Ussie’s eyebrows raised high in his long face and his gray eyes danced with mischief.
“So, take the commission and learn for yourself. I mean, some of us need some extra marks before Turn’s End, but not so badly as we’d go to Bitra Hold to earn ’em. You know the reputation there for gambling? They’d sooner stop breathing than stop gambling.”
“Oh, it can’t be half as bad as they say it is,” Iantine replied. “The sixteen marks, plus keep and travel expenses, is scale.”
Ussie ticked the points off on fingers. “Travel? Well, you’d have to pay your own way there—”
“But he specifies travel . . .” Iantine protested, tapping that phrase impatiently.
“Hmmm, but you have to pay out for the travel there and account for every quarter mark you spent. Take you a few days to sort out right there. Chalkin’s so mingy no decent cook stays with him, ditto for housekeeper, steward, and any other staff, so you may end up having to cook your own meals . . . If he doesn’t charge you for the fuel to cook with. The hold’s not got central heating, and you’d want a room fire this time of the year in that region. Oh, and bring your own bedfurs, he doesn’t supply them to casual workers . . .”
“Casual? A portraitist from Hall Domaize is not classified as a casual worker,” Iantine said indignantly.
“At Bitra, my friend, everyone’s casual,” Chomas put in. “Chalkin’s never issued a fair service contract in his life. And read every single word on the page if you are foolish enough to take the commission. Which, if you had the sense of little green apples, you won’t.” Chomas gave a final decisive nod of his head and continued on his way to his own workstation, where he was doing fine marquetry work on a desk.
However, Iantine had a particular need for the marks the commission would bring him. With his professional diploma all but in his hand, he wanted to start repaying what he owed his parents. His father wanted to avail of Iantine’s land allotment to extend his pasturage, but he didn’t have the marks to pay the Council transfer fees: never a huge amount, but sufficient so that Iantine’s large family would have to cut back on what few luxuries they had to save the sum. It was therefore a matter of self-esteem and pride for Iantine to earn the fee.
His parents had given him a good start, more than he deserved, considering how seldom he had been at the hold since his twelfth birthday. His mother had wished him to be a teacher, as she had been before her marriage. She had taught all the basics to him, his nine siblings, and the children in the other nearby Benden mountain sheep and farm holds. And because he had shown not only a keen interest in learning, but also discernible skill in sketching—filling every inch of a precious drawing book with studies of every aspect of life on the hillside hold—it had been decided to send him to the College. His help would be missed, but his father had reluctantly agreed that the lad showed more aptitude with pen and pencil than shepherd’s crook. His next youngest brother, who had the temperament for the work, had been ecstatic to be promoted to Iantine’s tasks.
Once at the College, his unusual talent and insights were instantly recognized and encouraged. Master Clisser had insisted that he do a portfolio of sketches: “animal, mineral, and floral.” That had been easy to collect since Iantine constantly sketched and had many vignettes of unsuspecting classmates: some done at times he should have been doing other lessons. One in particular—a favorite with Master Clisser—was of Bethany, playing her guitar, bending over the instrument for intricate chording. Everyone had admired it, even Bethany.
His portfolio was submitted to several private Craft Halls which taught a variety of skills, from fine leather tooling to wood, glass, and stone workings. None of those on the West Coast had a place for another student, but the woman who was master weaver in Southern Boll had said she would contact Master Domaize in Keroon, one of the foremost portraitists on Pern, for she felt the boy’s talent was in that direction.
To Iantine’s astonishment, a green dragon had arrived one morning at the College, available to convey him back for a formal interview with Domaize himself. Iantine wasn’t quite sure what excited him most: the ride on the dragon between, the prospect of meeting Master Domaize, or the thought of being able to continue with art as a possible profession. Afterward, Master Domaize, having set him the task of sketching himself, had accepted him as a student and sent off a message to his parents that very day, arranging terms.
Iantine’s family had been astounded to receive such a message. Still more astonishing had been the information that Benden’s Lord and Lady Holder were willing to pay more than half his fees.
