Coricidius hunched in the doorway like a sick eagle, with his cloak clutched around him against the early morning chill, and a face like curdled milk. He eyed Lalo sourly, hawked and spat, and then stepped stiffly into the room.
"My Lord, am I under arrest? I've done nothing-why have you brought me here?" babbled Lalo.
"I want to commission some portraits ..." The lined face twitched with the faintest of malicious smiles.
"What?"
Coricidius snorted in disgust and motioned to one of the guards to set a folding camp-stool in the middle of the room. Joint by joint, the old man lowered himself until he settled fully upon it with a sigh.
"I have no time to argue with you, dauber. You say you don't do portraits, but you will do them for me."
Lalo shook his head. "My lord, I can't do pictures of real people... they hate them... I'm no good at it."
"You're too good at it." Coricidius corrected him. "I know your secret, you see. I've had your models followed, and talked to them. I could kill you, but if you refuse me, I have only to tell a few of your former patrons and they will save me the toil."
Lalo clutched at the folds of his smock to hide the trembling of his hands. "Then I am doomed-if I do portraits for you, my secret will be known as soon as they are seen."
"Ah, but these pictures are not for public display." Coricidius hunched forward. "I want you to make a likeness of each of the Commissioners who have come fron Ranke. I shall tell them that it is a surprise for the Emperor-that no one must see it until it is done ... and before that happens, some accident to the painting is certain to occur. . . ."The Vizier was shaking with subtle tremors that ran along each limb to end in a grimace which Lalo took minutes to recognize as laughter.
"But not before I have seen it," the old man went on, "and learned the weaknesses these peacocks hide from men ... They have come to power in the Court since my time, but once I know their souls I can constrain them to help me return to favor again!"
Lalo shivered. The proposal had a certain superficial logic, but there were so many things that could go wrong.
"But perhaps I have simply not yet found the right stick to make the donkey go ..." Coricidius went on. "They say you love your wife-" he peered at Lalo disbelievingly. "Shall we blind her and send her to the Street of the Red Lanterns while we keep you prisoner?"
I should have gone away ... thought Lalo. I should have taken Gilla and the children out of here as soon as I had the money to go... Once he had seen a rabbit transfixed by the shadow of a stooping hawk. I am that rabbit, and I am lost ... he thought.
And after all, the internal dialogue went on, what are all these plots and counterplots to me? If 1 can help this Rankan buzzard return to his own foul nest then at least Sanctuary will be free of him!
"All right ... I will do what you say..." Lalo said aloud.
* * *
Lalo, brow furrowed and an extra brush held between his teeth, leaned closer to the canvas, concentrating on the line the soft brush made. When he was painting, his hand and eye became a single organ in which visual impressions were transmitted to the fingers and to the brush which was their extension without mediation by the consciousness. Line, mass, shape and color, all were factors in a pattern which must be replicated on the canvas. The eye checked the work of the hand and automatically corrected it without either interpretation or reaction from the brain.
"... and then I was promoted to be under-warden of the great Temple of Savankala in Ranke." The Archpriest Arbalest settled a little more comfortably in his chair, and Lalo's sensitive fingers, responding, adjusted a line.
"An excellent position, really, right at the heart of things. Everybody who is anybody pays homage there eventually, and whoever transmits their petitions to the god can gather quite a lot of useful information in time." Smiling complacently, the Archpriest smoothed the brocaded saffron folds of his gown.
"Mmnn-very true-" murmured Lalo with the fraction of his mind that was not mesmerized by his work.
"I wish you would let me look at what you are doing!" the priest said petulantly. "It is my face you are immortalizing, after all!"
Shocked into awareness, Lalo stepped back from the easel and looked at him.
"Oh no, my Lord, you must not! It has been strictly ordered that this picture shall be a surprise. None of the sitters is to see it until the entire painting is revealed to the Emperor. If you try to look I will have to call the guard. Indeed, it is as much as my life is worth to let anyone see the picture before its time!"
