Rielle shook her head. “Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Rielle. Tell us, or we’ll imagine the worst.”
Rielle sighed. “It’s not what you think. He asked me to sit for a portrait. Which, of course, I refused.”
Their eyes went round. “Oh! Why would you do that?” Bayla asked. “He’s very good, I’ve heard.”
“Very good,” Tareme agreed.
“My parents would never agree to it,” Rielle pointed out.
“Why not?” Tareme asked. “What harm is there in sitting for a portrait?”
“None at all, so long as your clothes are on,” Bayla said, then laughed.
The girls chuckled at the joke, but Rielle’s attempt to join in sounded forced. Tareme patted her arm.
“We’re being silly. Would you like him to paint you?”
Rielle felt her face warming, though there was truly no reason to be embarrassed. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But only so—”
“Why is it that men can have their portraits done with no hint of scandal, but women can’t?” Bayla interrupted.
“Because artists are men,” Famire replied.
Rielle turned to look at her. “I paint. So does my aunt.”
“But you don’t paint professionally,” Tareme pointed out.
“Which wouldn’t be scandalous,” Bayla added.
“Yes, it would,” Tareme disagreed.
“A woman artist is unconventional,” Bayla argued. “But a model is but one step from a prostitute. Both sell their bodies to men.”
“Unless the artist is a woman?” Rielle asked.
They considered. “It doesn’t seem as bad,” Bayla replied. Tareme shook her head in disagreement.
“My aunt and I have painted each other,” Rielle told them. “With our clothes on, of course. Is that like prostitution? Is it scandalous?”
“That’s … family,” Tareme said. “And you didn’t pay each other, I’m guessing.”
Rielle shook her head. “So how important is the money? If a woman poses for a male artist and he doesn’t pay her is it still like prostitution? What if she pays him to pose for her?”
Bayla giggled. “Then he’s the prostitute!”
They all laughed at the absurdity of that, then Tareme waved at the server.
“Another round of drinks!”
“Not for me.” Rielle looked at the pamphlets. “We still have these to give out.”
“Leave them there,” Famire told her. “If people want them they’ll take them. If they don’t, Sa-Baro will never know.”
“And if you’re worried about going home drunk, just pretend you’re tired after a long morning delivering pamphlets and go to your room,” Tareme told her. “Don’t get close enough to anyone for them to smell you and I’m sure they won’t notice.”
Bayla sniggered. Her sister gave her a fleeting, stern look and Bayla blushed, glanced at Rielle and covered her mouth with a hand.
It wasn’t the snigger but the look that stiffened Rielle’s back, confirming that Bayla’s laugh had been at her expense. Tareme has had to curtail her sister’s rudeness before, Rielle guessed. Maybe she laughs along with Bayla in private.
As the second round of alcoholic juices was served, suddenly Rielle did not want to linger any longer. Picking up a bundle of pamphlets, she rose. “Well, I’m not taking the chance that Sa-Baro isn’t going to check on us. Anyone coming?”
The girls exchanged looks, then shook their heads. Anger flared through Rielle and she turned and walked away before she could say anything she would regret later.
Bayla’s voice, too quiet to be directed at Rielle, reached her ears.
“We’re supposed to stay together.”
“Let her go. She said she knows her way around these parts,” Tareme replied.
“I’m sure she does,” Famire added.
Choosing a street at random, Rielle took a couple of steps but as quickly as it had risen her resolve vanished. Sa-Baro had said they should stay together. Returning to the corner, she saw that the girls were laughing again.
“Oh, everyone knows why she’s there. She hasn’t a chance,” Famire said.
Tareme nodded. “I feel sorry for her. The only ones she’s likely to catch are ones we don’t want. The ugly, the stupid and the mean.”
“Like Ako.”
“No, there’s no risk of that. He won’t marry until he’s forced to, and Father would never approve of him marrying a dyer’s daughter. If we had a younger brother he might consider her, if links to her family were profitable enough.”
Turning away, Rielle began walking again. So. I suspected as much. I’m not good enough for the families, unless as a bride for the men nobody else wants. All these temple lessons and attempts to befriend my fellow students have been a waste of time. She looked at the pamphlets and considered throwing them away, but her eyes caught the word “tainted” and reminded her that the priests, at least, were trying to do some good.
She began to offer them to everyone she passed. Few accepted them. Even so, her anger faded with each step.
But it was replaced by a creeping fear.
Memories returned of her abductor dragging her along streets like these. She remembered his knife pressed into her back. When people looked at her, their gaze dropping to the expensive cloth of her skirt and tunic, she began to feel out of place and vulnerable. While she never wore jewellery to temple classes, she couldn’t be seen among the other girls wearing anything of low quality.
Then, like a cool breeze chasing away the summer heat, she remembered Izare. When escorting her home, after the tainted had passed, he had told her where he lived, describing how close it was to her home and how safe the area was. He had gone on to talk fondly of his neighbours, who were all either brilliant artisans and performers or drunks – or all three – and of the bold ways they had decorated their homes. His descriptions had made her want to see his neighbourhood. Which was all part of his attempt to persuade her to sit for him, of course.
