The Adorned (23 page)

“This is about the Count.”

She lifted one shoulder in a sort of shrug. “I suppose I owe you a truth. So yes, it is about him.”

“Do you love him?”

She paused, thinking, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think I ever did. But I had grown fond of him.
Used
to him. This is the best thing to happen, truly.”

I frowned. “Is it?”

She turned away from me, toward the wall. Her shoulders sagged. “The Blooded do not play with each other’s toys, if they are at all politic. I’ll have more opportunity now. If one noble or another saw me at a feast of the Count’s and was biding his time until the Count wanted me no more, well, now will be his time. They rarely dally much, after they wed.”

“Maybe you will impress his bride,” I said, almost jesting; it seemed the best way to break the tension.

She turned back to me and smiled. I let out a small sigh of relief. “Perhaps,” she said. “She has shown a liking for the niceties, so...”

“Good wine, for one.”

“Etan,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For—for
you
know, what I have done. Said about you.” She was a little drunk herself, I thought, though she hid it much better than I ever could. “You are good-hearted, I think.”

I smiled. “You think?”

“Do not push me too far.” She kissed me, lightly, on my cheek. “And do go to bed. It’s late.”

“As my lady commands,” I said, and left her laughing.

Chapter Thirty-Five

It had been near a month since the engagement had been announced, and autumn had begun in earnest. Still, there was no whisper of a feast; it seemed the Count and his lady were taking their time about it, with no regard to the date that had been set. The few times we were displayed were small affairs: birthday dinners, intimate feasts. The entire city seemed to be waiting, I thought. It was naive of me to think things revolved around parties and engagements, when there was the harvest and new trade from Suramm, but I couldn’t help thinking it nonetheless.

There was a sense of stillness, in all save the weather. A cold wind from the North had come, howling softly, and sometimes I heard storms passing us by in the night, a distant rumble of thunder.

A few days after my last display, Tallisk summoned me to his atelier. He looked tired—drained, almost. I’d heard him pacing above me, late the night before, and had been lulled to sleep by the insomniac rhythm of his steps. He’d been at work, I saw; I noted sketches and designs, elaborated with scribbles and curliques, his papers crumpled and stained with them.

Once peace had been made between Tallisk and I, I had told him of meeting Tristen writ-Tallisk at Fevrewood; he had been pleased, I thought, to hear of his Adorned still doing well. I glimpsed a sketch that could have been one of Tristen’s designs: a cresting wave topped with silvery foam, shedding a spray of minute stars. There were roses, as well, and snakes, Isadel’s theme. But among them I spotted nothing green and growing.

He stood up from his work. “Good,” he said, “you’re here. I want to make a record of you.”

“A record?”

He nodded. “I’ve been remiss. I need to record the progress of your designs. Take off your clothes.”

He stepped forward to take my shirt, once I’d slipped it over my head, and he draped it over a chair. I shivered; he’d not stoked the fires before summoning me. Gooseflesh rose on my arms, making the soft hairs there stand on end. Then he took off my trousers. They went on the same chair.

He stepped back, considering, circling me. Then he took out his papers, both scribbled and blank. With a thin piece of charcoal, he began to sketch, mouth thinned with concentration. After a while, he moved to watercolors, to add hue to the shade. He did not touch me.

“You can get dressed now,” he said after a while, turning away from me. He spread the papers on his worktable. I pulled on my trousers and buttoned my shirt, going to stand beside him. I peered down at my cunningly sketched form, from the curve of my jaw to my knees. In delicate brushstrokes bloomed the Adornments that decorated me.

Of course, he couldn’t capture on paper their strange motions, the sway of the ink across the skin—yet his sketches made those movements seem incidental, mere trickery. The real art was in his ink, I thought, not in the Count’s Blood.

I was startled by how bare I still appeared. I saw, for the first time, what Tallisk saw when he looked at me: a work still unfinished, swathes of canvas left blank. I bent lower over the sketches. I saw the slight inward curve of my waist, the bones of my hips. I would put a winding vine there, I thought, rich with unripened fruit. I reached forward and my fingers brushed the paper, very lightly.

Tallisk looked at me. I could not tell whether he was amused or offended. He drew forward a little, hands curling protectively over the sketches. “What do you think of it?”

