Liavek 2

by Will Shetterly

  LIAVEK 2

  edited by Will Shetterly and Emma Bull

  Copyright

  LlAVEK

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace/1985

  CatYelling/2015

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1985 by Will Shetterly and Emma Bull

  "The Hands of the Artist" copyright © 1985 by Kara Dalkey

  "A Coincidence of Birth" copyright © 1985 by M. Lindholm Ogden

  "Bound Things" copyright © 1985 by Will Shetterly

  "The Fortune Maker" copyright © 1985 by Barry B. Longyear

  "The Hands of the Artist" by Kara Dalkey

  "IT'S QUITE SIMPLE, really," said Aritoli ola Silba. "I believe I might be of great service to you."

  "Is it so? I thought the only thing art critics do is insult artists," said Sheyn. Although his Liavekan was good, he spoke with a heavy Zhir accent.

  Aritoli held up a slim, elegant hand—his fingernails painted gold to suggest the promise of wealth—saying, "If you please, I consider myself an Advisor to Patrons of the Arts."

  "I see," said Sheyn. "In Ka Zhir, we do not have such. Critics, yes, but not advisors. At least, I did not know of them." Of course you wouldn't, thought Aritoli, You were the Royal Portraitist at the court of Prince Jeng. You had no need of an advisor then.

  "Hmmm." Sheyn ran a hand through his short, black hair. He was large, for a Zhir. As tall as Aritoli, but much heavier. Sheyn's hands, Aritoli noticed, were graceful in movement, and his fingers smooth and tapered. The hands of an artist. The advisor smiled inwardly in appreciation as Sheyn continued. "And what can you do for me?"

  "For one thing, I can put your work in a better light—" Aritoli flicked his fingers toward a nearby painting, showering it with a silvery, sorcerous glow. The painting, a stormy seascape, for a moment seemed almost real. "—So to speak."

  "Ho ho! That is funny! A wizard art critic. What else will you do? Make my canvasses go flying around the room?"

  Aritoli laughed. "No, sir, my wizardry is limited to working with light and color, shape and shadow. Oh, I have had occasion to be a spell-breaker when a patron finds the work he commissioned to contain something he didn't pay for—a curse, or a hidden command to give the artist a million levars. You are not a magician, I assume?"

  "What? Oh. No, I have not learned magic." Sheyn gave a regretful shrug and looked at his lap, absentmindedly massaging the back of his right hand with his left thumb.

  "Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of. Just because Liavek is called the City of Luck does not mean all of its residents must be wizards. Though, I admit, it may sometimes seem that way."

  Sheyn pointed at the short walking stick leaning against the chair beside the advisor. "Is that where you keep your...how do you say, luck?"

  Aritoli's black-mustached lip twitched into a semismile. Stroking the golden raven's head of his cane, he said. "Among wizards, it is not good form to admit onc's luck-piece. And as long as we are on personal questions, may I ask one?"

  Sheyn shrugged again. "Ask."

  "Why did you leave Ka Zhir?"

  The big man frowned and shifted in his chair. “I...tired of doing portraits. Always the same sort of portrait. Always the same people. I wanted to try something different."

  "And I would say from your beautiful landscapes that you have succeeded. But could you not have accomplished this in Ka Zhir?"

  "No!" Sheyn looked momentarily surprised at the vehemence of his denial. He looked down at his hands. "No. I'm sorry. There are...bitter memories."

  "Then I shall not pry further into the matter. I apologize if I have upset you. To return, then, to the reason for my visit: Have I your permission to speak at your showing at the residence of Count ola Klera?"

  "You will have to ask the Count for permission to attend."

  "I did. He suggested I ask you."

  "Oh. You know him?"

  "Yes." Rapid visions of a pair of startling green eyes, a well-muscled torso… "I know him. I'm acquainted with many of the noble families of Liavek—another avenue through which I could help you, I might add. Come now, Sheyn, what possible reason could you have for denying me?"

  The artist rubbed his chin and frowned slightly. "Well, you write articles for the street papers. You have ruined careers that way, I hear."

