by John Tristan
“Of course.”
“Doiran will bring you something to drink. I’ll just fetch him; he’s in the cellars.”
I started a little at hearing the Gaelta name, so near to my own father-given surname. How many Gaelta were here, so far from their old homeland, when there were barely any in Lun?
Maxen grinned at her, showing nearly all of his fine teeth. “A glass of wine will do, Yana, thank you.”
She said nothing to this, and she left Maxen and I alone, sitting close together on the settee.
Maxen’s nerves seemed to have calmed a little, though he was still shifting side to side, as if he had a small but painful thorn lodged in him. He said nothing, but kept on glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. It was, I thought, the look of a man who’d made a large purchase and wasn’t sure if he’d been overcharged.
A stout, aproned man bustled through, his face ruddy as his hair with exertion. He carried a silver tray, with two glasses; the wine sloshed as he put it down on a side-table. “My pardon,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. His accent was more musical than Gren’s, but still unmistakable. “Master Tallisk had me rearranging the wines when you arrived.”
“Well,” Maxen said, “you were in the right place then, according to me.” He took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips noisily. “Thank you very much, Doiran.”
Doiran tipped his head. “Is there anything else I can fetch for you?” His eyes flickered to me, and a momentary frown crowded his wide face, but he said nothing to me, nor asked any question of Maxen.
“No,” Maxen said. “We are fine.”
“Then if you’ll pardon me,” Doiran said, again tipping his head in a sort of abbreviated bow. He left, leaving the tray behind. I’d not touched my wine yet. I hadn’t eaten, and my stomach was churning, but it was more nerves than hunger that contracted it. If I drank, I thought I might be ill.
A few minutes passed in silence, save for Maxen’s sighs and the rustle of his clothes against the settee. Then Yana reappeared at the door. Maxen looked up, every inch of him alert at once. He seemed for all the world like a dog that had scented game. “Well?”
Yana shrugged. “He can come up.”
Maxen began to rise from the settee, and I mirrored him, but Yana held up her hand. “Not you, Udred. The boy comes up alone. Master Tallisk says he has no patience for your salesmanship.”
He sputtered. “That’s unreasonable! I’ve not even explained to the lad—”
“Or you can leave,” she said. “It’s in your hands.”
Maxen deflated, sitting down heavily. “Go on,” he said to me.
“What—” I frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
“Be courteous. Answer his questions honestly. And don’t look so glum!” He attempted to follow his own last advice, favoring me with a wobbling smile. “Good luck.”
With slow reluctance, I followed Yana out of the sitting room. She threw me a sympathetic look as we climbed the stairs. “What’s he told you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Save that Master Tallisk is a tattoo-master.”
She paused for a moment in her climb and turned to me. “What’s your name?”
“Etan Dairan.”
“Etan...” She sighed. “You know what an Adorned is?”
I shifted my shoulders and looked at her, trying to feign an aloofness that I did not feel. “Yes. I mean, I have read about them. I know—”
“Well,” she cut in, “Master Tallisk is looking for a new one.” With that, she turned away, ascending the final flight of stairs.
I felt a shiver crawl up my spine like a spider. At once, things clicked into place. Like Maxen’s cool, considering look, when he’d seen me clean and bruiseless for the first time.
Of course I had not considered it before. Adorned were strange and exotic to me, like birds caught in lands beyond the sea; they were something glimpsed from a wistful distance. They served the Blooded like living art, displaying their beauty; it was said the Blooded rewarded them with rare and strange gifts for their service.
Whether that was true or not, though, I knew they did not spring into their lives fully formed, born with intricate art tattooed on their skin—their Adornments, their living art, would have to be painstakingly created by a tattoo-master, someone who would plot the entirety of their design and use their skin as his canvas.
I had forgotten that, until their art was completed, Adorned were their tattoo-masters’ bondservants.
We’d reached the top of the house. There was a single door; it stood half-ajar. From the corner of my eye I saw a man’s black boots resting atop a huge wooden chest.