I smiled. “It is good to see.”

He raised a brow. “You can look in a mirror whenever you wish.”

“It isn’t the same.”

“No. Perhaps not.”

“Do—do you have—” I swallowed, marshaling my courage.

“What?”

“Do you have any further plans, for me? Further design?”

“Some,” he said, tilting his head at me.

“May I see them?”

“If you wish.” He sounded almost pleased. He took a leather folio and undid the thong that bound it shut. Inside was a tidy profusion of papers. Some held mere sketches, without context: leaves and blossoms; studies of fruit in various stages of decomposing, from the very verge of ripeness to black decay; vines wound together in geometric patterns. Then sketches I knew: my own form, Adorned with different elaborated lines, some almost minimalistic, some a tangle like an overgrown garden. All were beautiful, but none, I thought, were yet perfect.

“Your thoughts?” Tallisk’s voice held no mockery. He was honestly curious.

I licked my lips, groping for words. “I like them. Very much.” My fingers touched the edge of one design, a fanciful climbing vine with tight-furled amber flowers. “This, this is my favorite.”

He hid a smile; it seemed to me I’d passed some sort of test. Slowly he shut the folio. I wanted to ask for more, to see Isadel’s sketches, perhaps, but I sensed it was not the time. Now it was back to work for him. He dismissed me, and then summoned Isadel to his atelier.

* * *

A messenger came the next day, bearing news from the Count and his lady. The courier demanded words with Master Tallisk. Yana showed him to the receiving room, and Doiran poured him a glass of cordial. Then he was left to wait while Tallisk dressed for company. I tried to tiptoe by to catch a glimpse of him; I’d only heard his voice, booming, oddly accented.

He had deeply tanned skin, neither fair nor dark, and his hair was a tousled blue-black. His looks were an odd alchemy of ugly and handsome; his nose was askew, his eyes deep set and bruised-looking. He saw me, and grinned. “Boy,” he said, “come here a moment.”

I shuffled in sideways. I still had a book in my arms; I clutched it to my chest.

He seemed amused by my reluctance. “You must be Etan writ-Tallisk.” He seemed a man from everywhere, his accent shaped by untold travels.

“Yes,” I said, softly.

“Let me have a look at you then,” he said. Chuckling, he reached for me, pulling me close. I stiffened. His eyes were sharp, despite their bruised look, and they sparkled with amusement. “Fair of face, just as was said.”

“My lord.” I squirmed in his grip.

“I am no lord,” he said. He released me. “I am Artor Lukan, key-master to the Lady Vasan.”

At that moment, Tallisk appeared in the doorway. I felt rather than heard him, a familiar presence. Then he spoke; I turned to face him.

“You require a word with me, sir?” It was strange to hear him call another man
sir
, I thought. Lord he might not be, but it seemed Lukan had status enough to draw a title from Tallisk’s lips.

“Indeed, Maestro Tallisk.” Lukan rose from his seat and executed a perfect bow. His accent, his entire voice, almost, had changed, mimicking the glassy tones of his masters. “My lady and her intended have sent me to request your Adorned to display, but with some rather specific aesthetic provisos. Will you hear me?”

“I’ll hear.”

“Most excellent.” Lukan’s eyes flickered to me.

Tallisk cleared his throat. “Etan. Go and return your book to the library.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, bowing to him and to Lukan, and shuffling out.

Isadel was in the library, pacing amongst the shelves. “You’ve seen him?”

I nodded.

“What do you think of him?”

“He is—” I searched for words. “He is larger-than-life, almost.”

She lifted a corner of her lips. “I’ve heard he’s Lady Vasan’s consort, as well as her key-master.”

“What, truly?”

“Well, that’s the gossip, but who knows?”

“You’ve been asking around about Lady Vasan.”

She shrugged. “It pays to be informed. So, what does he look like? I’ve not had the pleasure yet.”

“He isn’t ugly. Perhaps somewhat rough, but he looks a little like Master Tallisk, truly.” The realization startled a laugh from me, but it was true—Lukan resembled him more than even Lord Loren did. Only in looks, though; so it seemed to me, in any case. “Though he is not as—” The words halted on my lips.

Isadel snorted. “Not as
what
, Etan?”

“Never mind.” I looked away, my face hot.

