Thief’s Magic (22 page)

Seeing that Izare’s eyes kept dropping to her hands, she looked down. Her mother had recruited Rielle to check the quality and hue of each load of freshly dyed cloth, which was often still wet. Despite her best efforts, her fingertips were constantly stained.

“I suppose I should have warned you not to include my hands,” she said.

Izare shrugged. “Once I have the shape right I will get Jonare to sit for the skin colour.”

Rielle sighed. “I tried to bleach it out.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” He held up a paint-smeared hand. “I’m almost never completely clean.”

“Paint is easier to remove than dye. And it’s not just you I try to clean up for.”

“No?” His eyebrows rose. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Nobody. I’m trying to
avoid
making an impression.”

“A bad impression?” He shook his head. “I doubt you could if you tried.”

Rielle suppressed a smile. “Not everyone thinks so, Izare. Some look down on a stained girl from the stinking dyeworks.”

“Then they are fools,” he said firmly, eyes darting from her hands to the portrait.

Rielle thought of Tareme and Bayla and sighed again. Famire was always with them when Rielle arrived at the temple now. Snobbish, lazy and possessed of a cruel sense of humour, the girl always talked down to Rielle. It might have been tolerable if the others hadn’t begun to follow suit. Rielle had found herself getting snappy with them that morning, then having to apologise.

Famire found particular amusement in suggesting suitable husbands for Rielle in the guise of being “helpful”. She kindly informed Rielle which men were unlikely to consider her a prospective wife, then weighed up the good and bad traits of those left, asking which faults Rielle might be willing to put up with.

Most quarterdays, Rielle would have been eager to leave the temple as early as possible even if she hadn’t had Izare’s company to look forward to.

Izare’s short cut took her through parts of the artisan quarter she hadn’t seen before. Neither poor nor wealthy, most buildings were a combination of home, workplace and shop. It was an area where Rielle’s family might have lived, if they were not obliged, as dyeworkers, to situate themselves on the edge of the city. Which meant they weren’t
that
much more respectable than the artisans living around Izare’s home.

A pounding downstairs drew Izare’s attention away. He rolled his eyes.

“May the angels strike them. They’re early.”

Rielle felt her heart sink as he wiped his brush and dropped it in a jar of solvent. Though she found Izare’s friends interesting and friendlier than the girls at temple lessons, he did not work on the portrait when they were around, and her time with him was so short. So far he’d spent little time teaching her, too – only showing her how to prepare paint and adjust the consistency. He walked over to the stairs.

“Come on up,” he yelled.

The sound of a door opening followed, then footsteps and several voices – some familiar, some not. Izare’s face lit up with a broad smile.

“Errek! You’re back!”

A slim Fyrian climbed into view and embraced Izare. Greya and Jonare appeared next and kissed Izare on the cheek. As did Merem. The artists and actors who made up Izare’s circle of friends were habitually affectionate in a way that Rielle found appealing, but it was more physical than she was used to. Narmah would consider it inappropriate and too familiar.

The newcomer was carrying a heavy, round-bodied iquo bottle. Rielle’s heart sank. There would be no more painting, once they began drinking. As the newcomer turned to enter the studio he saw her and stopped, smiling.

“Who is this?”

“Izare’s latest subject,” Jonare said as she and the others moved past him to the cluster of wooden seats they usually occupied when visiting Izare.

“This is Ais Lazuli,” Izare said, gesturing towards her grandly.

Errek’s eyes moved straight to the portrait and his smile faded a little before it returned, though looking a little forced.

Jealousy
, Rielle noted.
He envies Izare’s talent.

“Rielle.” Izare beckoned. “Come and meet Errek. He’s back from Doem, where he’s been painting the main temple’s spiritual.”

“Restoring,” Errek corrected.

Rielle rose and walked over to stand beside Izare. Errek’s expression shifted again. This time it was a change she was familiar with: the transition to the intense analytical observation of an artist.

“An honour to meet you,” she said.

He reached out and took her hand. “Twofold in return.” He shook his head. “Where does Izare find such beauties?”

