When the King Comes Home

by Caroline Stevermer

  I put my notebook down and went to find a horse-blanket pin in the clutter of gear on the workbench.

  “Surely your subject is more likely to offend you. Gabriel Wex seemed offended by me. If he weren’t your servant, I might have been obliged to notice that.”

  “But he is my servant. Fortunately. And more fortunately still, you resist the urge to be displeased with anyone.”

  “Seriously displeased,” he amended.

  “Gabriel’s a clever young man. He’ll learn soon enough about the peril of making his opinions known to his clients. Such arrogance comes at a price. He’s already lost the chance of painting you.”

  I stood close behind Ludovic Nallaneen and fiddled with his cloak. He smelled of soap and leather, and just faintly of horse. It was difficult to find a spot to anchor the folds of cloth without interfering with the angle of the sword.

  “More, Hail. Pull it right back. You can make up for the severity with more folds on the other side. That’s good.”

  “Are you her servant too?” he asked me.

  I concentrated on not pricking him with the heavy pin. He was armed, after all. “I’m Hail Rosamer, her apprentice.”

  “Gabriel Wex is an apprentice too. So you are both her servants or neither.”

  I met his eyes. Sword or no sword, he had no right to make me feel like a serving maid. “We all serve art.”

  Ludovic Nallaneen laughed at me. “Ah, there’s the burst of terror I’ve been waiting for. Don’t be angry with me. Or at least, don’t glare so. What if your face were to stick in that expression?”

  I looked past his amusement to Madame Carriera. She was watching me with interest. “Pride comes at a price, Hail.”

  I turned back to Nallaneen. “Whom do you serve, sir?”

  “Why, Mars.” He looked at me more closely. “Surely you don’t mean more specifically. These days it’s most impolite to express an interest in anyone’s politics.”

  “I mean, whom do you serve? We all serve someone.”

  “Oh. In that case, I serve my commanding officer, Colonel Anyz. Does it take all your energy, defending your fellow apprentice?”

  “I’m not defending Gabriel. I’m defending myself. Gabriel is…” I bit off my words. To list Gabriel’s tricks—from bumping my elbow when I was doing under-drawing in ink to sneezing on me while I sized gold leaf—in Madame Carriera’s hearing would be treachery. “Gabriel looks after himself.”

  “He’s not in your good graces, then?”

  “He wouldn’t wish to be.” I went back to my notebook.

  “Lucky youngster, to be so talented that he can weather such dislike from a fellow apprentice.”

  “He’s skilled, but no one has so much talent that they can be allowed to run wild in the atelier.” Madame Carriera did not let her conversation slow her work. “Rather, there are students one knows will enjoy success. With Gabriel, there is an unerring sense of how to achieve an effect. His gift is to know the pleasing thing—his fortune will be made by delighting his patrons. This Apollo he has in mind will be scholarly enough to earn the admiration of the guild. Not only will it win him admission to the guild, it will be beautiful enough to cause a stir. People will want to know who Apollo is. It will be popular.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  Madame Carriera smiled but refused to answer.

  “Not every apprentice is chosen for the guild,” I said. “After seven years of training, a master can send a failed apprentice away.”

  “Gabriel will be chosen,” said Madame Carriera. “Don’t fool yourself. He works hard and he’s eager to have a workshop of his own.”

  “That’s all he wants, though. He doesn’t serve art, not really. He serves himself.”

  Madame Carriera was severe. “He craves fame and independence. That’s no crime, Hail. You do yourself.”

  “Not like that,” I said, but it sounded weak even in my own ears.

  “Pay less attention to Gabriel’s work and more to your own,” said Madame Carriera. “After all, you’ve only studied a year and a half with me.”

  “It was a year and a half in December, ma’am. This is my twentieth month in your service.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t twenty minutes? Never mind. You still have much to learn.”

  When Ludovic Nallaneen returned for his second sitting, I made sure I was the apprentice asked to help in the workshop. I’d never known Madame Carriera so willing to discuss her apprentices, and I hoped that her conversation with Nallaneen would yield more confidences.

