by Jon Skovron
But he was in a sort of trance himself. He knew it, even as he was in it. He always got that way when he painted. Time stopped, and all other thoughts and worries receded. There was only the canvas, the brush, the paint, and the subject. Her.
It was late afternoon when he came up for air and saw that he was done. “Okay.” His voice was dreamy, like he was just waking up. “That’s it.”
Old Yammy scrutinized it. “Your best yet. A portrait worthy of the subject.”
“Thank you.” He knew the warm buzz of euphoria would pass soon, as Red the pat tom from Paradise Circle reasserted himself. So he savored this moment.
“Let me see.” Hope stood up from the stool, seeming no worse off for having sat completely still for over eight hours. She came around and peered at the portrait over his shoulder.
“Hm,” she said and walked away.
A cold fist seized his gut. “You don’t like it?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“No, it’s beautiful.” A slow blush crept onto her pale, freckled cheeks. “You paint me flatteringly.”
“I paint you as I see you.”
“Hm,” she said again, then turned to Old Yammy. “I hope the payment is sufficient?”
“Oh yes.” Old Yammy gave Red a mischievous look. “It turned out just as I’d hoped.”
Red didn’t like her expression. It reminded him of himself when he was pulling a con. That wasn’t too surprising. After all, Old Yammy was one of his mentors. She’d tracked him down several years back. After his time as a pirate, but before he’d met Nettles. She’d wanted him to come back to Silverback, but by then, he’d become too invested in Paradise Circle. That hadn’t stopped him from visiting now and then to learn what he could from her. While it was true she had formidable skill with blood magic and all sorts of medicinal remedies and poisons, fortune-telling was her most popular service, and anyone worth a fiveyard knew that stuff was nothing but balls and pricks. Deceit and chicanery were a necessary part of her business. She’d been the one to teach him that a clever mind could get you far more than clever fingers.
That didn’t bother Red, of course. What did bother him was when he couldn’t tell what con she was pulling, or on whom. Nine out of ten, that usually meant it was him. What it was this time, he couldn’t say. At least, not yet. She was too clever for her own good, and Old Yammy’s machinations had a way of revealing themselves, too late to be prevented, but early enough that you could recognize her handiwork if you were paying attention.
“Right…,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. Then he turned to Hope. “You ready to go?”
“Nonsense,” said Old Yammy. “You haven’t eaten a bite all day. I can’t send you back out into the world on an empty stomach.”
“We might as well,” said Hope. “I hate to let Teltho Kan slip any further away. But neither of us have money. We don’t know when we’ll be able to eat again.”
Red flashed his grin. “Money can always be got.”
“I would prefer not to steal whenever possible.” She glanced at Old Yammy, then smiled back at him. “Besides, this may be my only opportunity to learn about Rixidenteron.”
“I’m suddenly not hungry,” he said.
* * *
As Red feared, the conversation over their meal focused almost exclusively on his early childhood exploits. They sat at the large table in the center of the kitchen and ate a thick vegetable stew as Old Yammy shared one embarrassing anecdote after another. Red wasn’t sure which was worse, the smug relish with which Old Yammy told them, or the gleeful avidity with which Hope listened. Red imagined her saving up a hefty arsenal of details that she would judiciously deploy whenever she felt like making him squirm.
“So you’ve known him his whole life?” she asked Old Yammy.
“I didn’t have this shop back then. His parents and I were neighbors for the whole of his childhood. I would have taken him in when his parents passed, bless them, but I was in prison that year.”
“Prison?” asked Hope. “For what?”
“Devilry. That’s what the biomancers call it. Of course, they can bend the laws of nature as they see fit, and it’s for the good of the empire. But if someone does it who isn’t in their order, especially a woman? Well, surely that must be an evil power granted by a demon. They sweep through every five years or so, looking for anyone with real ability. If you’re a man, they may recruit you. But if you’re a woman, it’s a year on the Empty Cliffs or death. I’ve since learned to spot them coming and hide my skill. But back then I was young and stupid and eager to impress anyone who chanced by.” She turned to Red, her face growing long. “I wish I’d been there. It was a hard year, so I’m told.”
“It was,” said Red quietly.
There was a moment of quiet, during which Red silently hoped neither woman would chase those particular memories into the light. He was grateful when Old Yammy then said, “Fortunately, I found him a few years later. He was changed by then. Already going by Red, his head filled with the wild roguery Sadie the Goat put there, that old sturgeon.”
“You’ve met?” asked Hope.
“Of course. And for all the trouble she’s wrought, I’ll always be grateful to her for saving this one’s life and keeping him more or less out of trouble.” She poked Red in the shoulder. “But he’s come by now and then to learn a thing or two from me over the years.”
“And what did you teach him?” asked Hope.
Old Yammy laughed, a rich throaty burst. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Then she laughed again.
Red was surprised by her evasion. It hadn’t been any remarkable thing. He’d had no real aptitude for blood magic, so she’d taught him her other trade. The subtle art of convincing people of things. But perhaps her reluctance to talk of it was no great mystery. As she’d said to him many a time, a magician never reveals her secrets, except to her apprentice.
