re cowards, you know.”

  “No indeed.” Her eyebrows went up. “Some of you fought with the bandits, as I recall.”

  I looked down. “Gaelta don’t swear by Keredy gods. Unless they’re outcast from their families for one reason or another.” Like my father, I thought—though no one could have mistaken him for a warrior. “You have to swear an oath with a priest to be a Keredy soldier.”

  “And live by the rites of the Storm Lords.” She nodded. “That’s a fair enough reason.”

  I laughed. “Some don’t think so.”

  She went quiet after that, fingers tracing the gold lettering on the cover of her book. I went back to the folio, gazing into the cold and crowded forests of the North.

  In the silence I heard someone clear their throat; it was Yana, standing a step outside the library. “Etan? You’re needed.”

  “Needed?”

  She nodded. “In Master Tallisk’s atelier.”

  I rose from my place at the desk. Isadel laid down her book. “Good luck,” she said, with a smile; I thought it was a genuine one.

  I followed Yana upstairs, and she ushered me ahead with a pat to my buttocks. She was grinning. “Don’t worry so much,” she whispered, and gently shoved me through the atelier’s door.

  Two braziers were lit, warming the room nicely. Tallisk sat at the large tilted desk, dressed in his working-clothes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Spread out on the desktop was a long roll of parchment, which had been inscribed with a portrait of a young man’s back. It bore a design, delicate and twisting, of lush vines woven together, the leaves brushing against each other as if stirred by a light breeze.

  He turned toward me. There was not a trace of anger in his face, nor of that strange, stormy amusement. He was calm as a priest. He gestured at the design.

  Only then did I recognize the young man’s back as my own, decorated with a profusion of green. I looked closer. My stomach leaped, both in fear of the touch of Tallisk’
s needles and in anticipation so keen it was almost greed. I had seen his work on Isadel, of course, and knew it beautiful, but this had been designed around my own contours.

  He smiled at my open-mouthed admiration. “Please, undress.”

  I began to take my clothes off, though when I moved to my trousers, Tallisk held up a hand.

  “That won’t be necessary today.”

  I nodded, folded my shirt, and set it down. “Should I not bathe, before?”

  “I am not tattooing you yet. I haven’t seen the design on your skin.”

  I nodded, only half sure what he meant. The puzzle was soon solved, though, when he brought out not his inks and needles but a fine set of bright paints and thin brushes. He told me to lie down upon the table and drew his own chair near, his brushes laid out just as the needles had been and would be. First I felt his hands, warm and rough-skinned, brushing over my back.

  “Hold still,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and pressed the side of my head into the cool leather of the table, my arms wrapped around it. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have sharp, ink-impregnated needles pierce into the skin of my back. Would he begin at the neck, or the shoulders? I took long shallow breaths, holding as still as I could. I felt the wetness of the brush touch the bone at the back of my neck and radiate outward, covering my left shoulder blade, then my right, in unseen curlicues of paint. The brush moved to my shoulders proper, then, and I could not resist stretching my gaze to take in the strange bloom of leaves.

  Half an hour passed, perhaps more. I drifted into a drowse. Tallisk had not spoken to me; I heard nothing save the rhythms of our breaths, the swish of the brushes against my skin. Now and then he would pause and stand back to admire his work, or judge it, and after a moment return. The paint dried upon me, slowly, in the warm air.