Lalo nodded once more.
“Well, that is a little thing, particularly when you are already… when there is such a strong desire. I will throw in a few extras—” he said kindly, ‘some souls for you to paint, perhaps a commission or two …”
Lalo jerked as the sorcerer’s hands closed on his head, and for a moment all the colours in the rainbow exploded in his brain. Then he found himself on his feet by the door with a leather satchel in his hand.
“And the painter’s gear …” continued Enas Yorl. “I have to thank you not only for a great service, but for giving me something to look forward to in life. Master Limner, may your gift reward you as you deserve!”
And then the great brazen door had shut behind him, and Lalo found himself in the empty street, blinking at the dawn.
****
THE DESERT SHIMMERED glassily with heat, appearing as insubstantial as the mists in the house of Enas Yorl, but the moist breath of a fountain cooled Lalo’s cheeks. Dazed by the contrasts, the limner found himself wondering whether this moment, or indeed any of the past three days, were real or only the continuation of some sorcerous dream. But if that were so, he thought as he turned back to the echoing expanse of Molin Torchholder’s veranda, he did not want to wake.
Before the first day after his adventure had passed, Lalo had received requests for portraits from the Portmaster’s wife and from Jordis the stonemason, newly enriched by his work on the temple for the Rankan gods. In fact the first sitting was to have been this morning. But yesterday’s summons had taken precedence; and so it was that Lalo, uncomfortable in worn velveteen breeches that were loose in the shanks and pinched his waist, his embroidered wedding vest, and a shirt which Gilla had starched so that it scraped his neck every time he turned his head, waited to be interviewed for the honour of decorating Molin Torchholder’s feasting hall.
A door opened. Lalo heard light footsteps above the plash and gurgle of the fountain, and a young woman with precisely coiled fair hair beckoned to him.
“My Lady?” he hesitated.
“I am the Lady Danlis, ancilla to the mistress of this house,” she answered briskly. “Come with me …”
I should have known, thought Lalo, after hearing Cappen Varra sing her praises for so long. But that had been some time ago. As he followed her straight-backed progress along the corridor Lalo wondered what vision had made Cappen fall in love with her, and why it had failed.
A startled slave looked up and hastily began gathering together his rags and jars of wax paste as Danlis ushered Lalo through a door of gilded cedarwood into the Hall. Lalo stopped short, taken aback by the abundance of colour and texture in the room. Figured silken rugs littered the parquet floor; gilded grape vines laden with amethyst fruit twisted about the marble columns that strained against the beamed ceiling; and the walls were draped with patterned damask from the looms of Ranke. Lalo stared around him, wondering what could possibly be left to decorate.
“Danlis, darling, is this the new painter?”
Lalo turned at a rustle of silks and saw hastening across the carpets a woman who was to Danlis as an overblown rose is to the bud of the flower. She was followed by a maid, and a fluffy dog spurted ahead of her, yapping fiercely and knocking over the pots of wax which the slave had set aside.
“I’m so glad that my lord has given me permission to get rid of these dreary hangings—so bourgeois, and as you see, they are quite faded now!” The lady went on breathlessly, her trailing skirts upsetting the pots which the slave had just finished righting again. The maid paused behind her and began to berate the cowering servant in low fierce tones.
“My Lady, may I present Lalo the Limner—” Danlis turned to the artist, “Lalo, this is the Lady Rosanda. You may make your bow.”
“Will you take long to finish the work?” asked the Lady. “I will be happy to advise you—everyone has always complimented me on my excellent taste—I often think that I might have made an excellent artist—if I had been born into another walk of life, that is …”
“Lord Molin’s position requires a worthy setting—” stated Danlis as her mistress paused for breath. “After the initial … difficulties … construction of the new temple has proceeded smoothly. Naturally there will be celebrations in honour of its completion. Since it would be impious to hold them in the temple, they must take place in surroundings which will demonstrate whose genius is responsible for the achievement which will establish Sanctuary’s position in the Empire.”
