Terelle looked down at the painting. The figure was still there, poised to move but caught in the stasis of paint.
"How-" But she did not know what to ask. "I saw that woman," she said finally, pointing at the painting. She gestured with her hand across the street. "She was there. The real woman. And the painting changed. To fit-to fit her."
The old man smiled. It was an expression not of friendliness but of sly pleasure. "Things change. Sometimes one thing be preceding another; sometimes not. And sometimes ye determine the order, if ye wish.
"Watch again."
Once more she looked at the picture, afraid this time of what she would see. He drew out a knife and used it to separate paint from the edge of the tray, as if he was loosening a bab-fruit pie from its dish. Then quite casually he picked up two corners of the painting and lifted it. It came up whole, like a sheet of cloth, dripping water. He rolled it up and handed it to her.
"Keep it," he said, "to remind ye of day ye met Russet Kermes the waterpainter. Sever painting from water, though, ye kill its soul."
She took hold of it, amazed that it showed no signs of falling apart or even cracking. It was supple and strong. "It is…" She had been going to say beautiful, then realised that would be a lie.
The painting was not beautiful. It was intense, even savage. It reeked of anger against the poverty of the life it portrayed. "Remarkable," she finished lamely.
This time his smile was sardonic. He said, "It be payment."
She was suffocating as if choking on the dust of a desert spindevil; she felt unstable, as if the power of the wind had swept her feet from under her. Desperately she wanted to touch ground, to feel that there was something solid beneath her feet.
"Payment? For what?"
"For soul of artist, Terelle. Payment for ye, of course. What else?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Scarpen Quarter Scarcleft City and Breccia City The unsuccessful search for a stormlord was over.
Now that Taquar had returned to Scarcleft Hall, evening was the time when he pushed aside any thought of his duties or his worries over water and indulged himself. Sometimes he would venture out to a high-level snuggery or a public house where there were dancers and musicians. Sometimes his pleasure was more cerebral and he would read in his library, or more active and he would spend time sparring with his master-of-swords.
No one dropped by without an invitation, so when the steward came to him one evening with the news that there was someone to see him, he was surprised. When it proved to be Ryka Feldspar, he was utterly astonished.
He rose to his feet, put what he hoped was an urbane smile on his face and said, "Rainlord Ryka! This is an unexpected, um, pleasure. What brings you to Scarcleft? Or perhaps even more to the point, what brings you to my abode at this time of the night?" He turned to look at the steward, still hovering in the doorway, and said, "Refreshments. Some of our best amber, perhaps."
The steward bowed and departed. Taquar waved a hand towards a chair and schooled both his expression and tone to perfect neutrality. "Take a seat." Her broad shoulders trembled slightly, which interested him. Ryka? Scared? That wasn't in character. He'd always thought her about as nervy as a bab palm on a windless day.
She sat, but still didn't appear to be at ease. "This is difficult to talk about," she murmured.
"You intrigue me." He couldn't imagine what had brought this usually self-assured, arrogant woman to him, at night what's more, which was definitely broaching the etiquette for an unwed woman. He didn't like her and never had, but he had never cared enough to make that clear to her. He wondered if he was about to regret his lack of bluntness. She wanted a favour of him, that much was clear, one that she dare not commit to the written word.
"I shall speak plainly," she said after an uncomfortable pause. "Granthon is pressing Kaneth and me to marry because we must have more stormlords. He is right about that, of course, but why he imagines that someone with limited rainlord skills such as myself would ever give birth to potential stormlords is beyond me."
"It is puzzling," he agreed.
She gave him a sharp look but continued. "I do not want to marry Kaneth. You are the only other unattached rainlord."
He just caught himself in time to curtail an undignified desire to gape. "Waterless heavens, Ryka. You are not-surely-suggesting that you and I should wed?"
"Hardly. We would be scratching each other's eyes out before the ceremony was over. But I did wonder if-"
He raised an eyebrow when she paused, genuinely puzzled. And she blushed.
"-ifachildofoursmightnothaveabetterchance," she said in a rush.
He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"
She took a deep breath. "If a child of ours-yours and mine-might not have a better chance. Of being a stormlord, I mean. We wouldn't have to marry, or anything. Or even live together."
For the first time in years, someone had truly astonished Taquar Sardonyx. This staid, no-nonsense woman, who was normally so sensible that he found her profoundly boring, was sounding like an overly romantic girl of seventeen with a sandcrazy idea in her head. He could barely contain his distaste. "You're out of your mind," he told her.
"Why?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why is it so unthinkable? You know we need stormlords. You are hardly shy about your numerous liaisons, so what difference will one more make to you?"
"My liaisons aim to be pleasurable. I can't imagine anything less to my taste than to bed Ryka Feldspar because she wants to placate the Cloudmaster! I have not the faintest desire to bed you, Ryka. I have always found your snappish character and lack of femininity as unattractive as your face and as dull as the way you dress."
When she flushed, he took no notice and continued, "Anyway, what do you propose? Taking a room downlevel somewhere and popping up here every night until such time as you are pregnant? You might have to wait a long time, my dear. To the best of my knowledge, I have never fathered a child, and I haven't taken precautions to prevent it for the past fifteen years. Nor, I imagine, have many of the women involved. Why do you think the Cloudmaster hasn't pressured me into a wedded state?"
He allowed a tinge of amusement to suffuse his tone. "As much as it saddens me to point this out to you, I fear I am destined never to have offspring. I had thought this fact was a matter of vulgar gossip throughout the Scarpen Quarter. It seems I was wrong, which pleases me, I will admit. Foolish pride, I know, but a man does not like his sterility to be a matter of common knowledge."
While he'd been speaking, she had slowly risen to her feet, her face reddening and then draining of colour until she was as white as a 'Baster.
She stood staring at him, unable in her embarrassment and humiliation to speak. Finally she managed a strangled, "Then I have been wasting time for both of us. My apologies."
He inclined his head. "Accepted. Ah," he added with deliberate heartiness, "here are the refreshments-"
"I beg to be excused."
Her departure was too abrupt to be polite. Outside in the street, Ryka leaned against the villa wall to collect herself. She could still hear Taquar's low chuckle as she'd left his room. Damn it, the humiliation of his derision was going to haunt her.
You stupid, stupid woman! she thought. How can you have been such a sand-brained idiot? Did it never occur to you why he had no children? And why, oh why, did you imagine he might find you attractive enough to bed?
Her cheeks burned hot as she recalled his words. Damn him. There'd been no need to tear her down like that. He had been so-so-downright nasty.
Watergiver take you, Taquar, I may have asked for that, but you are such a bastard.
She squared her shoulders. If Taquar had been within range she would have ripped into him. Instead, all she could do was grit her teeth and dream of what she should have said. Damn, damn, damn, how could she have been so stupid?