Still, there were hints of some long game she’d been playing since the night before. Whatever it was, Red dreaded its inevitable revelation.
* * *
But perhaps he was too suspicious. Because they left Madame Destiny’s House of All with no shocking turns. Either she was playing a truly long game, or Red had been wrong to worry.
“Will you get word to Sadie?” he asked her. “She’s down at the docks, working on a ship called the Lady’s Gambit with Missing Finn. Just let her know we’re okay, give her an idea what we’re doing. Nothing too specific, though. I don’t want her to worry.”
“I’ll tell her what she needs to know,” said Old Yammy. Then she reached out and embraced him, something she rarely did. “It’ll be a while until I see you again. You’ll have grown up a lot by then. Promise you won’t forget your Old Yammy, keen?” She squeezed him hard.
“Yeah, alright,” he said, a little embarrassed.
It was shortly after sunset when they set out. Hope kept her sword at her side, her hand resting on the pommel so she could feel it move while keeping it from actually pointing.
“What did Old Yammy mean?” asked Hope. “When she was talking about not seeing you for a while? Is she going somewhere?”
Red shook his head. “She puts on that she has some sort of Sight, like she can see the future. It’s all balls and pricks, though. Nobody can see the future, because we haven’t made it yet.”
“It’s said the Dark Mage could see the future. Some believe it was what drove him mad.”
“Could you blame him?” asked Red. “I mean, if it was possible, which it isn’t, then seeing the future but not being able to do anything about it? That would make anyone slippy.”
“What if they could do something about it?” asked Hope.
“Then it wouldn’t be the future anymore, now would it?”
“Good point,” conceded Hope.
They walked silently down the main thoroughfare, each block bringing a different melody from a different musician: drummers, flautists, string players, singers, all of them performing for the few coin
s tossed into their hats. The lacies tossed coppers, silvers, even the occasional gold piece. Red wondered if there was some sort of competition among them on who could be the most extravagant. If you could afford to toss a gold coin to a string player just because you fancied his tune, you must be wealthy indeed.
“The lights and the music and the colors…,” said Hope. “I’ve never encountered a place like this before. It almost doesn’t feel real.”
Red watched the lamplight play across her skin. Her hair was pulled back again, but it still had a faint angelic glow to it. The shadows and light flickered across her features in a way that made his fingers itch to paint her again.
“What?” she said.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He hurriedly faced forward again. That’s when Old Yammy’s long game hit him. She was playing pissing matchmaker, trying to get Red hooked on Hope. Before, he’d admired Hope’s many attractive features, as any hot-blooded tom with a fancy for mollies might. But he was no lovesick piddle anymore. When he’d found out she was not for tossing, he’d been fairly successful in realigning his view of her into fellow wag and not a thing more. But now? He couldn’t stop noticing things. All the little details he’d painted kept catching his attention. It was distracting, and it made his heart sick with frustration. But what could he do except bear it? The only other option was to get away from her as quickly as possible. But the mere thought of that froze his insides. That’s how he knew Old Yammy’s plan had worked, and he was well and truly sotted. Of course, Yammy didn’t realize that nothing could ever come of it because of that pissing vow of chastity.
Hope lifted her chin and inhaled. “I smell the sea. My sword is pointing in that direction. Could he have left New Laven?”
“That’s Joiner’s Bay up ahead. It cuts into New Laven pretty deep. On the other side is Keystown. He could be there.”
“Good.”
“Not really. First we have to go all the way around the bay, or else find a way across. We could get word to Sadie and ask her to bring up your ship, assuming the ship is ready. Even if it is, that would take a day for her to sail up the coast from New Laven.”
“We’re already further behind than I would have liked.”
“You were the one who said we should stay for dinner,” Red pointed out.
“A Vinchen knows when the limits of the body should be considered.”
“Meaning, you were starving.”
“Yes,” she said without a trace of embarrassment.
“Well, no matter how we cross, once we get to Keystown, we likely won’t find it a friendly place, since it’s imp headquarters. Teltho Kan is probably spreading your description all over. The imps around here may not have picked it up yet. But the ones up there will be looking for you, true as trouble. We’ll need to disguise your more striking features before we cross the bay.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Which features are those?”
“The blond hair and the Vinchen leather.” And the unearthly beauty, he thought to himself with a healthy amount of self-mockery.
“What sort of disguise did you have in mind?”
“If we’re going uptown, it should be a lacy disguise.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to paint myself orange?”
“They don’t all do that. But many wear silly hats and big poufy dresses.”
“Wonderful,” she said without enthusiasm. “So where do we get this disguise?”
“Need you even ask?” He pressed his hand to his chest, affecting a hurt tone.
Her eyes narrowed. “You plan to steal it.”
“Naturally. Even if we did have money, it wouldn’t be near enough for a whole lacy getup. Those cost more than you or I see in a year. We just have to find a lacy woman about your size.”