And yet … she did want to see them.
So she kept walking, heading towards the area he lived in. Though this part of the city was more populated, fewer people accepted the pamphlets, but their refusals were polite and most people smiled at her. Her earlier anxiety faded a little. The brightly painted walls cheered her. She reached an area where they were not only coloured, but decorated with patterns around windows and doors. Looking down one alley, she glimpsed the edge of a much larger design and could not resist venturing down it to see. It was of an enormous tree painted on a wall, with all manner of objects hanging from the branches.
Ahead the alley ended at what looked like another small courtyard, with more decorated walls. She followed two women to the end and stepped out into a dizzying spectacle. All of the houses were covered in images of people, animals and plants. False doors and windows opened onto unfamiliar landscapes, and even one of the Angels sleeping on a cloud. Rielle turned full circle, slowly taking it all in.
“Are you lost?” a voice asked.
She turned to see that one of the women she had followed, holding a pitcher up to the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, was looking at her. The fountain was as striking as the paintings, shaped to resemble a four-headed beast with water pouring from each mouth.
“No,” Rielle replied. “But … I am looking for Izare Saffre.”
The woman’s gaze dropped to Rielle’s clothes and she smiled. She nodded to the right. “He’s in the third house down that street.”
“Thank you.” Rielle nodded then set off in the direction the woman had indicated.
This street was narrow and filled with groups of battered, mismatched old chairs. Some of them were occupied by a group of young men and women, laughing and drinking from cheap glazed cups. Children were dashing between the chairs – a shrieking swarm of varying heights. As Rielle neared the third house she saw that images of Angels in a striking, familiar style had been painted over the door along wit
h the words: Izare Saffre, Painter.
Seeing his name, she stopped, frozen by a sudden doubt. Was this such a good idea? What if the other girls told Sa-Baro where she had gone? What if her aunt’s warning about Izare’s real motives were true? What will I say to him?
“Ais Lazuli?”
She started and turned to see one of the young drinkers walking towards her. Then she froze again as she realised this dishevelled man was familiar.
“Aos Saffre?” she said doubtfully.
He grimaced and looked down at himself. “Ah, yes. I apologise for my appearance. I have not yet been long out of bed.”
“Not long!” another male voice exclaimed. A tall man rose and walked over to lean on Izare’s shoulder. The artist immediately shook him off. “We dragged him out of there quite some time ago. But, to be fair, we haven’t let him back in to wash. We were laying bets on how long it would take him, if he had to clean up quick in time to…” The man stopped, then stepped past Izare and peered at her. “Wait…” He scooped up one of Rielle’s hands. “Who is this fine lady, Izare?”
“This,” Izare said as she pulled her hand away, “is Rielle Lazuli.”
“Ah.” The man smiled. “Well, I can see why you were determined to be on time.” His expression grew serious and intense as his attention roved over her face then shifted to her arms, down to her feet, then back again. She looked him up and down in return, noting how his skin was darker than the average Fyrian’s, his chin bristled with stubble, and his clothing and hands bore colourful stains. Another artist? That would explain his oddly analytical scrutiny. At least Izare responded to me like a person before he considered me a subject.
“This is Dorr,” Izare told her. “Setting maker and performer for the Sky Troupe, of which these other three are also a part.” He looked over to the drinkers.
“Artist and performer,” Dorr corrected, smiling. “Come and let me introduce you to the rest of us.”
Rielle looked at Izare.
He shrugged. “There’ll be no escaping him until you do.”
Following them to the table, Rielle smiled and nodded as the two women and their other male companion were introduced. Greya, Jonare and Merem were all actors, and they had come to celebrate a profitable night’s performance. Greya had pale hair and light skin, so was possibly a half-southerner. The other two looked like Fyrians. Jonare was holding a sleeping child. All three wore traces of face paint, and by the looks of it Merem had played the part of a woman. They were the sort of people she would normally watch perform, not get to talk to. She wasn’t entirely sure her parents would approve of them as friends, but neither would they consider them dangerous.
“Sit,” Dorr ordered. “Have some iquo.” He offered her a cup but she politely declined.
“So you are Izare’s desert girl,” Greya said. “He’s been talking about you for the last three quarterdays.”
Rielle felt a little thrill of pleasure, but tried to keep it from her face by narrowing her eyes at Izare. “What stories has he been telling you?”
They laughed. “Nothing bad,” Greya reassured her. “I haven’t seen him this excited by a face since…” She frowned, then shrugged. “Well, it must be over a year now.”
“You attend temple lessons at this time, don’t you?” Jonare asked.
“I do, usually,” Rielle replied. She lifted the bundle of pamphlets. “The priests decided we needed to remind the people of Fyre about the dangers of learning magic.”
Dorr took one, read it and handed it back. “We hardly need reminding,” he muttered, “after all the harassment of the last—”
“They sent you out alone?” Izare asked her.
“No, in groups. But my friends were more interested in…” Rielle looked at the empty bottles and cups on the table. “They decided to throw away the pamphlets and do whatever they felt like.”
Dorr smiled. “So you continued on your own. Well, you don’t need to worry about finishing it. We can hardly have failed to notice the evils of magic users lately.”