And that, at least, was perfectly true, thought Lalo, daring to look at the canvas with conscious eyes at last. Against the crude backdrop of a pillared hall had been sketched the rough outlines of five figures. The one on the far left had been filled in yesterday with the picture of Lord Raximander, the first of the Commissioners to serve as model here. He looked like a pig- complacently self-indulgent, with just a hint of stubborn ferocity in the little eyes.
Lalo wondered that the Commissioners had consented to it. Since they came they had been busy with inspections and meetings, and listening to interminable reports. Perhaps they were glad of a chance to sit still. Or perhaps they feared the consequences of refusing to contribute to a gift for their Emperor, or possibly they really were eager to have their visit to this outpost of Empire immortalized. Raximander, at least, had appeared to take the sitting as tacit agreement from Lalo to paint another portrait which the Commissioner would be allowed to see.
Now the picture of the Archpriest was almost complete beside Lord Raximander's. If the thing had been meant seriously, Lalo would have wanted several hours more to work on the finishing of the gown and hair, but it was already sufficient for the Vizier's purposes. Lalo looked at it with normal vision for the first time and repressed a sigh.
Why had he dared to hope that just because the man was a priest he would be virtuous? But Arbalest was not a pig-more of a weasel, Lalo thought, noting the covert cunning of his gaze.
"If you are tired we can end the sitting now." He bowed to the priest. "I will not need your presence for what remains."
When the priest had gone Lalo refilled his mug from the pitcher of beer provided by Coricidius. Aside from the infamous manner of the commission, the Vizier had not treated him badly. Having blackmailed him into painting, the old man was at least allowing him to do so in comfort. They had set aside a pleasant room on the second floor of the Palace for his use-at the front next to the roof garden so that windows on three sides gave him light-working conditions, at least, were ideal.
But the painting was an abomination. Lalo forced himself to look at it again. He had sketched in columns and a carven ceiling just in case someone should catch a glimpse of the canvas from far away. But the faces with which he was filling the foreground made the rich surroundings seem a travesty.
Everyone at the Palace appeared to believe the tale that the painting was a bribe to the Emperor, and some, believing that this must give Lalo some influence, were already toadying to him. Even to Gilla, Lalo had had to pretend that the midnight arrest was a mistake and the commission real. But if she did not believe him, for once she had the sense to let the subject alone.
Would others do the same? What if the project became so famous that people insisted on seeing the picture? What if one of his sitters proved nimble enough to get a good look before Lalo could call the guard?
Lalo sighed again, drained his mug, and told the Hell-Hound currently on duty to bring the third subject in.
* * *
Lalo sat oh a low stool next to the table where he had laid out his painting things, waiting, like them, for the fourth of the Commissioners to arrive for his sitting. He supposed that he had been lucky to get in Arbalest and the royal relative yesterday-he glanced at the third picture with distaste. "Something oxis," the man's name was, but already he had trouble remembering. Not surprising-his portrait revealed a bovine complacence that avoided evil mainly through lack of energy.
And t
hese are the pride of Ranke? thought Lalo. He found himself almost grateful to Coricidius. I would never have known-he grimaced at the painting again-I would have uprooted my family to seek my fortune in the capital, innocently certain it must be superior to Sanctuary. But there, the evil is only better disguised....
From the courtyard below he could hear the even tramp of bullhide sandals-the Prince's Guard was drilling again. These days, even the City garrison marched and polished their armor, but whether it was in hopes of being sent to the war or the opposite, he did not know. Nor, at this moment, did he care. He found it hard to believe that any new invader could make things any better, or worse, in Sanctuary.
Still, the incessant marching made him nervous, as if his former certainties were illusions, and just around the corner lay some new threat that he could not see. Restlessly he paced to the window, and was just turning back when the guard brought the fourth sitter in.
"My Lord Zanderei!" Lalo bowed to the man to whom he had spoken at the reception. "Please be seated-" he indicated the sitter's chair.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Master Limner," the man said plaintively, settling himself. "I was detained at the warehouses. There seems to be some confusion regarding the grain supplies set aside for the war ..."
