Fayr was silent for a few more steps. Maybe he wasn't sure anymore whether to trust me or not. "There's a place a short distance away on the other side of the museum grounds," he said at last. "It's called Artists' Paradise."
I turned to glance down a side street as we passed, the movement tilting my hood just enough to send a rivulet of rain into my eyes. "Sounds interesting," I said, brushing away the water with the back of my hand. "Lead the way."
SEVENTEEN :
We continued walking directly away from the museum for a couple more blocks, then changed direction and made a wide circle around the whole museum area.
I also discovered I'd been wrong earlier about the neighborhood buttoning up for the night. Now that the dinner hour was over, the streets and sidewalks were starting to fill up again as the locals ventured out into the rain and their evening activities. The increasing number of pedestrians made it harder to be sure we weren't being followed, but at the same time it offered more cover if we needed to make a break for it.
The neighborhoods themselves also began to change again, this time definitely not for the better. Whereas on the other side of the museum the homes had ranged from lower-middle-class pleasant to full-blown high-class snooty, the real estate on this side seemed to be sliding rapidly toward the opposite end of the scale.
"Not what I'd consider your typical paradise-type area," I commented as we walked past a row of houses that were little more than closely packed shacks. "Who named this place, the same real estate fogger who tagged a frozen wasteland as Greenland?"
"This is not the Paradise," Fayr said. He pointed two blocks ahead, to a large structure looming over the smaller homes around it. "That is the Paradise."
I eyed it. Even from this distance, I could see that the building included a few hints of the same architectural style as the art museum.
But where that place had been carefully and lovingly maintained, this one had been allowed to go straight to the dogs. "I don't see a lot of improvement," I told Fayr.
"It looks like a theater," Bayta said.
"It's an amphitheater, actually, with a central, open-air performance area," Fayr said. "The reference listing states that after it fell into disuse and disrepair poor street artists moved in. They turned the dressing rooms and equipment shops into their homes and studios."
I nodded. It was the same move-in-and-squat technique the down-and-out had been doing for centuries, probably everywhere in the galaxy. "The authorities couldn't get rid of them?"
"On the contrary," Fayr said. "Over the past decades the authorities have created an aura of local attraction around the Paradise and its residents. Many artists, particularly offworlders, have journeyed to Ghonsilya specifically to spend time here."
"They want to live there?" Bayta asked.
"I'm certain they're surprised at what they find," Fayr said grimly. "But by the time they learn the truth, many aren't able to leave."
"I don't understand," Bayta said.
"It's a matter of economics," I said. The Chahwyn who'd raised her, I suspected, had passed over many of the more sordid facts of modern life. "Artists come to Ghonsilya, lured by the Tra'ho reputation as art lovers and maybe stories and out-of-date photos of the Artists' Paradise."
"The first part is true, certainly," Fayr murmured.
"Absolutely," I agreed. "The Tra'ho'seej are certainly eager to buy up their art—that hotel lobby was loaded to the gills with the stuff."
"Then I don't understand the problem," Bayta said.
"The problem is that the Tra'ho'seej probably don't pay very much," I told her. "If they keep the prices low—and there are any number of ways to do that—then the artists end up stuck. They have to keep cranking out artwork to survive, but are never quite able to scrape together enough money to pull up stakes and go somewhere else."
"I've heard that some of the poorest trade their art directly for food at the local restaurants and markets," Fayr said.
"Where again the buyer gets to set the exchange rate," I said. "When love turns to obsession."
Bayta gave me an odd look. "What?"
"Art-loving becoming art-obsession," I clarified.
"Oh," Bayta said, the odd look not going away. "I thought you were talking about …never mind. But surely not all their work is traded by barter."
"The more expensive pieces are sold directly to customers," Fayr said. "In fact, many of the transactions take place right here in the Paradise." He looked around at the lower-class Tra'ho'seej milling around. "Though only during the daylight hours."
"We can't afford to wait," I told him. "With all those Tra'ho walkers lying in bed watching their ceilings spin around, the local Modhri mind segment is as weak and inattentive as it's likely to get. We need to find Stafford tonight."
"You believe he's in the Paradise?" Fayr asked.
"If he's not, he should be," I told him. "If you want to find art, go where the artists are. If you really want to find art, live where the artists live."
Fayr lifted his head to look at the top of the dilapidated building. "There's a great deal of area here for three people to search," he commented. "We'd best get started."
"Right," I said. "He's my species. Let me do the talking."
The Paradise main entrance was a large archway of the same style as the ones we'd seen in the art museum. Leading inward from the archway was an entrance runnel lined by closed doors and a number of shabbily dressed Tra'ho'seej. Most of the loiterers were sitting around talking, inhaling aromatic censer smoke, or moodily watching everyone else. The tunnel also had a double row of light fixtures set about head height, but only one light in six or seven was actually lit. "I can see why the buyers only come during the day," I murmured.
I'd barely finished the comment when a group of five Tra'ho youths leaning against the tunnel fifteen meters ahead detached themselves from their section of wall and sauntered their way into a loose line across our path.
"Compton?" Fayr asked.
"It's okay," I told him as I studied the youths. All had long knives displayed prominently at their sides, but I didn't see any of the telltale clothing bulges or strains that would indicate heavier weaponry. Focusing on the tallest of the five, I nodded a greeting. "Evening, young honoreds," I called. "Is this the Artists' Paradise we've heard so much about?"
[The Paradise is closed to business,] the Tra'ho said brusquely in Seejlis.
"All the artists have gone to sleep, have they?" I asked. "Nestled all snug in their beds, with visions of sugarplums and all that?"
[The Paradise is closed,] he repeated, dropping his hand warningly to his knife hilt. [Come back with the sunlight.]
"Sorry, but we can't do that," I said, watching his friends out of the corner of my eye as I continued forward. The whole group seemed a little confused by my strange inability to take the hint.
Which implied this was probably not just some random group of toughs looking for someone to rob. If they were, they'd be moving in for the kill instead of trying to wave us off. Guards, then, hired by the artists to protect them after dark?
If so, we might be able to work that to our advantage. "I'm afraid we're running a tight schedule and have to be gone by morning," I continued. I was about three steps away from the leader now, and his hand had wrapped around his knife hilt in preparation for a quick draw. "I'm told there's a Human here who's looking for the sort of thing we're selling."
His ears twitched with surprise. Apparently dealers didn't come around at night, either. [What is it you sell?]
"An item one of the artists very much wants," I said. "And is willing to pay a great deal of money for."
That one got an ear twitch from all five of them. A Paradise artist with spare cash was probably something of a rarity.