  Instead, on the second occasion, Madame Carriera seemed intent on learning all she could about Ludovic Nallaneen.

  “I am from Galazon,” he said. Madame Carriera’s interest won a genuine smile from him. There was pride in his voice as he added, “I am a captain in the prince-bishop’s guard.”

  That explained his northern accent. Galazon was farther north than Neven, and even sleepier.

  “Who taught you to handle a two-handed sword?” Madame Carriera asked. “Do they still use such things in Galazon?”

  “My mother arranged lessons for me. She had me tutored in all the arts becoming to a gentleman and an officer.”

  “You astonish me.” Madame Carriera looked up from her under-painting. “Keep still now.” She worked intently for a space, then gave him leave to rest.

  Nallaneen picked up the thread of their conversation unerringly. “What’s astonishing in that my mother arranged my lessons? Don’t I seem a gentleman and an officer?”

  “You do, which is what astonishes me. My understanding is that the principal arts required by a gentleman in this age involve women, politics, and drinking.”

  “Say rather, my mother had me tutored in the arts required by a gentleman of a more demanding time. I learned a bit of Latin and Greek along with my fighting. Since my tutelage ended, I plan my own education. Women still tutor me, Madame, for I am old enough to realize my education in the gentlest of arts will never be complete. And as for wine, I study that on occasion, since it forms part of my duty as an officer.”

  “And what of politics?”

  “I am a captain in the prince-bishop’s guard, which is all the politics my duty demands. Ask me again when the prince-bishop chooses a successor to the king, and it may be my duty to be a trifle more political. Until then, let it rest.”

  “You, Captain Nallaneen, are made of milk and water. Do you let your commanding officers dictate your loyalties?”

  “I let them dictate my duties, Madame Carriera.”

  “Could I dictate your loyalties, Hail? Would you stand for it?”

  I was still intent on the notion of women tutoring Captain Nallaneen. Tutoring him in what? I knew about what men and women do in bed, but what sort of tutoring would that require? Or could they be talking about something else? “I’m your loyal apprentice, ma’am,” I said absently.

  “But would you change your politics if I desired it? Could you do that?”

  “Leave the child alone,” said Nallaneen. “You know she hasn’t any politics, and no one can change what they don’t have.”

  Goaded by his condescending tone, I stated, “I am loyal to the Crown.”

  “No matter who wears it?” asked Nallaneen.

  “Who could wear it but the king?” I countered.

  “What if it gives him a headache? What if the king can’t wear it?” Nallaneen asked. “To whom are you loyal then?”

  I frowned at him. “Are you more loyal to the prince-bishop than to the king?”

  “I’m exactly as loyal to the king as the king needs me to be,” said Nallaneen. “I’m as loyal as a captain ought to be.”

  “What if you’re promoted?” I asked. “Will you be more loyal then?”

  “That sort of thing usually works in reverse,” said Madame Carriera.

  “If ever I am so fortunate,” Nallaneen replied, without taking his attention from me, “you ask me again and see.”

  Ludovic Nallaneen’s third
sitting for his portrait was postponed more than once, first through the press of his military duty and later through illness. When he was recovered, Nallaneen resumed his pose on Madame Carriera’s dais and held it doggedly.

  Madame Carriera worked for perhaps half an hour and then set her palette aside. “Sit down before you fall down,” she commanded. “Hail, run down to the kitchen and mull some wine for Captain Nallaneen.”

  “I’m fine,” said Nallaneen, sinking into his chair with relief. “It’s only a head cold.”

  “You’re green,” Madame Carriera informed him. “I can’t work on your skin tones when you’re green.”

  “His nose isn’t usually that red either,” I added. I would have said Nallaneen looked gray, not green, but there was no denying that but for the tip of his nose, he was too pale.

  “Mull wine for both of us,” said Madame Carriera, “and remember to clean up after yourself.”