  "Only for those who deserved it. And as I've stated before, you're hardly one of them. In fact, I can already tell you what I will write. Ahem. 'Sheyn fills his landscapes with all the awe and majesty of nature, yet adds a touch of otherworldliness, as if what the viewer sees is a dream more beautiful than reality.' And this, by the by, is a third way in which I might aid you. What say you?"

  Sheyn twisted his hands in his lap. "I...I would like to think about it."

  "Take your time."

  "Could you not come back later for my answer?"

  "The showing is tomorrow, sir."

  "Oh." Sheyn stared at the floor.

  Now the man seems positively nervous, thought Aritoli. Does he worry about how his new style will be received? Am I that intimidating? Aritoli slumped down in his chair and stretched out his long legs, trying to look more relaxed and less threatening.

  Glancing around, the advisor noted that Sheyn's apartment was simply furnished, small but tidy. Not a speck of paint anywhere. No lingering odor of turpentine and oil. No canvasses stuck in odd corners. Very unlike the homes of other painters he knew. Aritoli nodded approval. A professional. He keeps his work separate from his living quarters. The advisor looked back at Sheyn's hands. No specks of paint under the fingernails. No stains on the skin. "You are a fastidious man, Sheyn."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. I should like, sometime at your convenience, to see your studio. I get my best feel for an artist when I see the atmosphere in which he works."

  "No!" said Sheyn half-rising out of his chair. Then he sat again suddenly. "No one sees my studio."

  A professional who is used to getting his way. "Forgive me, sir. I shall withdraw that request. But as to my first…?"

  "Eh?"

  "May I attend your showing?"

  Sheyn looked embarrassed for a moment, then gave an awkward laugh. "Hah. So be it, by Thung! Do your worst! It matters not to me."

  "Sir, I intend to do my best, if you please. And I trust you will find my presence to be to your advantage."

  "Ah! You will seduce all the patrons so they will like my work, yes?"

  Aritoli paused, not sure if he had just been insulted or if this was merely an example of Zhir humor. The advisor chided himself for failing to research Zhir customs, particularly before approaching such a potentially valuable client. With a tight smile, he responded, "Of course, Sheyn, that will not be necessary. Your work is sufficiently alluring on its own. Now, if you will pardon me, I have other matters to attend to. Thank you for your kind patience, and I look forward most eagerly to your showing." Aritoli picked up his cane and headed for the door.

  "Thung kwas jhieng fa choh," said Sheyn.

  Aritoli turned. "Eh?"

  "Is Zhir. It means'May Thung shield your eyes from eviL’"

  The advisor smiled and bowed and took his leave.

  •

  The townhome of the Count and Countess ola Klera of Richgrove was elegantly furnished: carved wood paneling from Ombaya, crystal wall sconces from Saltigos, and carpets of intricate design from Tichen. When Aritoli entered the entertaining salon on the night of the showing, it seemed more elegant still, filled as it was with attractive men and women of wealth. Aritoli's sense of aesthetics was pleased.

  He paused before a gilt-framed mirror to admire himself. Yes. the black silk blouson definitely adds the right touch. He smoothed back his loose, wavy bl
ack hair, and noted with satisfaction that his fingernails were just the right shade of reassuring blue. Raising his chin in hauteur, Aritoli sauntered into the salon.

  "Aritoli Montanija Galifavi ola Silba, Vavasor of Silversea," announced a servant. The advisor looked around the room for his host. Spotting a tall, dark man with green eyes in a knot of guests, Aritoli went to him.

  The Count ola Klera was conversing with a merchant in gaudy brocade, who was saying, "So this fellow in the red cape, see, he takes out his pistol and shoots the damn camel right in the head! In the middle of the Market, in front of everybody! And the camel owner didn't do a thing. The caped fellow just walks away. Strangest thing I ever saw."

  "Perhaps the pistoleer was in need of target practice. Ah, Master ola Silba! What a pleasure to see you. We feared you might not come."

  "Formality, Meceno?" Aritoli said softly. "I thought we knew each other better."

  "For the sake of the guests, Ari," said the Count, taking the advisor's arm and drawing him away from the others. "The Countess and I are the brunt of enough gossip already."

  Aritoli laughed. "Gossip? In Liavek? Does the sea mind a spoonful more salt?"