Lady Rosanda stared at her companion, impressed, but Lalo scarcely heard her, already abstracted by consideration of the possibilities of the place. “Has Lord Molin decided on the subjects that I am to depict?”
“If you are chosen—” answered Danlis. “The murals will portray the goddess Sabellia as Queen of the Harvest, surrounded by her nymphs. First, of course, he will want to see your sketches and designs.”
“I might model for the Goddess …” suggested Lady Rosanda, twitching an improbably auburn curl over one plump shoulder and looking arch. “
Lalo swallowed. “My Lady is too kind, but modelling is exacting work—I wouldn’t consider asking someone of your refinement to spend hours posing in such uncomfortable positions and scanty attire …” His panic eased into relief as the lady simpered and smiled. His own vision of the Goddess was characterized by a compassionate majesty which he doubted Lady Rosanda could even visualize, much less portray. Finding a model for Sabellia would be his hardest task.
“Now that you understand the work, how much time will you require?”
“What?” Lalo forced himself to the present again.
“When can you bring us the designs?” Danlis repeated tartly.
“I must consider … and choose my models …” he faltered. “It will take two or three days.”
****
“OH LALO …”
The limner jerked, turned, and realized that he had come all the way from Molin Torchholder’s well-guarded gatehouse to the Street of the Goldsmiths without conscious direction, as if his feet were under a charm to carry him home.
“My dear friend!” Puffing a little, Sandol the rug dealer drew up beside Lalo, who looked at him in bewilderment. It had not been “my friend” the last time they met, when Sandol had refused to pay the full price for his wife’s portrait because she said it made her look fat.
“I have wanted to tell you how much enjoyment your painting brings us. As they say, a work of art is a lasting pleasure—perhaps we ought to have a portrait of myself to balance my wife’s. What do you say?” He wiped his brow with a large handkerchief of purple silk.
“Well of course I would be happy—but I don’t know just when—my time may be occupied for a while …” answered Lalo, confused.
“Yes indeed—” Sandol smiled unctuously. “I understand that your work will shortly grace a much more august residence than my own. My wife was saying just this morning what an honour it was to have been painted by the man who is decorating Molin Torchholder’s feasting hall!”
Suddenly Lalo understood. The news of his prospective commission must be all over town by now. He suppressed a grin of triumph, remembering how he had humbled himself to this man to get even a part of his fee. Perhaps he should do the picture—the rug merchant was as porcine as his lady, and they would make a good pair.
“Well, I must not discuss it yet…” replied Lalo modestly. “But it is true that I have been approached… I fear that an opportunity to serve the representative of the gods of Ranke must take precedence over lesser commitments.” Interested commentary followed them like an echo down the busy street, apprentices telling their masters, silk-veiled matrons whispering to each other as they tried on rings.
“Oh indeed I do understand,” Sandol assured him fervently. “All I ask is that you keep me in mind …”
“I’ll let you know,” said Lalo graciously, “when I have time.” He increased his pace, leaving the rug merchant standing like a melting icicle in the sea of
people behind him. When he had crossed the Path of Money into the Corridor of Steel, Lalo permitted himself a discreet skip or two.
“Not only my feet but my entire life is charmed now!” he told himself. “May all the gods of Ranke and Ilsig bless Enas Yorl!”
Sunshine glared from the whitewashed walls around him, flashed from polished swords and daggers displayed in the armourers’ stalls, glittered in myriad points of light from linked mail. But the brilliance around him was less dazzling than the vistas opening to Lalo’s imagination now. He would have not merely a comfortable living, but riches; not only respect, but fame! Everything he had ever desired was within his grasp …
Cutpurses flowed around him like shadows as he passed through an alleyway, but despite the rumours, his purse still swung slackly, and they drew back again without his having noticed them. Someone called out to him as he passed the more modest establishments near the warehouses, but Lalo’s eyes were blinded by his visions.