  I mulled wine for all three of us, and tidied up too. By the time I returned to the workshop, Madame Carriera had put things aside for me to clean. I drank my wine while it was warm and then set to work on the brushes. Just as well I hadn’t made any more. I could feel my own nose turning red.

  “Thank you for the wine,” said Nallaneen to me. “It’s very good.”

  Madame Carriera said, “Hail is a handy youngster, when she pays attention to what she’s doing.”

  I was surprised into silence by the praise.

  “Not so young as all that, surely,” said Nallaneen.

  “She’s young for her age,” said Madame Carriera.

  “I’m seventeen,” I stated. I was, but only just.

  “A fine age for an apprentice,” he said.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-three.”

  I would have guessed more. To cover my surprise, I said the first thing that entered my head. “Do you ever play knucklebones?”

  “Not since I was a small boy. But I think I can remember the basics. Make your toss, sweep up the bones, and catch your toss again. Right?”

  “Right. Basically.”

  “Perhaps you’ll show me the finer points sometime.”

  “I will. But not until you’re over your head cold. You’ll need a clear head and a steady hand.”

  “Let me know when you think I’m ready.”

  FOUR

  (In which I study my craft.)

  February yielded eventually. The days began to soften. Nights were not so long. My second spring in Aravis was perfection. I had friends. I had work to do. I had more to learn than I had time to learn it in. Best of all, I had the most beautiful city in the world to study, making my way through every winding street, every crowded market in Aravis, until I had it by heart.

  When fair weather finally came, the city welcomed it with every window flung open, every clothesline hung out heavy with fresh laundry. The gray stone of the city looked blue in the young sunlight of spring, and every roof tile gleamed after the long rains of winter.

  In May came the days of ivory and gold, when the sun rose before we did, and made even the fly-specked windows of our garret glow with splendor. On such days, the gifts that we were trying so hard to refine seemed undeniable. Our boldness matched our gaiety. We learned our craft and our art with the appetite of our years. That which did not come at once, we trusted would come in time.

  Gabriel, Saskia, Piers, and I studied Aravis at Madame Carriera’s bidding. I learned which apothecary sold the best quality gum arabic, just as I learned how to use it in compounding colors to meet Madame Carriera’s standards.

  Madame Carriera sent us out for more than mere errands. In the Chapel of St. Mary’s by the south gate, there was a Madonna painted by Andrea Mantegna of Padua. Madame Carriera thought highly of this panel, though it seemed lumpish and gaudy to me. She sent me to visit it often, as she could see I was not impressed.

  I went willingly to the mercers guild hall, where there was a pair of bronze doors wondrously made. They were of Tuscan workmanship. Six panels to one door, six panels to the other, the months of the year were represented. The figures symbolizing the cavalcade of the year were arranged simply, a large central figure in each panel sometimes flanked by smaller figures to each side. January was the old man keeping the gate, February the water carrier, March the fishmonger, and so on around the calendar. Every line of those doors was inevitable. The pair could have been crafted of wood or marble as easily as bronze, and every composition would have made as fine a fresco as it did a bronze.

  Who could tell what mischance brought them to our end of the world? The merchants of the Lidian Empire were a canny lot and those of Aravis the canniest of all. Small wonder they knew a bargain when they saw one and brought such treasure home.

  There was no quarter of Aravis that did not have some point of interest, whether a grand portal on an old building or a good view over the slate rooftops to the tangled streets of the wilder part of town. The city walls were my favorite spot. They were guarded, of course, but most days we could walk along the battlements and look out at the world beyond our walls. I liked the north ramparts, for there one could see the Lida flowing down from the misty blue of the hills.

  Saskia showed me the north ramparts first. It was a favorite of hers, as she had the true city dweller’s love for a beautiful landscape. Easy to admire the woods when one has never known a wood tick. The more distant a view was, the better she liked it. “Lovely, isn’t it? Aren’t you ever homesick for Neven?”

  “I am when I remember to be, but I don’t remember very often. I like it here. I belong here.”

