Thief’s Magic (21 page)

“Ah.” The man smiled. “Well, I can see why you were determined to be on time.” His expression grew serious and intense as his attention roved over her face then shifted to her arms, down to her feet, then back again. She looked him up and down in return, noting how his skin was darker than the average Fyrian’s, his chin bristled with stubble, and his clothing and hands bore colourful stains. Another artist? That would explain his oddly analytical scrutiny.
At least Izare responded to me like a person before he considered me a subject.

“This is Dorr,” Izare told her. “Setting maker and performer for the Sky Troupe, of which these other three are also a part.” He looked over to the drinkers.

“
Artist
and performer,” Dorr corrected, smiling. “Come and let me introduce you to the rest of us.”

Rielle looked at Izare.

He shrugged. “There’ll be no escaping him until you do.”

Following them to the table, Rielle smiled and nodded as the two women and their other male companion were introduced. Greya, Jonare and Merem were all actors, and they had come to celebrate a profitable night’s performance. Greya had pale hair and light skin, so was possibly a half-southerner. The other two looked like Fyrians. Jonare was holding a sleeping child. All three wore traces of face paint, and by the looks of it Merem had played the part of a woman. They were the sort of people she would normally watch perform, not get to talk to. She wasn’t entirely sure her parents would approve of them as friends, but neither would they consider them dangerous.

“Sit,” Dorr ordered. “Have some iquo.” He offered her a cup but she politely declined.

“So you are Izare’s desert girl,” Greya said. “He’s been talking about you for the last three quarterdays.”

Rielle felt a little thrill of pleasure, but tried to keep it from her face by narrowing her eyes at Izare. “What stories has he been telling you?”

They laughed. “Nothing bad,” Greya reassured her. “I haven’t seen him this excited by a face since…” She frowned, then shrugged. “Well, it must be over a year now.”

“You attend temple lessons at this time, don’t you?” Jonare asked.

“I do, usually,” Rielle replied. She lifted the bundle of pamphlets. “The priests decided we needed to remind the people of Fyre about the dangers of learning magic.”

Dorr took one, read it and handed it back. “We hardly need reminding,” he muttered, “after all the harassment of the last—”

“They sent you out alone?” Izare asked her.

“No, in groups. But my friends were more interested in…” Rielle looked at the empty bottles and cups on the table. “They decided to throw away the pamphlets and do whatever they felt like.”

Dorr smiled. “So you continued on your own. Well, you don’t need to worry about finishing it. We can hardly have failed to notice the evils of magic users lately.”

“I should still distribute them,” she told him, “in case the priests check on us.”

“How would they know if you handed them out or not?” Greya asked. “You’ll never get anyone around here to take them.”

“Well, I have to try.” Rielle began to stand.

“Wait.” Izare reached out and placed a hand over hers. “You’re leaving? But I haven’t started your portrait yet.”

Rielle lifted the pamphlets. “I never said I came here for that.”

“But will there ever be a better opportunity than now?”

As she opened her mouth to remind him of her parents’ disapproval, Dorr took the pamphlets from her hands. “We’ll take care of these. You have to let him sketch you at least.”

“But—”

“There’s no harm in a little sketch. All you have to do is sit here. You can even pretend that you didn’t notice.”

Izare leapt out of his chair. “I’ll get some paper and charcoal.”

As he dashed through the door of his house, Rielle sank back into her chair. The others were watching her, and she could not tell if their smiles were of amusement or sympathy at her dismay. Would they stop her if she tried to flee?

Should I?

She thought of Famire, Tareme and Bayla’s opinion and felt an echo of her earlier anger. Narmah would disagree with them, she was sure. Posing for a portrait was
not
like prostitution! And to these friends of Izare, who painted their faces and performed in front of others, the temple girls’ ideas must seem prudish and ridiculous.

The door to Izare’s house opened again and he hurried out carrying a board onto which was pinned a sheaf of paper. His hair was combed flat and glistened with moisture, and he had put on a clean shirt. She had to resist a smile at that.

Izare began to circle the table, then made a shooing motion at Jonare. She immediately rose and let him take her seat, the child in her arms murmuring in his sleep.

