The Adorned (27 page)

“I am...fond, of them both,” I said.

There was a moment’s silence, then Meret slapped his thigh and laughed. “Well, that’s good to hear. I raised him right then, at least.”

I bowed my head, half hiding a nervous grin.

“He is not unclever in artistry,” Tallisk said, his voice coming in a sudden burst. “I’ve lent him use of my things once or twice. His designs are passable.”

The gathering went a little quiet at that. I wanted to vanish, to burrow into myself. I should have been used to eyes on me, but this was an entirely different species of scrutiny. I thought of my stacks of paper back home, the ones Tallisk had granted me, and the sketches I’d dashed out on them. They were hardly masterful work. He must have snuck a look at them, I thought, while I was out. I could not tell if I was angry at him for it.

“Well,” Meret said, smacking his lips thoughtfully, “you are a master in your own right, Roberd, and can apprentice if you wish.”

“I am not—” He shook his head. “He couldn’t apprentice. Even if he were not indentured, he doesn’t have the needed canvas.”

I had known this, of course, even if only in the back of my mind; I had never dared to hope for so much. Still, for a moment, some of the warmth of the Rose and Crescent seemed to leech away.

Meret’s sudden, almost mischievous smile brought some of it back. “But you have always done things a little differently, haven’t you, Roberd?”

They looked at each other; they were a little alike, I thought. The same pointed scrutiny in their eyes. I wondered which one would drop his gaze first.

“If it were me,” Wendel said, “I wouldn’t be waiving the apprentice fee, no matter the talents of the likely lad.”

This seemed to break the tension; laughter cascaded again, and Wendel pushed Melesse forward to wait on Meret, which the old man bore with a fond equanimity.

Still, some of the tension held between the tattoo-masters’ eyes had lingered. My heart had climbed its way into my throat and would not relent its hammering. Every now and then our eyes kept meeting, Tallisk’s and mine, across the firelit room. Had he ever given Arderi Finn paper and ink? I wondered.
Dangerous ground
, I thought, and I swallowed, forcing myself to look away.

Chapter Forty-One

The sun was near rising when Amere at last threw her bleary-eyed guests out of the Rose and Crescent. Melesse leaned on her master, yawning, while Wendel himself swayed gently with each step. Meret surprised me, though: he was wide awake. He stood upright, for a man of his years, though every other step seemed to pain him, and he would lean heavily on his cane.

We said our farewells softly in the empty street. Tallisk hung behind, patting the black mare on her flank. “Can I leave her here, Amere? I’ll give you a ral to return her. I want to see Master Meret home.”

Meret snorted. “I don’t need a nursemaid, Roberd, as you well know.”

“Nevertheless, sir,” he said with an odd softness to his voice, and the older man demurred.

“No need to pay me, Roberd,” Amere said. “I’ll see the beast is cared for.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, a sister’s kiss. “Take care, and see you don’t become a stranger.”

“And you, Amere.”

We watched the others go riding or walking in all directions, waving them off until we were the last to remain. Now the three of us stood in front of the inn, within which Amere was dousing the last of the lights.

The sky was the color of dust, with the first gleam of the morning behind it. Meret looked up and sighed. “You know you don’t have to do this, Roberd.”

“I know.”

“Well,” he said, “my home’s close enough. It’ll be a pleasant morning stroll, eh?”

We set off down the road. I drew my cloak in close around me and shivered. Tallisk glanced at me, then reached to put an arm around me. He pulled me closer, his hand against my back. I thought that I should go tense, that I should draw away, but I was pliant with drink and lassitude, and any thoughts of danger dropped away at the warm, strong feel of him against me.

“Are you all right?” Tallisk’s voice was low.

“Yes,” I whispered. I looked up at him; his eyes were clouded with drink and with thought. “Are you, sir?”

He laughed softly. “Me? I’m fine.”

After a walk of perhaps ten minutes, we reached Meret’s house. I had thought he’d lived alone, but a woman of Tallisk’s age was waiting for us at the door. She wore a modest dress, high-collared, and her dark hair was closely cropped.

“Home at last,” she said with a fond smile, and I knew her to be Meret’s wife, or perhaps his mistress.

He kissed her roughly on her cheek. “Did you worry?”