  “No one who really belongs here ever admits they like the city. That’s hopelessly provincial.”

  “I like it, and I belong here.”

  “Keep talking like that and you’ll be marked for life as an outlander.”

  “Oh? Will I? Well, I don’t care. Aravis agrees with me.” I didn’t feel at all provincial. I felt the very curl of my hair improve every time I washed it in the water of Aravis. To me, the water of the city even tasted different from the water I’d known as a child. In Neven, the water had a faint iron tang to it and was always slow to lather. The water of Aravis felt more kindly to me. It had an indefinable sweetness, just a shading, like the faint color in old glass. It never seemed as cold to me as the water of Neven, nor did it take quite as long to boil.

  Saskia studied me curiously. “Don’t you even miss your family?”

  “Of course I do. I write to them all the time.”

  Saskia shook her head. “They write to you all the time. You only write back when there’s something good to tell them.”

  “Madame Carriera keeps us all busy. I’m sure they understand.”

  “I’m sure they do. They’d be mad to expect anything else of you. When will your father come to Aravis again?”

  “This summer, with the woolpack.”

  “This time are you going to let us see him—if only from a distance?”

  “I’d have introduced you last time, if I’d known you were interested.” This was not quite true. The summer before, Father’s visit to Aravis had been cut short by the press of business. I’d been so glad to see him, even for a few days, that it had never entered my head to bring him to Giltspur Street to introduce him to my fellow apprentices. Truth to tell, I hadn’t trusted myself not to cling to his sleeve like a child. Not the way to behave in front of Saskia and Piers, let alone Gabriel.

  “Well, promise to bring him next time.”

  “Promise.”

  That June we studied the pillars in the ambulatory at the little church of St. Lefko’s. This was an exercise set by Madame Carriera. The pillars were of the Corinthian order, done in the best classical style. One of the pillars was a true work of antiquity. All the rest were copies. Madame Carriera instructed us to study the pillars, decide which one was original, which were copies, and explain why we thought so, with sketches to back our argument.

  Gabriel taunted me in St. Lefko’s
. “What, don’t you know the classical when you see it, Madame Rosamer?” He seldom missed an opportunity to call me Madame Rosamer. I could hardly conceal my dislike of that nickname, and he knew it. “You’re sketching them all.”

  “That was what Madame Carriera told us to do.”

  “No, she told us to identify the original.” He held out his open notebook to show off a beautifully detailed drawing of an acanthus capital. “Why waste time on the copies? Oh, you need the practice, perhaps.”

  “I’m following Madame Carriera’s instructions. I want to be ready to defend my argument.” I could have added Master Wex, but I knew it would please him more than annoy him, and anyway the words would only stick in my throat.

  “What argument? It’s obvious which is the original and which the copies. Can’t you tell?”

  I thought it was obvious too, but just in case I was wrong, I wasn’t about to reveal my choice to Gabriel. He mocked me at every small opportunity. I didn’t want to give him a chance to ridicule me over something serious. “She told us to be able to explain how we know. I want to make some measurements.”

  “What for?” Gabriel gave a dismissive flip of his hand. “How will you measure them? Ask the verger if you may climb up on his shoulders?”

  “I’ll just estimate. You needn’t stay.” I returned to my notebook. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you on your own.”

  He meant that, but only to annoy me. I ignored him and eventually he left. With great care and all the attention to detail I could muster, I drew the floor plan of the ambulatory, sketched the views from each direction, and did details of each pillar’s capital. The foliation of the copies was as detailed as the original, but the overall effect was stiff. I thought I detected at least two styles in the copies. It seemed pedantic, taking Madame Carriera’s task even further, but I was interested in the variations of the copies, so I recorded all I could. Only the one I’d chosen as the classical original seemed to combine both grace and ease of line. I wondered how old it was. Even the copies were stained with age. In the calm silence of St. Lefko’s, time seemed irrelevant. The rest of the world could bargain and bicker. Serenity filled St. Lefko’s.