Thief’s Magic (37 page)

“Hello, Rielle,” the woman said, smiling and glancing up. “Are you well? I saw the priest leave. It was uncommonly sneaky of him to slip past our lookouts.”

Rielle smiled. “I’m well, thank you. He did no harm. Only wanted to ask a few questions. How are you and Dinni?”

She looked pleased. “We’re getting by. Dinni is carving again, thanks to the generosity of our latest customer. She heard what happened and withheld her usual festival donation to pay for replacement materials.”

“Sounds like a nice customer.”

Monya nodded. “She is. A great appreciator of art and a champion of women. I should introduce you.”

“I’d like that.” Perhaps this customer wouldn’t mind a painting by a woman.

“Doing a little cleaning?”

“Yes, though probably more than a little.”

“Tam, the old weaver who lives over there…” – she nodded to a nearby house – “… used to wash Izare’s clothes every quarterday for a few copee.”

“Does she still?”

“She figures you’ll be doing it now. But if you’d like her to, I’m sure she’d be happy to.”

Rielle nodded, noting the shift in tone that suggested Monya was hinting at something more. Most likely the old woman needed the income. Trouble was, she didn’t know if Izare could afford it now.

“I’ll see what Izare means to do,” she said. “He’s out trying to find new commissions.”

Monya looked thoughtful. “He hasn’t had to do that for a while.”

“So I hear.” Rielle grimaced and looked down at the pitcher. “I’d better get started.”

She headed back to the house, and made two more trips before the basin was full. Hours later she had removed everything from the kitchen bench, made a pile of reusable items and scrubbed the plates with ash and an old rag. She tossed the garbage she couldn’t burn into a shallow pit in an alley all the locals used. When it was full everyone put money together to pay garbage collectors to empty it.

She was tipping the last of the dirty water into a bucket to empty down the drain outside when the main door opened and Izare strode in, carrying a cloth-wrapped rectangular bundle and a loaf of bread. He paused in the lower room doorway to stare at her, then put down his burden and hurried forward.

“Let me help you with that.” Grabbing the bucket, he carried it outside.

“Any luck?” she asked when he returned.

He shook his head. “Monya said you had a visitor.”

“Sa-Baro.”

Izare’s eyes widened. He stepped forward and seized her hands. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. Except ask if I’d meet with my aunt.”

He looked thoughtful. “What did you say?”

“That I would.”

“It could be a trap. He might have come here hoping to surprise you, and told you your aunt wanted to meet you so you’d stay put while he went to inform your family of your location. They could be on their way right now.”

She shrugged. “It was hours ago. If they were going to do it, they’d have done it by now. No, I’m damaged goods. Nobody in the families will want to marry me now. It’s better for them if I stay away rather than be a burden and a constant reminder of scandal.”

“No!” He brought her hands to his mouth, kissing one after another. “You are not
damaged
, nor were you ever goods to be traded.”

She drew a deep breath, steeled herself and looked at him directly. “Do
you
want to marry me?”

He smiled. “Want to? Yes! Afford to? Not yet.”

She pulled her hands from his. “Jonare told me about the priests’ bribe. If I could get my parents to approve of a marriage they wouldn’t dare ask for one.”

“But your parents won’t.”

“They might, if it blackened the family name a little less.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Rendered it in grey instead?”

She smiled at his joke. “It would look better if their only daughter wasn’t living in poverty, too.”

He scowled. “I don’t need their charity.”

“You don’t
want
their charity,” she corrected. “And neither do I. I don’t want you to starve because of me, either.” She looked down at the bundle, which he’d dropped on the bed. “What did you buy?”

He grimaced. Unwrapping the bundle, he revealed several sheaves of cheap paper, a bottle of oil and some jars of pigment.

“That must have cost a bit.”

“Yes – but don’t worry. There’s one kind of artwork that always generates a reliable income, but I can’t do it if I don’t have paint.” He smiled. “I’ll start tomorrow. But for now … it looks like you’ve done enough work for today. Your hands are all red. Let me take care of the clothing.”