“Well, it cannot be his
looks
that make him appeal to Lady Vasan then.”

A moment later, we heard the door downstairs opening and Lukan’s booming voice. “My lady, and her lord, will be thankful, Maestro.”

“I hope so,” Tallisk said.

“We look forward to the day.”

“Likewise. Yana will show you out.”

After Lukan had left, Tallisk summoned Isadel and me to his atelier. He was already at his desk when we arrived, scribbling, his hair in disarray. He smoothed it back. The knuckles of his right hand rested on the desktop as his other hand sketched quick looping patterns on a sheet of old parchment. He let us stand there, silent, watching him, for too long a moment. Then he threw the pencil down.

“Good,” he said, turning. “You are here.”

“Yes,” Isadel said, raising an eyebrow. “We’re listening.”

“The Count and Lady Vasan have requested that, until they are wed, we are to be placed on retainer.”

Isadel blinked. “And you
agreed?
”

“The terms,” he said, “were very generous.”

She made a face. “I don’t suppose they’ve put us on retainer simply for the wedding. Is there to be an engagement feast?”

“In two weeks. And two after that, the wedding.”

“A short engagement.” Isadel’s voice was hollow.

Tallisk took no notice of her odd tone. “Before the feast, your Adornment will be added to, by their request.” He quirked a grin. “They wish something
new
to display.”

“As you wish,” Isadel said.

“Sir,” I said, and they both looked at me. I cleared my throat. “A retainer...does this mean no one else is to display us, in this time?”

“Indeed.” He tilted his head. “Does this upset you?”

I held his eyes. “No, sir.”

“Good.” He turned back to his desk. “You may leave.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The day of the feast drew closer, and tension rose in the air like the stillness before storms. The Blooded and their servants were all preparing for the feast, and the city was drawn tight by their needs, tailors and bakers and painters all working long hours to make sure all was in readiness.

Our skin needed to rest, now, so we were caught in a lull. In the first feverish week, Tallisk had worked on Isadel and me for an hour each day. I sported new growth, twining up my outer thighs and curling from my back to the tender flesh behind my right ear. That had stung, worse than any needles before, but I had admired it in the mirror later and judged the pain worth the beauty.

The day of the engagement feast had nearly arrived now, and with it came a missive from Artor Lukan. It seemed that Lukan had taken over the role Gandor once had, as an intermediary between their household and ours. I could not say that I missed Gandor, though Lukan’s blustery ways, so unlike the usual servants of the Blooded, unnerved me.

Tallisk gathered us in the dining room. Along with the missive, Lukan had delivered parcels with the clothes the Count and his lady wished us to wear at their feast. They were set on the table, finely made boxes of equal size, each marked with a small tag bearing our names.

“Well?” Tallisk gestured at them. “Open them.”

We did, untying the strings, digging for treasure. I lifted the garment from the box, confused. “Isadel, I, uh, I think our parcels may have been mixed—”

“No indeed,” Tallisk said. “That is yours.”

I felt a slow, warm sinking feeling, as if I were being sucked feet first into a lake of molasses. “They expect me to—to wear
this?
”

Tallisk’s face was unreadable. “It is a Northern tradition, apparently.”

“Yes,” Isadel said, sounding a little weak herself. She held up her own outfit, or part of it: a waistcoat and cravat, both cloud-white. “The bride and groom feast separate, and among their own sex only. They wish to add some spice to the tradition, it seems.”

Looking closer, I saw her garments had their own twist of spice: they were made of gauzy fabric so thin it would sit upon her skin like fog. Her Adornment would be plainly visible beneath, if seen through a haze.

Tallisk grabbed my parcel from me and shook out the dress Lukan had sent for me. The bodice was foreshortened so it would stop under the breastbone. It was tied at the back with midnight-blue ribbons. The skirt was of the same delicate gauze as Isadel’s outfit, but deepest black, spangled with small crystals. As a whole, it seemed a starry night worn by a slattern.

Isadel, looking over, lifted one corner of her mouth. “Well, well. I like it, Etan.”

“I cannot wear this,” I said. “I’ve—I’ve no idea how to move in skirts.”

“You did well enough in a breechclout, and it’s not so different. In Suramm all men wear robes near enough to skirts, in any case.”