Lalo busied himself with his paints to hide a grin. He could well imagine that the web of bribes, kickbacks, substitutions and out-and-out shortchanging characteristic of business in Sanctuary would make "confusion" an understatement. Why had they sent such a clerkly little mouse to deal with the situation here? Glancing at him again, Lalo realized that Zanderei had one of the least remarkable faces he had ever seen.
I suppose it comes of a life-time of deference, he thought. The man displayed no individuality at all. But for the first time in this project Lalo found himself eager to set brush to canvas, knowing that once he did, no dissimulation could hide the truth of the man from him.
"Am I posed correctly? I can turn my head the other way if you like, or fold my hands ..."
"Yes, clasp your hands-your head is very well as it is. You must relax, sir, and think how near your business is to its conclusion..."Lalo poured thinner into the cup and dipped his brush.
"Yes," Zanderei echoed softly. "I am almost done. A week or less will show me if I have accomplished all I was sent to do. The conflict draws very close to us now." His thin lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
Lalo's eyes narrowed. He drew his brush through the light ochre and began.
A half hour went by, and an hour. Lalo worked steadily without really being conscious either of the passage of time or of what he was doing. Zanderei was light and shadow, color and texture and line-a problem in interpretation. The artist adjusted to the changing light and even gave his model permission to move from time to time without emerging from the trance which was his art and his spell.
Then, from the Hall of Justice below, the gong for the fourth watch began to toll. Zanderei got to his feet, grey robes shifting like shadow around him. Lalo, fighting his way back to awareness like a man awakening from sleep, saw that dusk was beginning to gather in the corners of the room.
"I am sorry. I must go now." Zanderei took a few steps forward, more smoothly than Lalo would have expected, considering how long the man had been sitting still.
"Oh, of course-forgive me for keeping you so long."
"Are you finished? Will you want me to come to you again?"
Lalo looked at the picture, wondering if he had captured the reality of this man. For a moment he did not understand what he saw. He glanced quickly at the other portraits, but they had not changed, and paint still glistened wetly where he had given a last touch to Zanderei's hair. But he had never been unable to recognize the model in one of his portraits before...
He saw a face like stone, like steel, a face with no life but in the eyes, and there only an ancient pain. And in the hands of this image, a bloodied knife was gripped fast.
Coricidius wanted to see these men's weaknesses-but I see death here!
And like the canvas, Lalo's face must have revealed the tumult in his soul, for now Zanderei was blurring towards him in a swordsman's swift rush that brought him past Lalo to comprehend the picture in one searching stare and still in the same motion to whirl and flick into the throat of the oncoming guardsman a knife that had been hidden in his sleeve.
"Sorcery!" exclaimed Zanderei, and then, more slowly, "Is that what I look like to you?"
Lalo jerked his appalled gaze from the ruby rivulet that was snaking its way from the throat of the guard across the floor. Now Zanderei stood with a predator's poise, and his face and the face in the picture were the same.
"Did they set you to trap me? Have my masters' plans been betrayed?" Softly he moved towards Lalo, who stood shaking his head and shivering. "Ah, of course-it was Coricidius, setting traps for everyone. I doubt that he expected to catch me!" he added more softly.
"Who are you? Why are you pretending to be a clerk?" Lalo stared at Zanderei, seeing something flicker behind the still eyes as if the mask he had penetrated only covered a veil that hid another truth deeper within.
"I am fate ... or I am nothing ... It all depends. My masters wish the Prince to do his part in the war, but it would not be well for him to do it too effectively. 'Watch him, but do not let him become a hero, Zanderei...' Until that happens, I will serve him." His voice ran smoothly as an undammed stream, but Lalo knew that what he was hearing doomed him more surely than what he had seen.
"You're going to kill the Prince ..." Lalo stepped backwards until he bumped into the table on which his paints lay.
"Perhaps-" Zanderei shrugged.
