The Adorned (10 page)

Half an hour passed, perhaps more. I drifted into a drowse. Tallisk had not spoken to me; I heard nothing save the rhythms of our breaths, the swish of the brushes against my skin. Now and then he would pause and stand back to admire his work, or judge it, and after a moment return. The paint dried upon me, slowly, in the warm air.

At last, he was satisfied. “It’s done.”

I suppressed a yawn. “Should I stand up?”

“Carefully.”

With slow care, I peeled myself from the table and stood.

“Turn.”

I moved in a slow circle, my hands spread. Tallisk’s eyes were appreciative. I bit my lip against a smile; I did not want him to see the vanity he’d spurred in me. This must be what it was like, though, this being seen. I imagined walking, shoulders bared, through a wide white-marble hall, murmurs rising from an unseen throng all around me.

“Would you like to see?” Tallisk’s voice was newly gentle.

I nodded. “Please?”

With a hand on the small of my back, he led me to the alcove, the little mirrored chamber. He drew the curtains back. Images of Tallisk and myself peered out at us. “Step inside.”

I did, and turned around, and in the mirrors saw the future of my Adornment. Leaves played about my shoulders as if breeze-touched. There was dark green ivy, pale and vivid mistletoe. The colors brought my eyes into sharp relief and made my tousled hair seem almost red. I could not take my eyes off of it, off of me. The vanity that Tallisk had kindled had flared into full flame.

“Well?”

I caught his eyes in the mirror. “It is beautiful.”

“Good.” He seemed pleased by my approval. I wondered why; it was not as if he needed it. I had no say over my designs. Tallisk could put upon me whatever grotesque scrawls he desired. Not that any master worth the name would deform their canvas so, but still: I was the art, not the artist.

I kept on sneaking glances at myself. I wondered what the elaboration of the design would be, what greater plan Tallisk might have for my skin. At last, he drew me out of the alcove and pulled the curtain shut. “That’s enough, I think,” he said.

“Should I leave my shirt off?” The paint, I thought, would certainly stain it.

He mused a moment. “Come with me.”

I followed him out of the atelier and down the stairs. It took me a moment to realize where we were going. “Sir, am I to bathe?”

“I want to begin on your design today, and you’ll need to wash this off first.”

“Today?
Now?
” I felt my heartbeat speed.

“Yes. Now come on.”

He led me down to the bathroom and drew a hot bath. He gestured down; a smudge of green had appeared on my trousers. “Take them off.”

I was suddenly very aware I would be naked before him. It had not been so real to me before. The heat of the room was making a sheen of sweat gleam on my skin. I thought of painted leaves wilting, then blooming again in a haze of blood. Would they shift upon my skin, as if an unseen breeze rustled through them?

Tallisk took a glass bottle, uncapped it, and poured a measure of its contents into the warm, hazy water. There was a rising scent of lemons, and the water turned white as milk. He jerked his head at me. “Get in.”

I slipped off my trousers and stepped into the bath, glad of the opaque white water. From the shelves, Tallisk took some scraps of velveteen fabric. He nudged at my back, pushing me so I sat forward and hunched, exposing the place where he had painted me. He dipped the cloth into the lemon-scented water and wiped at my shoulders, my neck, erasing the leaves. A tracery of green colored the water. He rinsed the cloth and again wiped my skin, quite gently. “Turn around,” he said, and I splashed about to face him. He washed my neck and shoulders with thorough attention.

At last he seemed satisfied, and beckoned me out of the bath. As he drained it, I stood, gleaming wet. I felt a creeping blush at his eyes on me; I was glad when he swiftly refilled the bath. I rinsed myself several times, until I felt cleaner than I ever had in my life. Tallisk threw me a towel, and I gladly dried off. My skin still held a faint scent of lemongrass.

“Don’t bother to get dressed. Wrap the towel around you.”

I did as he told me and he placed a hand firm upon my bare shoulder, steering me up the stairs. Back onto the chair I went, and now I was truly glad of the warmth of the atelier. Though I had dried myself well, there was still the chill of dampness upon me.