  "I have a chance at a council seat next year, so I must be careful."

  "Ah, I see. Then I shall behave myself. And how is Her Grace this evening?"

  "Quite well, thank you. She should be joining us shortly."

  "Good. And Sheyn, has he arrived yet?"

  "Yes. In fact, he came somewhat early. As you can see, his paintings are already on display."

  "Tell me, does he seem at all nervous to you?"

  "More awkward than nervous, I would think. No doubt he is not yet used to our informal Liavekan ways. And, though the Countess has done her best in designing this place, it is hardly the Jeng Palace."

  "Ah, here comes Her Grace now."

  The Countess Siena ola Klera, a lithe woman whose ebony hue suggested noble Tichenese heritage, came up to them and smiled.

  Aritoli bowed, saluting with three fingers, saying, "And am I to be formal with you also, Your Grace?"

  "Not necessarily," she replied, kissing his cheek. "I'm not seeking a seat on the council...just yet. Have you heard about the surprise?"

  "Surprise?"

  "Yes. Sheyn has done a painting especially for this showing. He says he worked on it day and night this week to finish it in time."

  Ahhh. That explains Sheyn's behavior yesterday. He was anxious to return to his work. "I look forward to seeing it."

  "Excellent," said Her Grace. "I believe all our guests are here. We can begin whenever you are ready."

  Aritoli bowed again and looked around the room. Each of Sheyn's paintings was surrounded by a small cluster of admirers, except for one which was hidden beneath a cloth of green silk.

  The surprise, thought the advisor. I shall save it for last. Aritoli went to the painting furthest from the covered one. As onlookers gathered around him, he drew power from his cane and prepared to speak.

  "This first work, my lords and ladies, is an excellent example of Sheyn's talent." The painting showed a jagged mountain sierra just touched by the rays of a rising sun. "The Silverspine? Perhaps. But where in those great mountains could one see such delicate rock formations? Trees shaped like the temples of Tichen? A sky of that hue? These are the mountains of dreams and myth, the place one longs to see, but will never attain. "

  Aritoli let sorcerous power flow from his fingertips in the form of glistening light motes that he flung onto the canvas. The painting seemed to absorb the light and reradiate it, enhancing the illusion that the gilt frame was actually a window, and the scene beyond it real. The peaks glowed in the pale pink sunlight. One could almost catch the scent of pines in cold mountain air.

  There came sighs of approval and scattered applause. Aritoli smiled. He loved working with truly fine art. It made critiques so much more pleasant for all concerned.

  He moved on to the next painting. This was a rural scene that could be the lands near Ombaya. But not even there could one find fields of such intense green, or such an atmosphere of serenity.

  The next work was the wild, stormy seascape Aritoli had seen before. After it came a scene of a starkly compelling desert, and a cloudscape in which one of the clouds resembled a floating castle. Each seemed like a dream brought to life on canvas, and each was hauntingly beautiful.

  At last, Aritoli came to the covered easel. From beneath the cloth came an odor of fresh paint. As was traditional, the count and countess, as hosts, had the honor of unveiling it. The onlookers, including Aritoli, could not help gasping in awe as the green silk was raised.

  The painting was a vista of the city of Liavek, but as none of its citizens had ever seen it. The copper-green domes and spires of the Levar's palace shone with splendor, and the surrounding streets seemed to glow with an aura of magic. Aritoli felt his embellishments were hardly necessary with this one.

  The advisor bowed to Sheyn, who smiled, looking...surprised? Did he think we could possibly not appreciate such a masterpiece? "A most fitting finale to this showing, my lords and ladies. This painting is a superb example of the best of Sheyn's talent. A scene that would be ordinary from anyone else's hand, takes from Sheyn's brush the power of emotion and the vividness of dreams." Aritoli could not resist a final flourish of sorcerous light.

  But instead of enhancing the painting, the light danced on the surface of the canvas for a few moments, then rushed to the lower left-hand corner. There, it swirled and formed first the word "help," then the number "3," then the form of a fish, and last the form of a knife. Then it vanished.

  Aritoli blinked, taken aback, and bent to examine the corner closely. Sheyn walked up to him. "What is it? What are you looking at?"