“Sir?” Yana knocked lightly upon the doorframe. “I’ve brought him up.”
There was the clatter of boots hitting the floor. “Send him in,” a voice called from within. “And wait outside.”
Yana nudged me softly in the small of my back, and I stepped into the atelier.
Chapter Seven
It was the brightest room I’d ever seen. Wintry light streamed in through the large windows. I saw now why I couldn’t see inside from the street: curtains of thin gauze covered them, like cobwebs. A skylight allowed even more of the day inside. A sliver of sun peeked through the winter clouds overhead. Trunks, papers, bits of fabric, arcane tools and sketches were scattered everywhere, save closest to the windows, where two massive mirrors were set at sharp angles, throwing light everywhere. I caught a glimpse of myself in them; I looked small and spooked as a rabbit.
Roberd Tallisk was sitting in an easy chair, legs sprawled open, his hands linked together loosely. He was a large man, thirty or a few years past. His hair was wild and black. For the space of a few seconds he remained there, looking at me with slightly tilted head. Then he rose and walked to me with quick, heavy steps. He loomed over me, broad and bearlike. His eyes, a very dark blue, did not quite settle on mine, but took in the whole of me: the planes of my face, the shape of my body. He was assessing me.
I thought he’d ask my name; ask for an introduction. Instead, he said, “How old are you?”
“I came of age three years ago.”
He looked at me, hard-eyed. “Truly?”
“I—yes.” His question took me aback, a little. “I am nineteen, sir.”
“Good. You’ll have your full height, then.”
I had always been small of size. I’d known early I always would be; I had reached my father’s full height when I was fourteen. But Tallisk, tall and hale as an oak, must have suspected I was shamming manhood. I felt stiff with embarrassment.
He stepped back a little, narrowing his eyes. “Take off your shirt.”
“Sir?”
“Undress, boy. I need to see your skin.”
I hesitated a moment. He waited, arms crossed. I swallowed and pulled my shirt over my head. I held it in my hand; he took it from me and put it atop the great trunk.
“The trousers as well.”
I swallowed. “Pardon, sir?”
There was something akin to compassion in his eyes then—or, at least, a grudging comprehension of my reticence. “I must see all of you. To make sure you are free of flaws.”
Eyes half-closed, I stripped off the trousers and the last of my underthings. Tallisk took them and laid them gently on the trunk.
“Turn around,” he said.
I did. I felt his eyes on me.
“Hold up your arms.” I heard him come closer, the warmth of him drawing near. My eyes flicked open. He had kneeled in front of me and was scrutinizing me. He reached up and brushed his fingers lightly over a patch of skin on my hip. I held myself as still as I could. “Some blemishes, here,” he said. He rose and held me by the shoulders, turning me this way and that. “And more freckles than would be ideal, though overall you’re quite pale. Have you been in the sun, much?”
“No, Master Tallisk.”
He made a face. “‘Sir’ will do. Do you burn badly?”
“Pardon?”
“In th
e sun, boy. Do you burn badly?”
I could not recall if I’d ever sunbathed, as such, but I had never burned either, even in the heights of summer. I shook my head.
“Hold up your arms once more. No, not so high. There.” He moved around me like a sculptor, like a horse buyer, every now and then lightly brushing his fingers against a curve of hip or hollow of back. I found myself biting my lip, suppressing an urge to start at his touch. “There’s room for improvement,” he said at last. “Put your clothes back on.”
I did, at speed.
“Sit down.” He gestured to the wooden trunk; it would do as a chair for me, it seemed. I sat. I had been shaking. Only now, in stilling, did I realize it.
Tallisk went to a cabinet and took out a carafe and a small glass. He poured a measure of clear liquid and handed it to me. “Drink this.”
I brought it cautiously to my lips. It smelled sweet and sharp. I took a cautious swig, then two, then drained the glass in a few burning swallows.