Now he must earn as much as he could, as soon as he could, to show his family that their sacrifices had not been wasted. Undoubtedly Lord Chalkin would be difficult. Undoubtedly there would be problems. But the marks promised for the commission would pay the Land Transfer fee. So he’d initialed the contract, a copy was made for Master Domaize’s files, and it had been returned to Lord Chalkin.
Chalkin had demanded, and received, a verification of Iantine’s skill from his Master and then returned the signed contract.
“Best reread it, Ian,” Ussie said when Iantine waved the document about in triumph.
“Why?” Iantine glanced down the page and pointed to the bottom lines. “Here’s my signature, and Domaize’s, alongside Chalkin’s. That is, if that’s what this scrawl is supposed to be.” He held it out to Ussie.
“Hmm, looks all right, though I haven’t seen Chalkin’s hand before. My, where did they find this typewriter? Half the letters don’t strike evenly.” Ussie passed the document back.
“I’ll see if there’re any other examples of Lord Chalkin’s signature in the files,” Iantine said, “though how—and why—would he deny the contract when he himself proposed it?”
“He’s a Bitran, and you know how they are. Are you sure that’s your signature?” Ussie grinned as Iantine peered with a suspicious glare at his own name. Then Ussie laughed.
“Sure, I’m sure it’s mine. Look at the slant of the t. Just as I always make it. What are you driving at, Ussie?” Iantine felt the first twinges of irritation with Ussie’s attitude.
“Well, Bitrans are known to forge things. Remember those bogus Land Transfer deeds five years ago? No, I don’t suppose you’d have heard about them. You’d’ve still been a schoolboy.” With an airy wave of his hand, Ussie left a puzzled and worried Iantine.
When he brought the matter up to his master, Domaize could produce a sample of Lord Chalkin’s signature on a document much creased and worn. Domaize also put his glasses up to his eyes and peered at his own name on the current contract.
“No, this is mine, and I recognize your slanting t bar.”
He put the document in the “to-do” tray. “We’ll copy it into our Workbook. If you have any trouble, though, at Bitra Hold, let me know instantly. It’s much easier to sort things out when they start, you know. And don’t,” and here Master Domaize had waggled a stern finger at him, “allow them to entice you into any games of chance, no matter how clever you think you are. Bitrans make their living at gaming. You can’t compete at their level.”
Iantine had promised faithfully to eschew any gaming. He’d never had much interest in such things, being far more likely to sketch the players than join the game. But gambling was not a “thing” that the Master would have meant. Iantine was learning what did fall into that category: especially the nuances of the word “satisfaction.” Such a simple word that can be so misconstrued. As he had.
He had done not four miniatures, but nearly twenty, using up all the materials he had brought with him, so that he had had to send for more from Hall Domaize since the wood used in miniatures had to be specially seasoned or it would warp, especially in a damp environment like Bitra Hold. He had done the first four on the canvas he had brought with him for the job, only to discover, along with a long list of other objections from Lord Chalkin and his wife, Lady Nadona, that canvas was not “satisfactory.”
“If it
isn’t the best quality,” and she ran one of her almost dragon-talon nails across one canvas, snagging a thread so badly the surface was unusable, “it doesn’t last long. Skybroom wood is what you should be using.”
“Skybroom wood is expensive . . .
“You’re being very well paid for these miniatures,”she said. “The least we can expect is the best grade of materials.”
“Skybroom wood was not stipulated in the contract . . .” “Did it have to be?” she demanded haughtily. “I made sure that Domaize Hall has the very highest standards.”
“Master Domaize provided me with the best canvas,” and he pushed his remaining frames out of her reach. “He said that is what he always supplies. You should have stipulated skybroom wood in the contract if that’s what you wanted.”
“Of course it would be what I wanted, young man. The very best is none too good for my children.”
“Is there any available in the Hold?” he asked. At least with skybroom, you could clean off “unsatisfactory” work without the risk of damaging the surface.
“Of course.”
That was his first mistake. However, at that point he was still eager to do a proper job to the best of his abilities. And what skybroom was there turned out to be substantial lumber, being cured for furniture and not thin enough to be used for miniatures: “miniatures” which were now twice the ordinary size.