“No. I never do.” She caught my eye. “You’ve brought visitors. Ah.” She inclined her head to Tallisk. “Roberd Tallisk. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“Selma,” he said, and he half bowed to her.

“Well,” Meret said, turning toward us. “Will you be staying the night, then?”

Tallisk frowned. “It’s a kind offer, Master Meret, but—”

“You left your horse at Amere’s,” he said, “and it’s a long walk to Nightwell Street. There’s room enough for the both of you, if you don’t mind sharing the old apprentices’ quarters.”

Tallisk cast a dubious look in my direction. “We really should go home. There’s much to be done.”

“Selma, love, could you make the beds in the apprentices’ room?”

“Of course,” she said.

Tallisk sighed. “Sir—”

“No, Roberd, I really must insist.” He smiled, and with that it seemed the matter was closed. “Now come inside.”

Selma kissed Meret on his forehead. “Don’t stay up too far past sunrise, will you? You won’t sleep right tonight.”

He caressed her hair. “You worry too much.”

She smiled at him and vanished; Meret hustled us inside, into the warm, narrow hallways. His house was old-fashioned, built narrow and low, but cozy as an old blanket. He took us to the kitchen and bade us sit while he made a pot of tea. Tallisk near vibrated with the enforced stillness, but after he’d offered to help twice and Meret had rebuked him sharply, he’d sat down obediently.

“So, Etan,” Meret said, sitting down as he pushed a cup of tea my way. “Is it true, what Roberd tells me? That you are not unskilled with paint and paper?”

I squirmed under his scrutiny. “I—I have done a few designs.”

“Ever on skin?”

I looked at Tallisk; he was no help at all, sitting still as a statue, avoiding my gaze. “Only with a brush.”

“Well, naturally.” He grinned. “Neither you nor your master have much skin to lend to an unskilled needle, I would bet.”

Tallisk stood up abruptly. “You should be readying for bed.”

Meret waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t tell me when to sleep and not, Roberd. I have enough of that from Selma.”

As if summoned by the sound of her name, she appeared in the doorway. “Your beds have been prepared,” she said. She looked as if she was trying to stop herself from smiling. “It has been a long time since you’ve laid your head down on these pillows, Roberd.”

He rolled his shoulders, ignoring her. “Then we should bed down for the night.”

“For the morning,” Selma said, not quite under her breath.

I yawned suddenly, the prospect of a warm, soft bed more appealing than I had thought. Meret caught my yawn and smiled.

“Selma, will you take the boy to his bed? Roberd, you stay a while. It has been too long since we’ve spoken.”

Tallisk looked as if he wanted to demur, but he stayed in the end. I glanced back at them over my shoulder and saw Meret closing the door.

Selma led me to the apprentices’ quarters. They were in the lower section of the house, cramped but comfortable, the walls paneled with dark wood and the floors covered with woven mats and an old lion-skin rug. Three narrow beds stood almost side to side, two of them made with fresh bedding.

“There you are,” she said. “It isn’t much, compared to Roberd’s little palace, but it’ll do.”

I glanced sideways at her. “How long have you known him?”

“Since he was your age,” she said, laughing. “And I, as well.”

“Are you Master Meret’s wife?”

“You needn’t call him master, you know,” she said. “And no, I’m not his wife. His wife died many years ago.” She smiled softly. “But I do what I can to warm his twilight years.”

I looked at her once more—the high-collared dress, the long sleeves. “You were his Adorned.”

“Yes.” She turned back the covers on one of the beds—the one meant to be mine. “And when I saw Deino was rattling alone in his house, well...”

“You came back to him.”

She nodded. “I’d had enough of display, in any case, and enough money put away that I
could
give it up. As retirements go, there are worse.” Her fond smile spoke to her understatement. “Now, it is very late, and I need my own sleep as well, young Etan writ-Tallisk. Bed down, and I promise you a fine breakfast when you wake.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Sleep well,” she said, and she closed the door behind her. She’d carried the only lamp, but the slow light of morning was filtering in through the shutters. I watched shadows crawl across the low ceiling, my eyes growing heavier. Still, sleep eluded me.

After some uncounted span, the door opened. Tallisk had come. He carried no lamp, finding his way through the dark with easy familiarity.

