The Adorned (8 page)

It was not what I had expected. A library was, to most who could keep one, something ornamental: a pretty display box with two or three shelves of books languishing unread, a writing-desk, and perhaps a harmonium or harp if the masters of the house were musical.

Here, shelves lined the walls, covering even the windows; only lamps broke the gloom. The requisite desk was awkwardly placed near the room’s center, and on its worktop five or so books were spread out, held open by strange markers: a paintbrush, an empty cup, another book. On the shelves I could see no system of arrangement. They were crammed end to end; massive volumes and thin folios were shoved together side by side. There was a reading sofa, as in most libraries, but to fit in amongst the books it was smaller than a child’s bed, and it had been covered in a ragged throw.

It was as if I’d stepped into another house—another world, almost. Everything in Tallisk’s house seemed gleaming and precise, but this sprawling mess had only one elegant thing about it: Isadel, sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She looked up at us, half smiling, but did not rise.

“Yana,” she said, nodding to us. “Etan. Hello.”

Yana tipped an invisible hat to her. “Enjoying our evening off, are we?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know. Unlike some, I’m not swimming in leisure time.”

Isadel made as if to throw her book in Yana’s direction, then grinned. “Would you trade?”

“And have to spend my time being pleasant with the likes of Geodery Gandor? Blood-servant or not, I’d rather kiss a horse.”

“You’d rather kiss a horse than any man.”

Yana pulled a face. “By the gods, Isadel, tell me you’ve not touched lips with Gandor. I might have to scrub you clean if that were the case.”

She laughed. “The Count would cut his lips off first, key-master or no.”

“Then I’ll have to raise my opinion of the Count.”

Their banter only half reached my ears. I was caught by the books, by the bewildering variety of them. Most were Keredy tomes, as expected, but here and there I saw the blocky Gaelte script and the complex glyphs of Suramm. Whoever had collected this library was a connoisseur; there could be no mistaking that. I only wondered whether the collector had been Tallisk, or if he’d inherited it from a master or parent.

“He likes the books.” I caught Isadel’s low voice. “We’ve got a little scholar on our hands, Yana.”

Yana chuckled. I swallowed and pulled my shoulders tight, trying to collapse into myself.

Isadel rose from the sofa. The sound of her garments sliding against the sofa was like a whisper. She closed her book and placed it, facedown, on the writing desk, then walked toward me and put her palm flat on my back. It was a gesture meant to comfort, or to steady. “You can read whichever you like, you know,” she said. “All of them, if you wish.”

I looked up, all around me, at the rising tide of books, and was suddenly grateful for her hand.

Chapter Eleven

I woke to the chirp of birds outside my window; they were singing as if spring had come already. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was deep grey. I had tossed from dream to dream, though I remembered none now that I’d awakened. The bed felt uncomfortably strange below me, the mattress too firm, the quilt too soft. I felt a bit shameful for thinking so; I knew I’d no cause to complain. It was the bed of a rich man, finer than any I had slept on before. I lay there unmoving, listening to the birdsong, watching the slow change in the quality of the light.

First light, Tallisk had said. It would be soon, now.

There was a knock at my door, and I drew the quilt to my chin. “Yes?”

It was Doiran, carrying a wash-basin in one hand, a covered tray in the other. He kneed open the door, smiling. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I replied. I felt small, tucked up in my bed; I had not been woken this way since I was a boy and my father had hired a nurse to see to the things he could not fathom about my upbringing. Doiran placed the wash-basin on the bedside table and put the tray on top of my lap. “Eat up,” he said. “Then have a quick wash, and get dressed. Master Tallisk will be expecting you as soon as you’re presentable.”

“Is he up already?”

Doiran laughed. “As far as I can tell, he’s not yet gone to sleep.”

I uncovered the tray, and the scent of fresh bread and fruit preserves coiled up to me. I went at it with an unexpected hunger; Doiran poured a cup of tea.

“Is there anything else you need?”

I shook my head and swallowed a piece of bread. “No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll go.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “I’ve laundry to do and a goose in the oven for tonight. Leave the tray on the table when you’ve done, and I’ll come to collect it later.”

“Wait!” I called out, as he was half out the door. “Who will take me up to Master Tallisk?”

“Just go the atelier and knock on the door,” Doiran said. “This isn’t the most ceremonious of houses. He won’t care in the least.”

I merely nodded. It was not a question of etiquette that twisted fearful knots in my stomach.

I finished my breakfast swiftly and washed myself with great care. I almost wished that I could have another bath, before going up to the atelier to present myself. I contented myself by taking pains to arrange my appearance, picking the best-looking clothes from the wardrobe and using the comb Doiran had included with the wash-basin to run through my hair until it was soft and gleaming. I nodded at myself in the small mirror on the wall. I looked well enough. I would have to do, in any case.