  "Er, I was...just examining the fine detail, sir." If this was another joke of Sheyn's, the advisor was not about to admit its presence until he understood it.

  "What were you doing with that light?" the artist asked suspiciously.

  Aritoli glanced at Sheyn. The artist's face held no sign of hidden glee. He honestly doesn't know what it was. The advisor bowed, smiling. "A mistake, sir. In my excitement, I threw the wrong spell. Give it no thought. I am deeply impressed with your work."

  Sheyn seemed confused, but mollified, and Aritoli stepped aside to give him time to calm down. The countess took Aritoli's arm and guided him to an empty corner of the room.

  "A mistake, Ari? I've never known you to make mistakes at a showing."

  "Shhh," Aritoli cautioned, "There is more to this than I .implied, but I'd rather not speak of it until I'm certain. Could, perhaps, Your Graces distract Sheyn for a while so that I may ponder this?"

  "Of course, Arl. We need to discuss our patronage with him anyway."

  Aritoli watched as the count and countess drew Sheyn aside. Then the advisor strolled back to the painting of Liavek. Surreptitiously, he tossed another light spell at the canvas. It behaved normally—illuminating the work, nothing more.

  The effect could only be triggered once, then. Arltoli closed his eyes. He could still clearly visualize the "help," the 3, the fish, and the knife, as if the images had been imprinted on his mind. Yet Sheyn is no wizard, he thought. Could someone have tampered with the painting? He visualized the images again and realized that the energy that formed them had flowed throughout the work. No. Whoever planted the spell painted the picture. And it is Sheyn's style exactly. Yet Sheyn is no wizard.

  The 3, the fish, and the knife were a puzzle. They had been placed on the part of the painting representing the Canal District—near the wharfs, an area generally inhabited by poor sailors and dockworkers. Suddenly, it all clicked. There is a Street ofFish Knives in the Canal District.

  With word to the servants to give his regrets to his hosts, Aritoli gathered up his cane and cape and departed.

  •

  This portion of the Canal District was not considered safe for a nobleman alone on a warm night. Even the footcab runner was grateful t
o take his few coppers and depart quickly. Aritoli was glad he had chosen to wear black that evening.

  It took him but a minute to find a beggar willing to guide him for an exorbitant sum, and soon he was led to a rotting door beside which a painted 3 was peeling off the wall. The reek of oil and turpentine confirmed that he had come to the right place. Aritoli rapped on the door with his cane.

  "Who is it? Sheyn?" came a faint, female voice from behind the door.

  "I am Aritoli ola Silba. I believe someone within requested my assistance."

  The door opened a crack and a small face peered up at him. "Are you...are you the wizard art critic?"

  "I am."

  The face disappeared and the door opened wide. Aritoli stepped into a tiny room lit by a sputtering oil lamp. Canvasses, rags, and paint pots cluttered the room, and the smell of paint was nearly overwhelming.

  Turning, Aritoli saw a girl of perhaps sixteen, painfully thin, with skin the color of kaf when too much goat's milk has been added. Her matted hair framed a bruised and grimy face in which two eyes gleamed with triumph. "I hoped you'd come."

  "It was you who summoned me?"

  The girl nodded.

  Aritoli shut the door behind him and looked once more around the room. Some canvasses held unfinished paintings clearly in Sheyn's style. "This is Sheyn's studio, then?"

  "You could say that, sir. He pays for it. But I do the work here." There was an edge of defiance to her voice.

  Aritoli turned back to her and examined her hands. The skin was blotched and stained with paint. Paint also lay deep under fingernails that were cracked and torn. There were calluses on fingers bent from holding brushes for hours. These were the hands of an artist.

  "So, you paint Sheyn's work for him?"'

  "Aye, sir." The girl shifted and something metallic clicked and clinked. Looking down, Aritoli saw one of her bare feet was chained to the floor.

  "What is your name, child?"

  "Vetzah."

  "How did this happen, Vetzah?"

  "Sheyn said he'd teach me. He found me on the street where I'd draw on the sidewalks with chalk and people would toss me coppers if they liked it. He said I was good and ought to have lessons."