High on the list of “unsatisfactory” were the poses of the children, although these had been suggested by the Lady Holder herself.
“Chaldon doesn’t look at all natural,” Lady Nadona said. “Not at all. He looks so tense, hunching his shoulders like that. Whyever did you not tell him to sit up straight?” Iantine forbore to mention that he had done so frequently and within Lady Nadona’s hearing. “And you’ve given him such an odious scowl.”
Which had been Chaldon’s “natural” expression.
“Standing?” he suggested, cringing at the thought of arguing any of them into standing for the “sittings.” He’d had enough trouble getting them to sit still. They were, as Ussie had foreseen, not biddable, and had such short attention spans that he could never get them to strike the right pose or assume an even halfway cheerful expression.
“And why on earth did you paint on such a small canvas? I’ll need to use a magnifying glass,” Lady Nadona had said, holding Chaldon’s likeness away from her as far as her arm would reach. Iantine had known enough about his patroness by then to suppress a remark about her farsightedness.
“This is the customary size for a miniature . . .”
“So you say,” she replied repressively. “I want something I can see when I’m on the other side of the room.”
As she was generally on the “other side of her room” whenever her children were in her vicinity, the need was understandable. They were the messiest preadolescents Iantine had ever encountered: plump, since they were indolent by nature; dressed in ill-fitting apparel, since the hold’s seamstress was not particularly adept; and constantly eating: generally something that ran, smeared, or left crumbs on their chins and tunics. None of them bathed frequently enough and their hair was long, greasy, and roughly cut. Even the two girls showed no feminine interest in their appearance. One had hacked her hair off with a knife . . . except the long tress she wore down the back, strung with beads and little bells. The other had thick braids which were rarely redone unless whatever fastened the end of the plaits had got lost.
Iantine had struggled with the porcine Chaldon, and realizing that the child could not be depicted “naturally,” tried to retain enough resemblance so that others would know which child had been depicted. But his portrait was “unsatisfactory.” Only the youngest, a sturdy lad of three who said nothing beyond “No” and carried a stuffed toy with him from which he could not be parted, was deemed marginally “satisfactory.” Actually, the dirty “bear” was the best part of Briskin’s portrait.
Iantine had tried to romanticize Luccha’s unusual hairstyle and was told that she’d look better with “proper hair,” which he could certainly add in if he was any good at all. And why did she have such an awkward expression on her face when Luccha had the sweetest smile and such a lovely disposition? (Especially when she was busy trying to unite the hold’s cats by tying their tails together, Iantine had said mentally. Bitra Hold did not have a single unscathed animal, and the spit boy said they’d lost seven dogs to “accidents” that year already.) Luccha’s mouth was set aslant in her face, the thin lips usually compressed in a sour line. Lonada, the second daughter, had a pudding face, with small dark holes for eyes, and her father’s nose: bad enough in a male but fatal for a female.
Iantine had also had to “buy” a lock from the hold steward to prevent his sleeping furs from walking out of the narrow little cubicle in which he was quartered. He knew his packs had been searched the first day; probably several times, by the variety of smeared fingerprints left on the paint pots. As he had brought nothing of real value with him—not having many possessions, he hadn’t worried. Holds usually had one light-fingered person. And the hold steward usually knew who it was and retrieved what had gone astray from guests’ rooms. But when Iantine found his paint pots left open to dry out, he protested. And “paid” for a lock. Not that he felt all that secure, for if there was one key to that lock, there could be duplicates. But his furs did remain on his bed. And glad he was to have them, for the thin blanket supplied was holey and ought to have been torn up for rug lengths long since.
That was the least of his problems at Bitra Hold. Having heard all that was wrong with the next set of miniatures he managed to produce, a third larger than the first, Iantine began to have a somewhat clearer grasp of just how the parents envisaged their offspring. On his fifth set he nearly won the accolade of “satisfactory.” Nearly . . .
Then the children, one after another, succumbed to an infant disease that resulted in such a rash that they could not possibly “sit.”
“Well, you’d better do something to earn your keep,” Chalkin told his contract portraitist when Lady Nadona had announced the children were isolated.