He pulled his own chair close to the trunk and sat upon it. There was a kind of hard appreciation in his look; despite his words, which had been less than compliments, I could tell he liked the look of me. I do not know if it was that or the drink which made my heart beat in a fast, erratic rhythm. “You know what the purchase of your bond means, were I to buy it?”
“I have some idea.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it.” He leaned back in his chair. He wore an odd expression, a sort of half smile, as if he was amused by my supposed ignorance.
I felt my hackles rise, but kept silent. I looked at up him and held his eyes. He frowned slightly, caught by my gaze. Let him judge me, I thought, let him laugh at the thought of a callow Lowlander half-breed knowing the least about his world: if his offer was sincere, it was more than I could have hoped for in a lifetime.
Five years of servitude I owed, but now there was the chance of a glittering prize at the end of it: I would wear my livelihood on my skin. Wherever I walked, people would crane their necks to see me, caught in fascination—as I had been, trying to catch a glimpse of Adorned ink from the loft of Lun’s inn years ago. I saw myself swathed in fabric and jewels, hiding beneath them a treasure that no one could ever take from me.
“That may be,” I said, in an almost-whisper, “but I am willing to learn.”
“Good.” In one motion he stood and snatched the glass from my fingers. “You know your contract will have to be redrawn?”
This I had not known. “Redrawn? Why?”
He ignored my question and walked to the door. “Still there, Yana?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring Maxen up.”
She nodded to him and ran downstairs, clattering on the way down. Then I heard her slow return with Maxen, the older man huffing with exertion as he climbed the stairs behind her. Tallisk heard it as well; judging by the small, grim little smile he wore, he quite enjoyed hearing it.
“Ah,” Maxen said, when he was at last ushered into the atelier. “Roberd! What do you think of him?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen better.”
Maxen’s face fell. “But he is very pretty, don’t you think? Such unusual coloring. Eyes so green—with his shade of skin, that is a rare find. And quite pale. He would take the ink well.”
Tallisk chuckled. “Don’t bother, Maxen. I’ll have him.”
Maxen’s lips split in a wide smile, his eyes green-keen. “I thought so! I thought so. He’ll be a fine prize for the Blood, he will. You did say I had a good eye for boys, didn’t you? You did say that.”
Tallisk gestured to me. “Tell him about the contract.”
He laughed, a trifle shakily. “Isn’t this something for us to negotiate first, Roberd?”
“Tell him.”
Reluctantly, he turned to me. “Your indenture with me will be invalidated, and a new contract drawn up,” Maxen said. “The law is different, for Adorned. There shall be more restrictions, and greater rewards, of course.”
“What sort of restrictions?” I directed my question to Tallisk, not to Maxen.
Tallisk’s face showed the ghost of a smile, but he spoke without mockery. “Until I am done with you, your skin will belong to me,” he said. “That means I have say over all that could affect it—your eating habits, your comings and goings, even your bathing regimen. Anything that could affect my art.”
Maxen nodded in agreement. His voice was different when he spoke again, dry, a breathing quotation. “For the term of your indenture, any moneys earned in your function as Adorned will go to pay your room and board, and of course to Master Tallisk’s time and expense in the making of your art. Any action you take that could compromise your ability to ‘show’ this art will have serious repercussions for you: at Master Tallisk’s discretion, your indenture could be extended or sold to a third party, or he could seek legal remedy against you.”
I nodded slowly. “So, if I were to be injured—”
“Exactly. If you got hot-tempered and dueled someone who bore you insult...” Maxen paused to chuckle at that thought, and I clenched my fists against my sides. “Or if you spent the day sunning yourself and were badly burned, harming the tattoos, you would be liable. After your indenture, of course, you are free of such restraints, though you’d want to preserve your skin. Five years is the traditional term, as in any indenture.” He glanced to Tallisk. “Would you wish to extend or shorten the term?”
“No. A traditional contract.” He turned to me. “What do you say?”
I looked from him to Maxen. “I thought I had been indentured. What say do I have?”