“I should still distribute them,” she told him, “in case the priests check on us.”
“How would they know if you handed them out or not?” Greya asked. “You’ll never get anyone around here to take them.”
“Well, I have to try.” Rielle began to stand.
“Wait.” Izare reached out and placed a hand over hers. “You’re leaving? But I haven’t started your portrait yet.”
Rielle lifted the pamphlets. “I never said I came here for that.”
“But will there ever be a better opportunity than now?”
As she opened her mouth to remind him of her parents’ disapproval, Dorr took the pamphlets from her hands. “We’ll take care of these. You have to let him sketch you at least.”
“But—”
“There’s no harm in a little sketch. All you have to do is sit here. You can even pretend that you didn’t notice.”
Izare leapt out of his chair. “I’ll get some paper and charcoal.”
As he dashed through the door of his house, Rielle sank back into her chair. The others were watching her, and she could not tell if their smiles were of amusement or sympathy at her dismay. Would they stop her if she tried to flee?
Should I?
She thought of Famire, Tareme and Bayla’s opinion and felt an echo of her earlier anger. Narmah would disagree with them, she was sure. Posing for a portrait was not like prostitution! And to these friends of Izare, who painted their faces and performed in front of others, the temple girls’ ideas must seem prudish and ridiculous.
The door to Izare’s house opened again and he hurried out carrying a board onto which was pinned a sheaf of paper. His hair was combed flat and glistened with moisture, and he had put on a clean shirt. She had to resist a smile at that.
Izare began to circle the table, then made a shooing motion at Jonare. She immediately rose and let him take her seat, the child in her arms murmuring in his sleep.
“Well, we had better spread these all over the poor quarter,” Dorr said, dividing the pamphlets between Merem and Greya. They rose and bid Rielle farewell, promising Izare they would return to see the drawing later, and walked away. Jonare followed, calling two of the other children away from the group.
The scrape and rub of chalk on paper brought Rielle’s attention back to Izare. She watched him work, trying to stay still. She had never felt so self-conscious when Narmah had drawn her. Izare’s gaze was intense but he was looking at her rather than meeting her gaze. He worked silently, his attention so focused on drawing that she almost felt as if she was alone.
Somehow she felt free to examine him closely in return. To paint his eyes she would begin with yellow earth, then almost completely cover it with flecks of copper-green. His skin would need a rich shade of brown and the shadows would require a little blue. The duller shade of beristone would be adequate. The expensive bluegem of her family spiritual was too expensive to be wasted on shadows.
Izare leaned back in his chair, then nodded. “It’s a start.”
Rielle blinked in surprise. “Are you done already?”
He looked up at Rielle, then turned the board around. She caught her breath. There she was, staring back at herself, like a reflection in a mirror. A mirror that reduced an image to the black of charcoal and the off-white of cheap paper, and yet every line was a simple and eloquent flourish that perfectly expressed the curve of a jaw, curl of an eyelash and fold of her scarf.
“You are good,” she exclaimed.
She expected a grin, but he shook his head. “This is not my best. Would you … would you let me try again?”
A thrill ran over her skin. “That’s not your best? Then I have to see your best.”
He looked at her, then over at his house and smiled. “I have a few reasonable paintings inside. All that stands between you and them are stairs, a few walls and your distrust of me.”
She looked from him to his house and back again. “You claim you
are a man of honour. If you promise that all you will do is show me these paintings…”
He placed a hand on his heart. “I promise that I will escort you as safely into and out of my house as I have escorted you home the last two quarterdays.”
Rielle considered his promise, then nodded and stood up. Putting the sketch under one arm, Izare led the way to his door. Despite his promise, her heart still raced, though not with a feeling as strong as fear. More like apprehension than true fear. Or not even that, since a part of her was enjoying the feeling.
He opened the door for her and she stepped into a short, narrow hallway with a single door to one side. Stairs at the end led upward. The air smelled strange, like wood polish but sharper. Remembering that he had mentioned stairs, she started up. At the top she emerged into a large room. Light spilled in through windows along one wall, swathed with thin cloth. The paint on the upper half of the walls was peeling and stained, but the lower part was hidden behind a multitude of objects, including shelving, clothing hanging from hooks, lengths of fabric, boards in various stages of preparation for painting, and paintings turned to face the wall.
The smell was stronger here. Her gaze was attracted by a small table covered in half-familiar things. The bottles of pigment and refiner for making paint were expected. Though she did not work with a standing easel they were known to her. But what were the odd little spade-like tools, tubes with twisted ends and oily yellow liquid for?
Izare moved to one of the walls and turned a painting to face Rielle. As it came into sight she caught her breath. Compared to this, the sketch he had done was like the crude scratches of a woodworm bird on tree bark. It was as though he was carrying a mirror over to the easel, but a mirror that had frozen with the image of the viewer intact.
“She didn’t like it and wouldn’t pay,” he said, smiling. “Too accurate.”
Coming closer, Rielle could see why. The woman was in her middle years and had a mean expression.
“How did you … her skin … I can’t see any brush strokes.”