"You're going to kill me?"
The other man sighed, and from the other sleeve a second knife flickered into his hand. "Do I have a choice?" he said regretfully. "I am a professional. No one will deplore the work of the vandal who kills you and destroys the painting more than I. . .or perhaps it will have been you who suffered a revulsion of feeling and did it yourself-for I am sure that Coricidius forced you to this work. But one way or another, the painting must be destroyed-" Zanderei looked at the other portraits and for the first time amusement flickered in his eyes. "You are far too accurate!
"Reckon up your life, Master Limner-" he said more gently, "for once the painting is gone the painter must disappear as well."
Lalo swallowed, afraid that his churning stomach would deny him dignity even in his death. And what had his life been worth to anyone, after all? Zanderei took flint and steel from a pouch beneath his robe, and in a moment light flared in the dimness of the room. Then the assassin set a stained paint rag aflame and held it to the canvas.
Lalo groped for support and his hand closed on the smooth side of a paintpot. His throat ached, holding back the urge to beg the man to stop. He hated the painting-he wished it had never been done-and yet, why did he feel the same pain as he had when the Hell-Hound struck Gilla to the floor? His eyes stung with unuttered grief for his work, for himself, for his family left fatherless.
The canvas had caught fire and was beginning to crackle merrily now. Bright flame fattened on the paint-soaked cloth and cast demon-flickers on the face of Zanderei.
"No!" The cry burst from Lalo's lips, and as Zanderei straightened, Lalo's hand closed on the paint pot and he flung it at the other man.
It struck Zanderei's shoulder, and red paint splashed like blood across the grey robe.
The assassin exploded towards him and Lalo scrambled frantically around the table, snatching up more paint pots, brushes, anything he could throw. One of them hit Zanderei's forehead, and as paint sprayed across his face he hesitated for just a moment to mop his eyes.
And in that moment Lalo kicked over the table and ran.
* * *
Lalo hugged his chest as if he could muffle the drumming of his heart and stared around him.
He had confused memories of having fled down the corridor that edged the upper half of the Presence Hall, t
owards the back of the Palace, down the stairs by the dais, and then still farther, into a part of the Palace he did not know. Though the floor was still marble, the slabs were cracked and discolored, and plaster was chipping from the wall. Then he heard crockery clattering nearby and realized he must be hard by the kitchens.
At least, he thought gratefully, Zanderei the Commissioner would be even more out of place here than he. Cautiously he turned into another passageway and moved forward. But as he eased open the door at the end of it, he heard once more a faint pattering behind him-the steps of one who from long training ran so lightly his footfalls were only a whisper of fine leather on polished stone.
Stifling a moan, Lalo burst through the door, dashed across the wooden floor and the platform that opened out onto the kitchen courtyard, and flung himself into the first concealment he found.
It had looked like a cart, and as Lalo sank into its contents he realized what it was. Not the honey-wagon, thank the gods, but the cart into which they had collected the garbage from several days' worth of princely meals. Gagging, Lalo wriggled deeper into the mass of turnip peelings and sour curds, soggy rice and pastry crusts and meat trimmings and bones.
He thought grimly, As long as I can retch, I'm stil] alive...
The cart moved beneath him and he heard the stamp of a hoof on stone. He realized then that not only was he alive, he might even escape, for if the horse was hitched, it must be time for the garbage to be taken away. He waited, breathing shallowly, for the endless minutes until he heard voices and the wagon lurched with the weight of somebody climbing onto the driver's bench. Then they began to move.
Faster... Faster! Lalo prayed as he was jounced deeper into the reeking mass. The clatter of wooden wheels on stone was deafening, then there was a pause, a moment's conversation with Honald at the Gate, and the duller vibration as the wagon trundled across the pounded earth of Vashanka's Square.
Then the cart shuddered to a halt. Lalo strained his ears for the night-noises of Sanctuary, but heard instead shouting and the clamor of an alarm.
Storm Season tw-4 Page 9