He began to look for a victim as they continued walking toward the bay. The street ended at the edge of a cliff. Far below, the moon glinted off the dark water. The reflection was blotted out here and there by the dark shapes of small leisure boats owned by lacies. He could faintly hear their wooden creaks as they moved with the water. Further up the coast, he caught the sound of classical music. Not earthy street musicians, but a proper twinkling lacy orchestra. He looked toward the sound and could just make out the source: a large building right on the edge of the cliff overlooking the bay.
He smiled wolfishly. “Bayview Gallery. Come on. I have a sudden desire to reconnect with my childhood.”
* * *
Bayview Gallery was the most prestigious art gallery in Silverback, which made it the most prestigious gallery in New Laven and possibly the entire empire. It was four stories of gratuitous architecture. Arches, flying buttresses, domed balconies, and rotundas, just to name the more obvious. As he and Hope approached, its massive windows glowed like giant lanterns. It would have been enough to light up the entire block on its own. But of course there were street lamps, twice as many as any other block, and guttering torches as well, just for the aesthetics.
“I don’t understand why you’d want to rob someone at your own mother’s show,” said Hope.
“Mom hated this place, like any proper artist in Silverback does. She said you knew your art was no longer relevant when they hung it in Bayview.”
“Even if that’s true, the people inside are there because they admire your mother’s art. That has to count for something.”
“Why? Because they buy and sell her work for more money than she ever saw during her life? Someone’s getting rich off the passion that killed her. If that counts for something, it’s a place in one of the wetter hells.”
Hope said nothing more as they approached the gallery, and Red was glad. He needed to calm down. Quiet his mind so he could do this properly. Yes, rolling a lacy at his mom’s gallery show had a certain self-indulgent flourish to it. But he was still a professional.
The place was too brightly lit to sneak into, and looking like they did, they’d get turned away by the two thick-shouldered boots guarding the front door.
Fortunately, there was brisk traffic between the small larder building and the gallery, as lacy servants hauled food and drink in a continuous stream for the insatiable rich. Red and Hope worked their way around to the larder and grabbed a cask of ale between them, then fell behind a harried, silver-haired servant with a smoked ham under one arm and a cheese wheel under the other. They followed him across an open stretch of grass to the servants’ entrance on the side of the gallery. The entrance led straight to the kitchen, where Hope and Red were greeted by a vast banquet of food. Meat and cheese, fish and fruit, cut into tiny pieces and artfully arranged on huge silver platters. Even though he’d already eaten, Red stared at it all hungrily.
“Red, don’t,” said Hope. “You’ll draw more attention.”
“More?” Red glanced around. Servants were staring at them and whispering. Of course, because everyone around them was in a servant uniform. “Right. Time to go.”
Before anyone could stop them, they took the nearest door. It led out into a long hallway with arched ceilings. The floors were white marble, the walls had gilded wallpaper, and burgundy velvet drapes hung from the windows. It was empty of people and art, but the music sounded in full swing upstairs. Red guessed most of the “art patrons” were up there right now. He hoped there were at least a few people down on this level looking at the actual art. So he could steal their clothes, of course.
He pressed forward. “Come on, the main gallery must be this way.”
“You do have some kind of plan, right?” asked Hope as she walked beside him. She kept glancing around, looking even more uncomfortable than when he’d first taken her to Gunpowder Hall. Red wondered if she’d ever seen anything as luxurious as this place. Probably not. Just when she’d adjusted to the Circle, he’d dragged her somewhere even more alien. He had to admit, he took a certain perverse delight in that.
“Pfft, plans are for amateurs.” He kept his tone light
and unconcerned.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m fairly certain they’re the mark of a professional.”
They crossed into a large room where two hallways intersected. Above them hung a massive crystal chandelier. “How is it lit?” asked Hope, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Gas piped in through the walls.”
She shook her head. “Amazing.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Red scanned the other hallways and found one of them had people. Now he needed to find a woman about Hope’s size wearing a hat. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d get her clothes, but he’d figure that part out later. Depending on her character, anything from guile to a blunt instrument might work.
As they walked past lacies staring at his mother’s paintings, he couldn’t help listening in on their comments.
“So striking!”
“Ethereal, wouldn’t you say?”
“Captivating! I can’t turn away.”
“This one’s a bit lurid, don’t you think?”
It set his teeth on edge. He didn’t like these lacies staring at his mother’s work like they had some right or claim to it. He hurried past them, fighting to stay focused and search for a thin woman with a hat. It was dawning on him that this whole thing was a terrible mistake. He shouldn’t have come anywhere near this gallery. But it was too late now.
That’s when he saw the painting. He hadn’t meant to. In fact, he’d been doing his best to avoid looking at any of them, knowing their memories might throw off what little calm he was still clinging to. But his eyes were drawn helplessly to one particular canvas at the end of the hall. He stumbled over to it almost against his will. He stood there and stared, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Red?” Hope appeared beside him. He was dimly aware she was looking back and forth between him and the painting. “Are you okay?”
