by John Tristan
“Yes.” I laid a hand atop his. “I think he would.”
He looked at it for a moment longer, then tucked it carefully in the pocket of his coat.
Sheaves of cloud had moved in from the north, white and frail. They glowed like pale crystal in the waning afternoon sun. A wind came with them, with a whispery promise of storms—but that would be tonight, when the fire was lit and the windows shut against the world.
There had been room enough in the Teinnes’ house for us, but after a month of careful coexistence we had left. Roberd was not made to be a good guest. Still, we remained in Gressey; on sunny mornings I could hear the youngest Teinnes playing and bickering on the street outside our window.
The house we shared was small and old, but it had a wide hearth and clear light coming in through its tall windows. Above our kitchen and bedroom was the workshop; narrow stairs twisted up to it and opened into a single large room. Doiran and Padrig had come to help tear the old walls away. When we could afford it, we planned to put a skylight in. For now, we made do with mirrors, cunningly angled. Roberd had an instinct for catching the light; I watched him hunt it down with slow precision. It was another part of the art, like mixing the inks, like the heft of the needle.
There was a simple wooden sign hung above our door. It was a carving of a hand, rough-edged but oddly elegant, and painted on it in a bright blue was a vivid, blooming rose. It was a signpost rather than an advertisement; those who knew to look for it knew where to find us.
The box of ashes took pride of place on a high windowsill in the workshop. It caught the light, the lacquered design turned silver. It looked beautifully in place, here among the fine tools and designs, the tattooing chair and the stained worktable. It looked like an inkwell, or a box of replacement needles.
There was one thing not quite in its place, strange among the practicalities. In an alcove beside the great wooden table there was a painting—small, almost cramped in its simple brass frame. Roberd had balked at its place there, at first, but my quiet insistence had overruled him in the end.
The artist had left it unsigned. It was more cartoon than masterpiece, with faces and hands hinted at rather than portrayed. It had come by a strange route to our wall. A Lowlander courier had been paid to deliver it to Peretim. His employer—dark as a Southerner, he told us, but wearing a Northman’s furs—had not given a name. It had been meant for Nightwell Street. When he had found that in ashes, he had asked careful questions until he found the house under the hand and rose.
Roberd asked him why he had bothered, why he had not simply kept or sold his cargo.
The courier shook his head. “He made me swear an oath to the Storm Lords that I would do all I could.”
“Before he paid you, you mean?”
He nodded. “Yes, and well.”
The gift came with no letter, no hint of its ultimate origin. Nevertheless, it was a message.
It was a portrait—a family portrait, I thought. A tall woman stood behind a high-backed chair; she was in shadow, showing nothing of her features save for the firefly light of her eyes. Sat on the chair was another woman, dressed in red, with dark braids piled like a princess’ crown atop her head. She held a baby on her lap. The child was too young to show gender, or the future shape of its face. There was just a cloud of dark hair and porcelain-pale skin.
Isadel’s child.
The scene was vague, the decor old-fashioned. They could have been painted anywhere. I could send nothing in return.
I told the courier, should he meet the strange Northman again, to say that the gift had been gladly received.
“Nothing more?” he had asked, eyes taking in my scars, the scattered papers in the workroom, the designs pinned to the walls, Roberd’s half-silvery hands.
I had shaken my head and pressed a few ral into his palm. “No. Nothing more.”
* * * * *
About the Author
John Tristan is a multinational nerd with a passion for fantasy fiction. He lives in Manchester with his husband, best friend and various cats. He writes science fiction with a queer, romantic twist.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9596-8
Copyright © 2013 by John Tristan
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