Picking up the bundle of dirty clothes she’d tossed on the bed, he headed for the main door. “I’ll be right back.”

Rielle opened her mouth to object, but closed it again without speaking.
Old Tam needs money, too
, she reminded herself.
Perhaps some day we’ll need a favour from her.

A
s Rielle woke she realised she had thrown the bed coverings off and was lying completely naked and exposed. Not that it mattered. Izare had seen her unclothed many times now, and in the warm air of the lower room she was perfectly comfortable. For now she was too sleepy to bother reaching for a blanket. Parts of her were tired that she had never known could be, until that first night with Izare.

Thinking of that, and the many times since, she smiled.

And then she did want to wake up properly. Opening an eye, she looked at the kitchen bench, now clean and bearing a tidy, diminished stack of the least chipped dishes. Though Izare obviously wasn’t bothered by the way it had been, he also appeared to like what she had done. Or perhaps he liked the idea of eating home cooking.

They’d spent a few hours tidying the room and washing the floor. Afterwards he’d accidentally dumped a pitcher of clean water over her, and that had led to removing wet clothing, which had led to things that kept them well occupied late into the night.

Was he awake? She listened for his breathing. Instead, she heard a soft, familiar sound of scraping and dabbing. She turned over and saw that she was right: he was standing behind his easel facing her. Painting.

“Don’t…” he said. “Roll back to where you—”

“What are you doing?” She grabbed a blanket and drew it up around herself.

“Painting.”

“Obviously.” She rose and, holding the blanket close, strode over to him. Rounding the easel, she turned to see a small board, barely larger than her two hands held together. The bed was sketchily laid down, but the woman on it was already taking on the magical lifelike quality of all his figures.

“Narmah warned me this would happen,” she muttered.

“That you’d run away to live with me and I’d be forced to paint nude women in order to pay the rent?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in a challenge.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You plan to
sell
paintings of me
naked
?”

He sobered. “Of course not. Nobody can tell it is you. Your face is hidden and…” he grinned “… and it’s not like anyone else would recognise the rest of you.”

Turning to look at the painting again, she noted how the woman’s head was turned away.
Her
head. Only the profile of a breast showed. It was mostly a view from behind. Which meant her buttocks were clearly in view. She frowned.
I don’t like it.
But they needed the money.

“People will buy this?” she asked.

“Yes. Readily. Though more eagerly if more was showing.”

“A painting from the front.”

“Yes. I could conceal your face. Or paint in another face, from memory.”

She thought of herself posing naked and shrank from the idea of standing exposed for so long. “Why can’t you do all of it from memory?”

He chuckled. “Despite what you might think, I’ve not spent
that
long staring at women’s naked bodies in my short life. And certainly not one as beautiful as yours.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Flatterer. Don’t think I missed the admission that you have spent
some
time staring at women’s naked bodies.”

“It’s a hazard of my profession. How can I convey beauty if I have not seen it?” He set his brush and palette down. “And how can I see it daily and resist the artist’s urge to capture it in paint?” He snaked an arm out and, before she could dodge away, caught the edges of the blanket. Pulling it out of her grip, he spread his arms wide, exposing her. “Surely it is selfish to keep this sight all to myself?”

She covered her breasts. “But what if I don’t want to be shared around like a … like a…?”

“A whore?” He shook his head. “No. This is entirely different. When a singer sings does it diminish her? When a storyteller tells his tales does it cheapen him? No matter how many times I painted you, you would remain unmarked by the brush. Still you.” He pulled the blanket edges, drawing her closer and wrapping them both in the cloth. “The physical you.” He leaned down to kiss her neck. “The flesh and blood.” The kisses were soft surprises, moving down into the shadows cast by the blanket and making her pulse race. “That is for me alone.”

She bit her lip, caught between wanting to argue and wanting very much to say nothing more, then nearly drew blood as a loud pounding came from the main door. Izare stilled, then cursed and emerged from the blanket.