“Well, we had better spread these all over the poor quarter,” Dorr said, dividing the pamphlets between Merem and Greya. They rose and bid Rielle farewell, promising Izare they would return to see the drawing later, and walked away. Jonare followed, calling two of the other children away from the group.

The scrape and rub of chalk on paper brought Rielle’s attention back to Izare. She watched him work, trying to stay still. She had never felt so self-conscious when Narmah had drawn her. Izare’s gaze was intense but he was looking
at
her rather than meeting her gaze. He worked silently, his attention so focused on drawing that she almost felt as if she was alone.

Somehow she felt free to examine him closely in return. To paint his eyes she would begin with yellow earth, then almost completely cover it with flecks of copper-green. His skin would need a rich shade of brown and the shadows would require a little blue. The duller shade of beristone would be adequate. The expensive bluegem of her family spiritual was too expensive to be wasted on shadows.

Izare leaned back in his chair, then nodded. “It’s a start.”

Rielle blinked in surprise. “Are you done already?”

He looked up at Rielle, then turned the board around. She caught her breath. There she was, staring back at herself, like a reflection in a mirror. A mirror that reduced an image to the black of charcoal and the off-white of cheap paper, and yet every line was a simple and eloquent flourish that perfectly expressed the curve of a jaw, curl of an eyelash and fold of her scarf.

“You
are
good,” she exclaimed.

She expected a grin, but he shook his head. “This is not my best. Would you … would you let me try again?”

A thrill ran over her skin. “That’s not your best? Then I have to see your best.”

He looked at her, then over at his house and smiled. “I have a few reasonable paintings inside. All that stands between you and them are stairs, a few walls and your distrust of me.”

She looked from him to his house and back again. “You claim you are a man of honour. If you promise that all you will do is show me these paintings…”

He placed a hand on his heart. “I promise that I will escort you as safely into and out of my house as I have escorted you home the last two quarterdays.”

Rielle considered his promise, then nodded and stood up. Putting the sketch under one arm, Izare led the way to his door. Despite his promise, her heart still raced, though not with a feeling as strong as fear. More like apprehension than true fear. Or not even that, since a part of her was enjoying the feeling.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a short, narrow hallway with a single door to one side. Stairs at the end led upward. The air smelled strange, like wood polish but sharper. Remembering that he had mentioned stairs, she started up. At the top she emerged into a large room. Light spilled in through windows along one wall, swathed with thin cloth. The paint on the upper half of the walls was peeling and stained, but the lower part was hidden behind a multitude of objects, including shelving, clothing hanging from hooks, lengths of fabric, boards in various stages of preparation for painting, and paintings turned to face the wall.

The smell was stronger here. Her gaze was attracted by a small table covered in half-familiar things. The bottles of pigment and refiner for making paint were expected. Though she did not work with a standing easel they were known to her. But what were the odd little spade-like tools, tubes with twisted ends and oily yellow liquid for?

Izare moved to one of the walls and turned a painting to face Rielle. As it came into sight she caught her breath. Compared to this, the sketch he had done was like the crude scratches of a woodworm bird on tree bark. It was as though he was carrying a mirror over to the easel, but a mirror that had frozen with the image of the viewer intact.

“She didn’t like it and wouldn’t pay,” he said, smiling. “Too accurate.”

Coming closer, Rielle could see why. The woman was in her middle years and had a mean expression.

“How did you … her skin … I can’t see any brush strokes.”

“Blending,” he said, then, as if that was explanation enough, he fetched another painting. “This one I did for my own pleasure. She has an interesting face.”

The young woman did indeed have unusual eyes. But it was the look in her eyes that caught Rielle’s attention. She could not decide if it was sadness or contentment.

“Here’s another.” The next one was of an old man he’d found sleeping on his doorstep one day. She had barely recovered from the stark reality of the painting when Izare brought another, then another.

Yet as she grew used to the startling quality of the faces she began to see flaws. A collar that did not sit right. A scarf that looked too stiff. Hair that did not fall or curl convincingly. Eyes that were too white. Her aunt loved to point out that the whites of eyes were not actually white, but a creamy colour that reflected colours, and deepened and cooled under the shadows of the brow.

