“What did this cost you, to bring to me?”
Somehow, saying ‘Five hundred bucks’ sounded inadequate. “More money than I should have spent.”
“You should know, Lord,” the nameless practitioner said, “he artificially inflated the value, paying two and a half times what was asked.”
Fuck you, Mr. No-name.
“I would ask that you not take that to mean it’s inherently low in value,” I said. “Art and artists are fickle creatures, and it’s the nature of an artist to undervalue what they create. Once I saw it, I knew I was right. Had I been able, I would have paid more.”
“Explain to me why I should value this art as a gift.”
Enough with looking gift horses in mouths. How the fuck was I supposed to answer that question? Art was art.
“Art is culture,” I said, speaking very slowly while thinking very fast. “Taking a piece of culture for yourself seems very fitting for you, given what I know of you.”
“There are two kinds of taking,” Conquest said. “When one gives love, love is not subtracted from a total. Love can be taken a thousand or a million times over from the same individual, and that individual will not be bereft of love, if that love is genuine. I am a taker of the other sort. The sort to leave things bereft. I ask you a second time, why should I value this as a gift?
Balls and fuck. I hadn’t expected to be grilled. I’d been told that it was a token gift.
“If a man hoards all of the art from a particular era, from a place or person, the world is bereft,” I said. “That art is gone from the world, given over only to the man.”
“Then the gift becomes an obligation. If I am to keep to my nature, I must aspire to collect all of this artist’s work. If I own one piece, then I must own all to take from society and the world. For the sake of expedience, I should kill the artist, so they can create no more art.”
I was so shocked I laughed a little. “No. No, not at all.”
“Then tell me, and I ask you a third time, a final time, why should I value this gift?”
I stood there, a number of eyes fixed on me, thinking.
Dangerous seconds passed, my mind ticking over everything I could think of. The money, the deal, the friendship… I was reaching for one connection, one seed of an idea I could use to start making my argument.
I thought of Tiffany. The strange looking girl who apparently had a girl-boner for me. A damaged person, like me. Like Alexis.
“Because the artist will mourn the loss of the piece, even as she takes away a profit from the transaction. She will want to reference it in the future, to inform her future works or to chronicle her past, and this will forever be a missing link in her history.”
“If she didn’t take a photo or scan it,” the nameless practitioner said.
Fuck you, I thought again, more intensely than before. I vividly imagined killing him, as he was very nearly setting me up to get killed.
Conquest looked at me, raising his eyebrows a fraction, inviting a response or counterargument.
“Nothing will hold up to the original. She came from a place of pain and struggle, as many artists do, and that pain and struggle informed the work. She put… something of herself into it. You don’t do work that good and not miss it when the piece is gone. In the future, if or when she finds her way to happiness, she’ll view that painting and the sale as a step on the journey to the happiness, and she’ll feel a pang. There’s an energy in that, I’m sure. I’ll feel a pang, because I’ll miss the money I could have spent elsewhere. For the artist and for me, the loss will shape our futures. She’ll do work without this piece to reference, and our destinies change.”
“Assuming she values the work,” the nameless practitioner said. “And that it isn’t something she did on the spur of the moment.”
“I am assuming,” I said. I managed to keep my tone civil. “I’m awakened, I speak truth, I saw a variety of pieces, I’ve seen a lot of art in my life, and I can make that assumption with confidence.”
“It is best to be safe,” Conquest said. “Isadora? You’ve interacted with the art students at your University.”
The nameless practitioner took the image and held it open, facing Isadora.
She nodded once. “It’s good work.”
“Jeremy.”
The nameless practitioner held it open for the drunk.
He nodded, but said nothing.
“Diana?”
Diana tilted her head one way, then the other. “I can’t give you a verdict, I don’t know art. But it looks nice.”
“Then I am satisfied,” the Lord of Toronto told me. “The gift is received, and I’ll accept your presence in my domain until you give me reason to do otherwise.”
“I’m glad. I appreciate the consideration, Lord of Toronto,” I said. I didn’t want to thank him, so I chose my words carefully.
“I open the floor,” Conquest said.
“Abstaining,” the drunk said.
“For once,” Diana said.
“Ha ha,” he said, with zero humor. “That hasn’t gotten old in the past twenty years.”
“We need to get it out of the way, whenever somebody new arrives,” Diana said. “Are you new, Blake?”
“I only started a little while ago.”
“You brought a weapon,” Conquest said. “You’ve Worked it?”
He made it sound like ‘worked’ had a capital to it. An emphasis.
“If I may do so without offending anyone or inviting harm, I can show you,” I said.
He nodded.
Slowly, with two fingers, as if I had a cop looming over me, I drew the hatchet from my side.
Isadora smiled. “Novices are so darling. It’s a mass-manufactured tool, but you put so much effort into the binding.”
“Not me. A… short lived mentor figure,” I said.
“Nonetheless,” she said.
“I would see the weapon,” the Lord of Toronto said. “Will you give it over to me?”
I opened my mouth to agree, then stopped myself.
“With all due respect, Lord of Toronto, I’ll lend it to you,” I said. “But this is, in many respects, like the painting. An early achievement for me in what I hope will be a long and uneventful career as a practitioner.”
Even if all signs point to the opposite.
“I rescind the request,” he said.
“Sharp for a newbie,” Diana said.
“Once bitten, twice shy,” I said.
“Ahh,” she said, smiling. “Poor you. You came out of it okay?”
“I’m here,” I said. “Not too badly bitten, metaphorically speaking, but shy.”
Her smile widened a bit. “Shy is good. A new driver needs to crash to learn a healthy respect for the road. The same is true for one who practices.”
Oh, hey, practitioners who didn’t want to kill me. I was getting a sense of how someone could get into this life and lifestyle and not be abjectly miserable. Cool scenery, neat monsters, a thrill of danger…
“Who bit you?”
The question came from the drunk.
“Nobody local,” I said.
“What non-local bit you, then?” he asked.
“A circle and a coven,” I said. “Who were looking to establish and secure their territory.”