“Adornment,” Tallisk said, “is always a choice.” He sat on his haunches in front of me, his face unreadable. “What do you say?”
Chapter Eight
For a while I said nothing. I looked away from Tallisk and Maxen, turning inward.
There was something I did not quite trust in Tallisk—a carelessness, almost a wildness to his manner. What kind of tattoo-master chose his Adorned on a single meeting? Still, his offer was a tempting one. More than merely tempting: What other master could offer me a future inscribed on my skin? If I were to be indentured as some household servant, I would be granted five years of security. As an Adorned, I could have a lifetime’s worth...at least if I took more care with my wealth than my father had.
Perhaps if I’d had a measure of his wealth left to me, I could have tried for an apprenticeship as a clerk, instead—but even so, what clerk could offer me the chance to become a living work of art? My father might have played beautiful music, but I? I could become the song.
I drew in breath and made my choice.
“Yes.”
I said it quietly, so quietly that both men looked at me, not quite sure of what they had heard.
“Yes,” I repeated. “I will do it.”
“Good,” Tallisk said. He did not seem surprised. “We will draw up the contract now.”
“Now?” Maxen almost laughed. “But—”
“Why waste time? I have ink and paper here, and Yana can be our witness.”
If, callow country boy that I was, I made an unlikely candidate for Adornment, Tallisk made a fine master for me. From what I knew of the Adorned, there were niceties, ceremonies even, to be observed between a tattoo-master and his new canvas. Although I supposed those would have taken place when an Adorned-to-be had sought the privilege themselves, not been sold into it.
By Maxen’s uneasy laughter, I could see he was thinking the same thing I was. The bond-broker bit his lip and shuffled like an actor who had forgotten his lines; at last, he rallied and said, “I suppose you’re right. Why waste time, eh? We’ve got him here. I suppose you’ll want to start on your newest project right away?”
Tallisk looked at me. “He’ll need a lot of scrubbing, before I can begin.”
I bit my lip and looked away.
“I shall draw up the contract then, if you give me the paper—”
“One moment. Yana, come in here?
We’ll need you to witness.”
She slipped into the room, standing to Tallisk’s side, hands clasped behind her back. She and Tallisk waited as Maxen bent over the desk, writing up my new contract. It did not take him long, his handwriting crabbed scratches upon the paper. “Here, ah, it is done.”
Tallisk snatched it up, ink still wet, and read it quickly. Then, unexpectedly, he held it out to me.
He did not seem surprised when I took it and began to read. I read the hurried lines of Maxen’s handwriting. There were careful clauses and appeals to the gods; I read through them to the heart of it. Five years would Tallisk have of me, and the right of my skin. More than that: as his Adorned, I’d take my master’s name. I’d not known that. Dairan would be a buried patronymic. From the moment I signed, I would be Etan writ-Tallisk.
And there, in a narrow parenthesis, was the question of money. For the purchase of my bond, Tallisk would pay Maxen Udred five thousand ral.
It was more money than had ever been in my father’s accounts.
The signing itself was over within moments, without ceremony. First I signed, then Maxen Udred. Tallisk signed his own name in a sloppily expansive scrawl, leaving a spreading inkblot upon the page. I read his full name and title upon the paper: Roberd guild-Meret Tallisk, Master Tattooist. Yana put her witness mark, and it was done: I was—in law, at least—an Adorned.
“Now, your payment,” Tallisk said. “Will it be coin or credit, Maxen?”
I almost choked on my next breath; did Tallisk really have five thousand ral lying about his house? Maxen turned a vivid shade of near-purple and muttered that a note of credit at a bank of Tallisk’s choosing would be perfectly, more than perfectly, acceptable.
“Done.” He wrote out a note of credit to Maxen, who received it in limp hands. “Yana? Show Maxen out, please.”
His mouth opened and closed at this show of rudeness, but he could not exactly protest with the ink still wet on the credit note held in his hands. “Will the boy stay—”