Izare was not as good at painting clothing, hair and eyes as he was at painting skin. But what he could do with skin … it had stirred up an exciting mix of jealousy and desire.

She looked at the table again. A mixing board lay on top of the grinding glass, smears of colour on it spilling into and blending with each other. The paint glistened. She touched the red and it gave under her finger’s pressure, still wet. A smudge remained on her skin so she rubbed it between her fingers. It was smooth and thick, spreading like a balm over her skin. The colour was vibrant even when thinned. It glistened. She sniffed and wasn’t surprised to smell the same odour that permeated the room, but stronger. Izare watched her, moving to the other side of the table and smiling as she finally recognised it.

“Oil. You mix your paints with oil.” Searching the table, she noted the missing ingredient. “Instead of sap, water and nectar.”

He nodded. “It dries slowly, allowing me to blend the colours, and I don’t have to mix up new paint constantly. It can be applied thick and opaque as well as thin and translucent.”

“Will you show me how?”

He hesitated, his expression wary. Then he smiled. “If you promise never to show anyone else, not even your family. I have to be careful not to lose the advantages I have over my competitors. Though plenty of them are trying to paint with oil, they don’t know which oils to use and how to mix and apply it.”

“I am a painter, too,” Rielle pointed out.

“You are not a competitor because you don’t sell your paintings.”

She could not argue with that, so she nodded.

“Also, I don’t have time to show you now. You will have to come here for lessons. And there is a price.”

Rielle nodded again. “That’s fair. How much do you charge?”

“For you? Nothing. My price is that you sit for that portrait.”

A laugh burst from her. “Of course. Why did I think it would be anything else?”

He moved around the table. “Well? Will you?”

She looked at the paintings, then at the colour glistening on the board. “How? My parents will never agree to it and even if I don’t tell them … I doubt I’ll be handing out pamphlets regularly.”

“You walk home along Temple Road, which is not a direct route. I can show you a different way. A faster way. You would arrive home a little later than usual, but you can blame it on being held up by your friends after lessons, or how busy the roads are, or being tired.” He paused and frowned. “But your family are sending an escort for you, aren’t they?”

“No,” Rielle told him. “Mother won’t spare any of the servants, and she says the streets are safe enough now that the tainted is gone.”

Izare frowned. “
I
don’t like you walking alone. In fact, it might be safer for you if I meet you near the temple and ensure you get home safely after your sitting.”

Rielle smiled at his concern, but then she remembered Narmah’s warning. “But will I be safe here?”

His frown vanished. “Of course. What possible danger would I pose to you?”

“Well … my aunt says you won’t be satisfied with a mere portrait. That you’ll be after more.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh. Like what?”

Must he force her to be blunt? Well, she would not agree to anything unless he understood the limits of their arrangement.

“That you’ll ask me to pose for a nude. Will you promise never to make any inappropriate requests?”

He laughed. “I would never dream of asking you to remove your clothing, Ais Lazuli.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I promise I will not ask you to do anything you object to.”

“Then I will pose for you in exchange for lessons in using oiled paint.”

His smile made her heart skip several beats. “Wonderful! Now, we don’t have time for a lesson today, but we do have enough for another quick sketch. Would you sit over there by the window?”

Sighing, but secretly pleased, Rielle walked over to the chair he had indicated and sat down.

I
t did not surprise Rielle that her parents hadn’t noticed she was arriving home a little later each quarterday, but it did surprise her that it had escaped Narmah’s attention. As the festival days drew ever closer the entire family was involved in fulfilling orders, from the preparation of pigment and dye to delivering paints and cloth, so maybe that was distracting her aunt. Maybe Narmah
had
noticed, but assumed Rielle was dawdling to gain some time away from the work. Her aunt smiled sympathetically each morning when Rielle was sent to help with customers and tidy the shop, or help with the family’s own festival preparations. In one form or other, the festival now consumed all Rielle’s waking hours apart from the time she spent eating, attending temple ceremonies and classes, and posing for Izare. She might normally have grown bored with the latter if it wasn’t such a relief to be still for a while, and it gave her an excuse to look at him as much as she wanted.