I raised my head to watch Tallisk gather his tools. First the inks were taken out and placed in their pots. I counted four, and four additional empty pots for mixing. Then he scrubbed his hands with a sharp-smelling salve and wiped them on a thin cotton towel. Next the needles were taken out of their black sleeves: they were immaculate, gleaming. Then his outlining brush, fine as an eyelash. Last he took out a carafe of sorts, full of the thick clear liquid with which he mixed the inks.

“Are you ready?”

I nodded.

He began with the black ink, mixing a fair amount. From his silver stopper came half a drop of the tarry liquid. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of distant storms. I felt him move over me, heard the click of the needles and brushes as he selected the appropriate tool. When the first burst of pain came I breathed out long and slow, as I had seen Isadel do, and my fingers tightened on the chair. My cheek was hot against the leather. I felt a trickle of blood roll down my spine.

He worked upon me for an hour or so. There was no sign of hidden art, no obscure ritual; nothing save the touch of his needles. He paused now and then to mix more ink, or cleanse my back of blood. After a while, he said, “The light is failing. We’ll stop for today.”

I made to move, slowly, but he held me still. “Wait.”

I waited. My left shoulder felt bruised and hot. My chest and face were almost glued to the leather chair with sweat. I felt something cool touch the heated, hurting flesh: Tallisk’s fingers, coated in some potion, feathering the edges of his new artwork. Then he covered the tattoo with a thin scrap of gauze, which stuck to the potion. “Sit up now,” he said, and when I did, he lightly wrapped more gauze around my shoulder, holding the bandage in place. “You’ll wear this until you sleep, tonight. I’ll come remove it for you, and make sure all is well.”

I rose slowly, careful in my movements. “Thank you.”

His lip quirked. “You’re welcome.” He began to clean his tools. I saw the towel, streaked with my own blood. He raised a brow at me. “You had better ask Doiran to make you a light meal, and drink some beer. I don’t want you near-fainting after every session.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Go on, then.”

“My clothes, sir?” My shirt was hung near the door, but my trousers had been abandoned in the bathroom.

“No one’s going to stare. Just wear the towel until you get to your room. Go on!”

Dismissed, aching, and newly-Adorned, I went.

Chapter Fourteen

As spring began to bloom, so did I. My life had a shape to it now, a routine: hours under the needle each week, well-spaced to spare my skin—not out of compassion, but to keep it in good shape.

First, a tangle of leaves appeared on my shoulders, almost as vivid as the first painting had been. I healed well, pleasing Tallisk, and soon the design began to creep down my back and upper arms. Trails of ivy fanned across my shoulders like wings; a wispy fringe of honeysuckle came to a point a handspan above my left elbow. It was all in shades of green; as yet, Tallisk had added neither bud nor flower. Sometimes I thought I caught a glimpse of movement in the ink, but those glimpses could have been mere tricks of the eye, gone when I turned my head.

When Isadel was at home, she was kind to me, in her own way. We played Castle-Keep and Piracy, and she told me of her favorite novels tucked in Tallisk’s library. She was not often at home, though. Tallisk had not neglected her ink, and Count Karan called for her often. He was not the only one who did, but he was the most devoted—and, of course, as Tallisk’s patron he would have first choice of his house’s Adorned. He brought with his requests a parade of outfits in which she was to be displayed. Sometimes they were naught but a black scarf, a gauzy slip.

Still, I remained unseen, save by the eyes of Tallisk’s household.

Finally, after near to a full season had come and gone since I’d come to his house, he pronounced me fit to be displayed. There were still years ahead of me before I was completed, marked with his special signature and freed to contract my own displays, but now that I wore a full mantle of tattooed leaves, I could become more than his canvas. Like Isadel, I would become his exhibition.

Tallisk waited for a spell of fine, bright weather and sent out announcements to his guild of tattoo-masters and to his patron that a new Adorned of his house was to begin their career. This would be the first time I was permitted to expose my tattoos to any not of our household.

When a morning came heralded by a rush of sunlight so bright it lit up my room despite the curtains, I knew it was time. Doiran came to fetch me, bringing along a simple breakfast. “You’ll have to be quick,” he said. “You’ve got to be properly decked out before you go.”

I’d been left to sleep the latest, it seemed. Yana and Isadel were already bathed and dressed. Isadel’s garments were strange to my eyes, and more suited to winter: a long grey dress, finely made but plain, with a high collar and long sleeves. She was covering her Adornments, I realized: this was not her day to be displayed.