Deftly flattering the both of us simultaneously
, Rielle mused. “For once, not in Whore’s Alley,” she replied mildly. She’d learned the hard way that the disapproval her family felt towards prostitution annoyed Izare’s friends, who considered some of the poor quarter’s “working” women as friends, yet she did not want this newcomer thinking she was one such woman. Errek laughed and nodded, his expression telling her that he understood.

Izare uttered a weak sound of protest. “My models weren’t
all
whores. And I can’t keep painting the same five friends – especially when some insist on moving to Doem for two years. So, Errek, are you here to stay?”

Errek moved to stand before the painting. “For now.” His examination of it was even more intense. Rielle looked closer, feeling awe again at the subtle blend of colours within the skin tones and the deft brushstrokes that, at a distance, suggested finer detail than was actually present. She was a little uncomfortable with the fact that Izare was painting her without a scarf, but she imagined that nobody but he and his friends would be seeing it.

Errek stepped back. “How close are you to finishing this?”

“It will be done when it’s done,” Izare replied.

“Not too soon, I hope,” Rielle added. “He promised me lessons in return and we have barely started.”

Errek straightened, and turned to regard her. “When he’s done with you, may I paint you next?”

She stared at him in surprise, then turned to Izare for a clue as to how she ought to react. He looked unhappy, but at her look shrugged as if to say it was her choice. Was there any harm in it? She had let Izare paint her so why not Errek? But the more paintings of her there were, the greater the chance someone who knew her parents would see one and inform them. Yet she did not want to offend Izare’s friend when there was still the unfinished matter of lessons. “Well … I should think
I
ought to get the chance to paint someone next,” she said slowly.

Greya grinned. “Oh, definitely! I want to see her paint.”

Jonare and Merem nodded.

“But who will you paint?” Errek asked.

Rielle began to turn towards Izare, then stopped.
No, not yet. He’s already vain enough.
Instead she looked at the others. Jonare met her eyes and nodded, so Rielle pointed to her.

“Jonare.”

She turned to Izare, then felt her stomach sink as she found him frowning.
Uh-oh. I hope I haven’t hurt his vanity so much that he refuses to teach me. Or finish the portrait. Or see me again …

“Though … maybe not in oils yet,” she added, “lest my beginner’s awkwardness reflect badly on my teacher.”

Izare’s eyes narrowed. “No, but there is no reason you cannot make preparatory sketches now. Here…” He moved away, collecting a board, paper and chalk then handing them to her.

Rielle looked down at the materials. Her heart was suddenly beating fast, for all that they were familiar and reassuring. She was conscious of the others watching her, conscious they would think of her only as Izare’s latest subject until she proved herself to be more.
I can do it
, she told herself. Izare dragged a chair over and gestured to it wordlessly. Rielle sat, braced the drawing board on one knee, and began to sketch.

The light from the windows was muted, thanks to the overcast sky outside. Jonare remained still and relaxed – clearly used to the role of artist’s model. Rielle began by marking out distances between the woman’s features with faint marks, then made broad, soft strokes with the edge of the chalk to fill in the shadows. She added detail, varying the thickness and darkness of lines. Sweeping strokes for the hair. Some gentle hatching to describe Jonare’s scarf, draped around her neck. A faint, soft line for the edge of the nose. A hard, quick curl of darkness for the nostril. Feathery dashes formed the eyebrows. Careful touches filled in the eyes, leaving a chink to suggest reflected light, then a gentle sweep over the whites to soften them.

After a few final touches to refine the drawing she drew in a deep breath and considered the overall result. Nodding, she looked up to find that Greya and Merem had left their seats but she had been concentrating too hard to notice.

“That’s amazing,” Greya said.

The voice came from near Rielle’s shoulder. She turned to find Greya, Merem and Errek standing behind her, with Izare. Merem hummed in agreement. But from Izare and Errek there was only silence.

“Show me!” Jonare demanded. Turning the board, Rielle watched as Jonare’s eyes widened. “You
are
an artist!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, she is,” Izare said, crossing his arms. “But one with a lot to learn.”

Rielle shrugged. “If I didn’t think I had something to learn, I wouldn’t be here,” she reminded him. He met her eyes, and his expression softened.