“The bastard is early. Well, at least he didn’t barge in.” He stood up and Rielle quickly drew the blanket around herself again.

“Who?”

“Errek. He’s going to introduce me to a few customers he doesn’t want to work with. Ones he holds grudges against. A few he doesn’t trust.” He moved to the easel and put it behind the lower room door, so it would be hidden when it opened.

“If he doesn’t trust them, should you?”

He walked back to her. “I’ll insist on part payment in advance. If they fail to pay the rest, at least I have some income.” Giving her a firm kiss, he smiled and turned away. “If I run into Jonare I’ll let her know you’re ready for cooking lessons.”

Rielle let out a short laugh. “She’ll have to bring the pots. And the ingredients.”

He looked back and smiled at her before closing the door behind him. She heard the main door open and Errek’s muffled voice. Then the sound of the door closing reverberated in the stairwell and silence followed.

Sighing, she turned away and got dressed so she could fetch water and wash. Once clean and clothed, she moved over to the easel and examined the painting.

Izare could not have been painting her for long, and yet he had captured her so well. The naked form was so luminous that the eye barely registered that the rest of the scene was sketchily painted.
It’s perfect as it is. I wish I could keep it.

But they needed money. In order to sell it, the painting needed to be finished.

Well, I can do something about that. Izare can hardly complain if I work on it. It’s not like he wants to establish a reputation as a painter of indecent art.

Picking up the easel, she set it back in place and set to work.

Since the painting was small and she was only finishing the background and drapery, enough paint was already made up that she did not have to stop and prepare any. An odd mix of contentment and agitation filled her. She was not familiar enough with the new medium to be confident with it, yet it was wonderful to set her mind to the challenge again, and every success was like a victory. After a few hours she stopped, deciding that though it wasn’t completely to her satisfaction, it had progressed well enough that she was happy for Izare to see it.

As she was wiping her hands clean, a light but urgent tapping came from the main door. She answered it to find a small, grubby child hovering outside.

“Priests coming,” he whispered loudly, then pounded away.

Her heart skipped a beat. Sa-Baro had said he’d return with a time and place to meet Narmah. She looked back at the lower room, pleased that he would see how clean it was now. The easel blocked her view.

The painting!
She would die of shame if he saw it. Running forward, she grabbed it, the easel and paints and carried them upstairs. Setting the easel down, she took the nude off and cast about for a place to hide it. The stacks of paintings leaning up against the walls were much smaller than they had been before she’d moved in with Izare, and his portrait of her was gone. He’d told her he’d moved it and many others to a safer place. Recalling how he used to hide paintings within the frame of larger ones, she hurried over to the nearest stack and flipped them forward until she found one with a partly torn backing. Carefully holding the gap open so the fresh paint wouldn’t smudge, she slipped the nude inside.

As she straightened, a pounding came from downstairs. She took a deep breath, then forced herself to descend to the door. As she’d feared, the memory of the corrupter and the knowledge of what she had learned filled her mind. Swallowing shame and fear, she opened the door.

The man who stepped inside was dressed in blue, but he was not Sa-Baro. It took her a moment to realise where she had seen his face before. This was Sa-Elem, the priest who had caught and punished the tainted who had abducted her. Another man pushed through, his shoulder sliding across her chest in a way that was neither rough nor polite. She stepped back and glared at him. Sa-Gest, the young priest the temple girls disliked so much, smiled at her, his eyes gleaming with a peculiar satisfaction.

The older priest frowned at his companion, but said nothing. He turned to her.

“Ais Lazuli, is Aos Saffre home?”

“No, Sa-Elem.”

He nodded. “This would be your first inspection, then?”

Inspection. Not a message from Sa-Baro, then.

“No, the dyeworks has been searched a few times, though not for many years I believe.”

He turned towards the lower room. “I expect your parents would have kept you out of the way.”

“Yes.” She followed as the two men entered the room. “Can I help in any way?”

He looked around then he waved at Sa-Gest. “Go upstairs.”

She stepped away as the younger man passed, anticipating an attempt to brush up against her again.