I went to bathe. Afterward, Doiran combed a sweet-smelling oil on my hair and rubbed the same on my back until my skin gleamed. He was brisk as a nurse; any shame I’d felt at his hands on me was long gone. It was a different matter that made my heart lurch in my chest now.

Doiran stepped back and smiled wide at me, showing an expanse of teeth. “You’ll do,” he said, pounding my back with more force than I thought necessary. “Now go on up. He’s waiting for you.”

Tallisk was in his atelier, and he too had dressed for the occasion. He wore fine trousers, a black coat, and a slate-grey kerchief at his throat. His boots were so well polished I could almost see my reflection in them; his gloves were supple kid. His hair, usually a tangled cloud, was brushed away from his high forehead. It seemed darker than I recalled, the black deep and starless. Against this palette his eyes were very blue.

He looked at me. I was still shirtless, the oil gleaming on my skin and in my hair. I looked down. Only the polished tips of his boots were in the sweep of my view—but I could still see the echo of his eyes.

“I’m not used to this,” he said suddenly. There was a roughness in his voice I’d not heard there before. Then he laughed. “You’ll be trussed up worse than this, though. That I can promise.”

He made good on his words. The outfit I would wear for my first display had been laid out for me: trousers of soft brown leather and a sort of half corset in the same shade, something between a belt and a girdle. My shoulders and back would, of course, be bare.

I fingered the girdle dubiously. I had never worn such a thing as this, and it was strange to me in both design and fabric. It was raw silk, and lined with something like velveteen. It seemed too small to fit me, as did the trousers—too small and too tight. “I don’t think this will fit,” I said.

Tallisk laughed again. “Don’t you think I know your measurements?”

I suppressed a shiver and half turned away.

He nodded to the girdle. “Put it on. You’ll see.”

Slowly I stripped off my simple house-trousers and stepped into the strange new clothes. The trousers were snug, but they fit, hugging my calves. I struggled to reach behind me and tie the half corset. Tallisk came closer and took the ribbons in his hands. He drew them tight. I gasped for breath.

He stepped back, and I turned to face him. His eyes were distant, as if he were looking past me. After a while, they sharpened, and he gave a brief nod: a craftsman, pleased with his work. He went to his desk and took out a flat wooden box; from this, he took what I thought to be an ornament. It was a white square, about the size of a baby’s palm. It was made of ivory, I thought, or whalebone, carved with a design of three interlocking diamonds. It hung on a black ribbon. Slowly he tipped it into my open hand.

“What is this?” It felt cool and smooth under my touch.

“It is my mark.”

I lifted it to the level of my eyes. “Am I to wear this?”

He nodded. “Around your neck. Turn around.” He fastened it with an expert bow, as he had the laces of my half corset. It settled in the hollow of my collarbone. One day this mark would be tattooed upon me: the signature, the last time Tallisk’s needles would touch my skin. I wondered where he would put it.

I heard a soft cough from the doorway. Isadel and Yana were there, waiting. “Sir?”

Tallisk nodded again. “He’s ready. We go.”

* * *

Yana drove the carriage Tallisk had hired for our little company.

The early summer warmth was pleasant on my skin, but I was only in the sun for a moment; Tallisk quickly pushed me into the carriage. Isadel carried under her arm a parasol. My skin, so newly Adorned, would have to be protected while we made our rounds.

“Where to first?” Isadel asked, when she’d closed the carriage door.

“Meret.” Tallisk said. “We go to Meret.”

Isadel made a face, but said nothing more.

Tallisk shushed me with a gesture; my questions, it seemed, would be unwelcome.

We rolled down Nightwell Street. I watched the city roll by, watched children point at our carriage. The road cut through a park, all careful greenery. A shallow lake gleamed in the sun. I saw two swans paddle by. A couple took time from feeding them to glance at us as we passed them by. They could not see us through the latticed windows, but I could see their curious eyes.

Our destination was a small, low house, set a little apart from its fellows on the corner. It was built in a Surammer style, with a curlicued roof and narrow windows. The house was humble, but well kept, with creeping vines delicately arranged to grow on its trellises.