It was not until his feet had carried him on to the Wideway that edged the harbour that he realized that he had been hailed by Farsi the Coppersmith, who had loaned him money when Gilla was sick after the birth of their second child. He thought of turning back, but surely he could visit Farsi another time. He was too busy now.
Plans for the new project were boiling in his brain. He had to come up with something that could transcend the rest of Molin’s decor without trying to compete with its vulgarity. Colours, details, the interplay of line and mass, rippled before his mind’s eye like a painted veil between him and the sordid streets of the town.
So much would depend on the models he chose for the figures in the design! Sabellia and her nymphs must display a beauty that would uplift the imagination even as it pleased the eye, an air at once both regal and innocent.
Lalo slipped on a fishhead. He flailed wildly for a moment, then regained his balance and stood panting and blinking in the bright sun.
“And where will I find such maidens in Sanctuary?” he asked himself aloud. “Where mothers sell their daughters into whoredom as soon as their breasts begin to show?” Even the girls who retained some outward beauty were swiftly corrupted within. In the past, he had found his models among the street singers and the girls who eked out a weaver’s paltry daylight wages on their backs, at night. He would have to look elsewhere now.
He sighed and turned his face to the sea. It was cooler here, and the changing wind brought a fresh sea breeze to compete with the rotting fish odour of the shore. The blue water sparkled like a virgin’s eye.
A woman with a child in her arms waved to him, and after a moment Lalo recognized Valira, come to the shore for an hour or two of sunshine with her baby before it was time for her to ply her trade with the sailors there. She lifted the child for him to see, and he noted with a pang that although her eyes were painted, and glass beads glittered in her hennaed hair, her arms were still childishly thin. He remembered when she had been one of his oldest daughter’s playmates, and had often come to Lalo’s house for supper when there was no food at her own.
He knew about the rape that had started Valira in this profession, the poverty that kept her there, but her cheerful greeting made him uncomfortable. She had not chosen her fate, but she could not escape it now. Her existence clouded the bright future he had been envisioning.
Lalo waved briefly at Valira and then hurried on, at once relieved and ashamed when she did not call out to him.
He continued along the Wideway, past the wharves where the foreign ships were berthed, pulling at their moorings like a nobleman’s horses tethered outside a peasant’s sty. Some of the merchants had spread out their wares on the docks, and Lalo threaded his way among knots of people bickering over prices, exchanging insults and news with equal good humour. A few City Guards lounged against a piling, weariness and wariness mingling in their faces as they surveyed the motley crowd. They were accompanied by one of the Prince’s Hell Hounds, his expression differing from theirs only in that it became, if possible, even more supercilious when he looked at his men.
Lalo passed without stopping the abandoned wharf near Fisherman’s Row which had become his favourite place for meditation over the years. He had no need of it now—he had too much to do! Where could he find models? Perhaps he should visit the Bazaar this afternoon. Surely he could find some honest maidens there…
He hurried up the Street of Smells towards his home, but stopped short when he saw his wife hanging out laundry in the building’s courtyard, talking over her shoulder to someone hidden behind her. He approached cautiously.
“Did the interview go well, dear?” asked Gilla brightly. “I’ve heard that the Lady Rosanda is most gracious. You’re quite favoured by the ladies today—see, here’s Mistress Zorra come to call on you…”
Lalo winced at the edge in her voice, then forgot her as she moved and the caller came towards him. He received in quick succession an impression of a trim figure, a complexion that glowed like the roses of Eshi, copper-bright hair and a pair of dazzling eyes.
He swallowed. The last time he had seen Mistress Zorra was when she had accompanied her father to collect their rent, which was three months overdue. He tried to remember whether they had paid last month’s rent on time.