“The contract says I will have room and board—”
Chalkin held up a thick forefinger, his smile not the least bit humorous. “When you are honoring that contract . . .”
“But the children are sick . . .”
Chalkin had shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. You are unable to honor the specific conditions of the contract. Therefore you are not entitled to be fed and housed at the hold’s expense. Of course, I can always deduct your leisure time from the fee . . .” The smile deepened vindictively.
“Leisure . . .” Iantine had been so enraged, the protest burst from him before he could suppress it. No wonder, he thought, shaking with the control he had to enforce on himself, no one else at Hall Domaize would sign with Bitra.
“Well,” Chalkin went on as if he were a reasonable man, “what else does one call it if you are not engaged in the labors which you are contracted for?”
Iantine had to wonder if Chalkin knew how necessary it was for him to earn the exact fee promised. Iantine had held no conversations with anyone in the hold: they were so sullen and uncommunicative a group at their best—which was usually at mealtimes—that he hoped he’d be spared them at their worst. He had steadfastly refused to “have a little game” with cooks or guards, which accounted for a good deal of the general animosity toward him. So how would anyone know anything about his personal life or his reasons for working here?
So, instead of already being on his way home with a satisfactory contract fulfilled and the marks of the transfer fee heavy in his pouch, Iantine spent his “leisure” time touching up the faces of Chalkin’s ancestors in the main hall murals.
“Good practice for you, I’m sure,” Chalkin had said, all too amiably, as he made his daily inspection of this project. “You’ll be better equipped to do satisfactory portraits of this generation.”
Pig faces, all of them,
with the ancestral bulbous nose, Iantine noticed. Oddly enough, one or two of the ancestresses had been very pretty girls, far too young and attractive for the mean-mouthed men they had been contracted to. Too bad the male genes dominated.
Of course, Iantine had had to make up batches of the special paints required for mural work, having initially had no idea such would be required. He also found his supplies of the oil paints drastically reduced by the repeated unsatisfactory portraits. He had the choice of sending back to Hall Domaize for additional supplies—and paying transport charges plus having to wait for them to reach him—or finding the raw materials and manufacturing the colors himself. Which was the better option.
“How much?” he exclaimed in shock when the head cook told him how much he’d have to pay for the eggs and oil he needed to mix into his pigments.
“Yiss, an’ that doan include cost of hiring the equipment,” the cook added, sniffing. The man had a perpetually running nose, sometimes dripping down his upper lip. But not, Iantine devoutly hoped, into whatever he was in the process of preparing.
“I have to hire bowls and jars from you?” Iantine wondered how the cook could have become infected with Chalkin’s greed.
“Well, if I aint using ’em, and you is, you should pay for the use, seems like.” He sniffed so deeply Iantine wondered there could be any mucus left in his sinus cavities. “Shoulda brought yer stuff with ye if ye’d need it. Lord Holder sees you usin’ things from his kitchen and one of us’ll be paying for it. Won’t be me!” And he sniffed again, shrugging one dirty white shoulder as emphasis.
“I came with adequate supplies and equipment for the work I was hired to do,” Iantine said, curbing an intense desire to shove the man’s face in the thin soup he was stirring.
“So?”
Iantine had walked, stiff-legged with fury, out of the kitchen. He tried to tell himself that he was learning, the very hardest way, how to deal with the client.
Finding the raw materials for his pigments had proved nearly as difficult since it was, after all, coming on to deep winter here in the Bitran hills. He discovered a hefty hunk of stone with a rounded end that would do as pestle and then a hollowed out rock that would act as a mortar. He had found a whole hillside of the sabsab bush, whose roots produced a yellow color; enough raw cobalt to get blue; and the pawberry leaves that boiled up one of the finest pure reds—with neither tint nor tinge of orange or purple. With the greatest of luck he also came across ochre mud. Rather than “rent” containers, he used chipped crockery he unearthed from the midden heap. He did have to pay the price of best oil for the substandard stuff that was all the cook would sell him. And that mark, he was sure, would never be passed on to Lord Chalkin as fee.
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