I half closed my eyes, feigning sleep, and watched him in the grey light. He looked stooped with exhaustion, eyes liquor-bleared. He took off his shoes, stripped off his shirt. His tattoos were like shadows on his skin.

Then he turned to me—saw my eyes half open. He said nothing, but sat down on the bed beside me. I felt myself listing in his direction. We looked at each other in the half-light. I fought to keep my breaths slow and steady.

After a few minutes he rose, and stood looming over me. I felt his shadow on me like a weight. He remained there for a while, unmoving, then bent down and slowly traced a single finger along the curve of my cheek.

With sudden abruptness, he turned away and went to his own bed. He pulled the blankets over him, and within a few minutes the room was filled with his snores.

I turned on my back and watched the sunrise trace its light across the ceiling. My heart beat in my skin, a burning line where he had touched me.

Chapter Forty-Two

A burst of fireworks, blue-white flowers of light, spiraled over us, and a roar of applause rose from the gardens. The music had stopped; a gunpowder-scented breeze cooled the sheen of sweat on my forehead.

My dancing partner, a young Blooded woman, held my hand to her narrow mouth. Her eyes were dark as the night sky, mirrors for the sparkling lights overhead. “You must dance with me again soon,” she said, less speaking than shaping the words, my fingers feeling her lips move underneath them.

“Whenever my lady desires,” I said.

“Soon,” she repeated, and she released me with a laugh. Breathing hard, I found the first nearby couch and let myself fall onto it, loose-limbed and dizzy.

Count Karan and his newly minted Countess had sealed their marriage vows alone; the Blooded did not hold with priests, nor with an audience, for their most cherished rites. The feast, it seemed, was a different matter.

Another tumult split the sky. Twin rockets left burning red trails in their wake and crisscrossed to form the rough approximation of a heart. This was less wedding feast than pageant, and it seemed the whole city had been invited. The gardens were full, hundreds of bare feet tramping down the carefully cut grass.

Outside the gardens, others watched. I’d glimpsed their faces through the window of the Count’s carriage. It almost seemed a carnival time, with food sellers and monks-penitent and prostitutes daubed with body paint in half-mocking tribute to the Adorned...but only almost.

Between the revelers, other faces in the crowd were hushed and watchful, eyeing the bloodguards at the garden gates. The look of them made me uneasy. They did not jeer or hiss at the spectacle; instead, they seemed to be keeping a sort of silent vigil. It was as if they were waiting for something.

I was still dwelling on those faces when a man sat down heavily next to me. At first I didn’t recognize him—a young Southerner, I thought, a dandy—then he grinned and said, “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

I gaped at him. “Lord Loren?”

He adjusted the peacock feathers braided into his hair. “Am I not dressed for the occasion?”

I was not sure how to reply; he wore a suit of green brocade worked with gems and golden thread. It was not a Sword-noble’s customary wear, and certainly not his own. His eyes were ringed in kohl, and he wore on his brow a golden chain from which dangled a fat, shining opal. The style was ancient; he seemed a figure from a long-ago time.

If Count Karan had been a different sort of man, he might have seen it for the subtle parody I was sure it was. He was vain enough that he might take it as tribute instead, and I wondered if the same could be said for his new wife.

“So, tell me...do the Count and Countess have you reserved for their honeymoon, as well as their wedding celebration?”

“No,” I said. We cast a glance toward the dancers. The Count was still there, indefatigable. He’d only lately passed me to his cousin, who’d pressed my hand against her lips and extracted her promise under his indulgent eye. “Tonight, though, I am still under his contract.”

Lord Loren raised a brow. “You are a guest, Etan. Not a slave.”

I looked down at my hands. Ribbons had been wound around my wrists, stopping at the terminus of my Adornment. They looked like carelessly slit gloves, like subtle chains. “I am here for His Grace’s pleasure.”

He leaned close to me. “And what of his guests? Are you available for
their
pleasure?”

I felt the warm breath of his words on my ear and swallowed. The dancers were weaving in and out of each other’s arms, feet making intricate patterns on the soft grass. Lord Loren’s breath might have been warm, but his tone was cool, and I was not fool enough to think I was being seduced. He sounded like a trader, haggling over merchandise—like a commander, requesting a report from his scout.