“Oh, Master Lalo—you’ve no need to look so apprehensive!” Zorra blushed prettily. “You should know that your credit is good with us after so many years …”
After so much gossip about my new prosperity, you mean! He thought, but her smile was infectious, and after all she was not responsible for the stinginess of her sire. He grinned back at her, thinking that she was like a breath of spring in this summer-parched street. Like a nymph …
“Perhaps you can help me to maintain my credit, mistress!” he replied. “Would you like to be one of my models for the paintings in Molin Torchholder’s Hall?”
How delightful it was to be the dispenser of largesse, thought Lalo as he watched Zorra dance away down the street. She had been painfully eager to break all previous engagements so that she could come to him the next day.
Was that how Enas Yorl felt when he gave me my desire? he wondered, and wondered also (but only for a moment) why, in doing so, the sorcerer had laughed.
****
“BUT WHY CAN’T I pose for you in Molin Torchholder’s house?” Zorra pouted, glanced at Lalo to see if he was watching her take off her petticoat, and let the garment slip to the floor.
“If my patrons could detach their walls and sent them here for decoration, I doubt they would let even me in the door…” replied Lalo abstractedly, transferring paint from paintpots to palette in the precise order he always used. “Besides, I’ll need to make several studies from each model before I decide on the final design…”
Morning sunlight shone cheerfully on the clean-swept floor, cleared now of strangers’ laundry, gleamed on Lalo’s palette knife and glowed through the petals of the flowers he had given to Zorra to hold.
“That’s right—” he said, draping a wisp of gauze around her hips and adjusting the angle of her arms. “Hold the flowers as if you were offering them to the Goddess.” She twitched as he touched her, but his awareness of her flesh was already giving way to his perception other body as a form in space. “Generally I would do only a quick sketch or two,” he explained, “but this must be complete enough to give Lord Molin an idea of what the finished work will be like, so I’m using colour …”
He stepped back, seeing the picture as he had visualized it—the fresh beauty of the girl in the sunlight with her bright hair flowing down her back and her arms filled with bright flowers. He picked up his brush and took a deep breath, focusing on what he saw.
His awareness of the murmur of conversation at the other end of the room, where Gilla and their middle daughter were preparing the noon meal, faded. He did not turn when one of his sons came in, was shushed by his mother and sent outdoors. The sounds slid past him as his mind stilled, as the tensions of the past days slipped away.
Now he was himself at last, serenely confident that his hand would obey his eye, that both would reflect the perceptions of his soul. And he knew that not the commissions, but this confidence in himself, was the true gift of Enas Yorl. Lalo dipped his brush in the paint and began to work.
The bar of light had moved halfway across the floor when Zorra abruptly straightened and let her flowers fall to the floor.
“This had better be worth it!” she complained. “My back hurts, and my arms are falling off.” She flexed her shoulders and bent back and forth to ease the strain.
Lalo blinked, trying to orient himself. “No, not yet—it’s not finished—” he began, but Zorra was already moving towards him.
“What do you mean, I can’t look? It’s my picture, isn’t it?” She stopped short, staring. Lalo’s eyes followed her gaze back to the picture, and appalled, he let the brush slip from his hand.
The face that looked at him from the easel had eyes narrowed with cupidity, lips drawn back in a predatory grin. The red hair flamed like a fox’s brush, and somehow the rounded limbs had been distorted so that she looked as if she were about to spring. Lalo shuddered, looking from the girl to the picture and back again.
“You whoreson maggoty bastard, what have you done to me?” She rounded on him furiously, then turned back to the picture, snatched up his palette knife, and began to stab at the canvas. “That’s not me! That’s hateful! You hate women, don’t you? You hate my father, too, but just you wait! You’ll be living with the Downwinders by the time he gets through with you!”
The floor shook as Gilla charged towards them. Lalo staggered back as she thrust between him and the half-naked girl, squeezed Zorra’s wrist until the little knife clattered to the floor.
“Get dressed, you hussy! I’ll have no such language where my children can hear!” snapped Gilla, ignoring the fact that they heard far worse every time they went into the Bazaar.
Shadows of Sanctuary Page 18