Errek patted his shoulders. “I suspect
you
may have something to learn from
her
,” he said.

Izare’s eyes narrowed again, but he said nothing as a pounding came, once more, from downstairs. As he started for the stairwell, the sound of the door opening echoed below, followed by hurried footsteps. A head appeared behind the railing of the stairwell, turning to locate them. It was Dorr.

“The priests are doing an inspection,” the man told them.

Curses came from all around. Rielle turned to see expressions of annoyance. Izare went straight to her portrait and unclamped it from the easel. Jonare stood and touched Rielle’s arm.

“You had better leave.”

Rielle’s heart skipped. If the priests found her here they would tell Sa-Baro. Though she was sure he would believe her when she told him she was not up to anything scandalous, he’d be obliged to inform her parents. She sought Izare and found him slipping the portrait between several half-finished paintings leaning against a wall. He picked up a partially completed spiritual and placed it on the easel.

“Next quarterday, then.” She handed the board and chalk to him. His expression was all concern now.

“Yes.” He frowned. “I should escort you home, but if they see us together—”

“I’ll go with her,” Jonare offered. “No tainted will dare take on the two of us.”

Rielle felt her stomach sink even further than before. “Is that why they’re inspecting? Is there another tainted in Fyre already?”

Izare put the drawing aside and took one of her hands. “There is, but you’ll be safe with Jonare.” He stepped forward and, before she realised what he was doing, kissed her on the cheek. A thrill went through her entire body, and she suddenly could do nothing more than stare at the floor, conscious that her face had grown very warm and her heart was beating very fast.

“Come on,” Jonare said, hooking a hand under Rielle’s arm. “We had better hurry.”

Submitting to the woman’s guidance, Rielle all but stumbled to the stairs, looking back once before following Jonare down. Izare smiled at her, but could not conceal the worry in his eyes.

They stepped out into a street filled with gloom. Rielle pulled her scarf from around her neck and hastily covered her head. The clouds above were the dimpled grey that promised rain but never delivered. People hurried past, their shoulders hunched, casting backward looks. Rielle heard voices calling out and heard the warning in them, but not the words.

“The tainted will be well away by the time the priests arrive,” she murmured.

“Oh, I doubt he or she is from the artisan quarter.” Jonare shrugged. “Nobody wants to be the one to prove what’s said about us is true.”

“What’s said about you?”

Jonare gave Rielle a disbelieving look. “That artisans are more likely to be tainted than anyone else.”

Rielle stared at her. “Nobody ever said that to me.”

The woman smiled sadly. “You’ve had a sheltered life then. Or maybe dyeworkers aren’t regarded the same.”

They walked quickly, Jonare guiding Rielle through narrow streets, first familiar then not. They did not see any priests.

“I’m glad I left the children with my sister today,” Jonare said. “They do love to play with Izare’s neighbours, but the priests frighten them.” Again, Rielle turned to regard the woman with surprise, but Jonare did not notice. “Izare enjoys their visits, too. He’s good with children. He’ll make a good father one day, don’t you think?”

At the quick look Jonare gave her, Rielle suppressed a sigh. It was not the first time one of Izare’s friends had sought her opinion on his suitability as a husband or father. She couldn’t tell if they were warning her off or encouraging her. Unfortunately, it meant most of her conversations with them were about Izare, so Rielle settled for changing the subject.

“So does your sister look after your children when you are performing?”

“Yes, and I look after hers when she’s working.”

“What does she do?”

“Oh, a mix of things. Washing clothes. Cooking.” She looked around and her pace slowed. Following suit, Rielle noted that the people they passed were no longer tense and harried.

“So, what did you think of Errek?” Jonare asked.

Rielle shrugged. “Hard to tell on a first short meeting, but he seems nice. He and Izare were … is there a conflict between them?”

Jonare laughed. “Just rivalry. Both are talented artists. Both are handsome young men, don’t you think?”

“Errek? He’s nowhere near as handsome as Izare.”

The other woman’s eyebrows rose, then she smiled. “Ah. Well. That’s good to hear.”

Rielle looked closer and understanding came. “You like Errek?”