With slow, unsure steps, I ascended. The house was quiet all through, save for the sound of my footsteps. The door to the atelier was open; Tallisk stood by his worktable. The desktop was a mess of papers, brushes, books. He seemed deep in thought, hunched over as if at some delicate work, though his hands were simply spread on the table. I coughed softly and knocked upon the doorframe, as I had seen Yana do.

He turned to me. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

I did as he told; I was alone with him now.

He stepped away from his desk and circled me a few times, frowning. “You are settling well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He paused and thoughtfully touched the line of my jaw; I started, but he did not seem to care. “Take off your clothes.”

I took an audible breath. “Should I strip entire, sir?”

He hesitated a moment. “No. You can keep on your undergarments. Put your clothes here,” he said, gesturing to a large tasseled cushion thrown into a corner.

I made an awkward bow and began taking off my clothing, folding each garment neatly and placing it on the cushion. Tallisk in his turn went around the room and drew aside the curtains he’d drawn over the windows. With the gauze still in place, they were cunningly designed to provide privacy while allowing in the bright morning light. The light was warm and entire, with no beams of shadow across my nearly-nude body.

My mouth was dry. Would this be the day I had my first ink put on me? I had not seen any of Tallisk’s designs yet, but then, why would he need to show them to me? He did not need my approval. “What should I do?”

“Remain as you are.” He took a leather folio from the desktop and untied its cover; it contained fresh, blank pages. He had a thin pencil tucked behind one ear, which he now took out. He circled me, an intent grimace on his face, and every now and then he dashed a line down upon the paper. I tried not to follow his motions, to remain still, though I was not used to it and felt my arms and legs tremble with the effort. Tallisk continued his inspection a while, then licked the end of the pencil and drew some lines upon my skin with it—curves and right angles, a bare touch of grey. It was as if a bony finger, or a dull tooth, were being raked across me. “Right,” he muttered to himself, “right.”

I remained still as he made more sketches upon his pad, shuffling the papers until some ten or more were filled with quick-drawn lines. “Lift your head,” he said. He traced the line of my jaw, the curve of my neck—first with the dull end of his pencil, then with the calloused tip of his finger. I kept my head high, and he accorded the same treatment to my shoulders. When he was done, he rapped them with the pencil, quite hard. “How do you bleed?”

I was speechless for a moment. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Each man bleeds different. How long does it take you to clot, after a wound?”

“I do not know,” I answered, honestly. I had never bothered to track the time I took to heal.

“We’ll find out then,” he said, and he retrieved a small lacquered box from the table.

“Find out?” I went cold. He could not mean what I thought he did.

“Find out,” he repeated, and he snapped open the lacquered case. Inside, there lay a sharp and gleaming little blade. “Hold still.”

“Sir...” I said weakly, and he paused the blade, an inch from the soft flesh of my shoulder.

“You’ll feel worse pain from my needles.” It sounded as if he’d meant to reassure. “I am sorry, but before you are tattooed, I need to see how you bleed.”

He was right, and I nodded, but I could not stop myself from shaking. He held me still, as he sliced three short, thin lines into my skin. In a moment, it was over; it had hurt less than his hand on me.

I turned my head to watch the blood slowly trickle down my arm, the three trails snaking and winding around each other, first warm, then cooling and turning thick and viscous. After a minute or so, Tallisk seemed satisfied. He took from the same lacquered box a strip of white cotton, and mopped up the red drops. A dull pink streak was left, spanning from my shoulder to just above my elbow.

“You bleed well,” he said, and touched a gentle hand to the wound. “There will be no problem there.”

I nodded, feeling slightly queasy.

“I won’t touch needle to your flesh before you gain some courage, though. I can’t have you flinching.”

I wanted to feel offended by his words, to defend my courage, but the sinking feeling in my belly robbed any honest effort to do so. I could not help it: the thought of pain frightened me. I said nothing; I stood still, and despite the warmth of the sun on my skin I felt cold.

“I will need time, in any case, to think on your design,” he continued. “I will arrange that you watch me work on Isadel.”

I sucked in a breath. I had been hoping to sport my first ink before nightfall, but whatever disappointment I felt at that vanished at knowing he would let me watch him work. Trying to suppress my excitement, I nodded to him. “May I get dressed?”

He made a careless gesture toward my clothes. “Go ahead.”

As I dressed, I glanced over at the sketches that Tallisk had made. They were of me, there was no gainsaying it. His simple bold lines had captured the outlines of my back, my shoulders, my legs, the pooled shadows between my thighs. The sketches of me were still bare, a blank canvas. I wondered if he had sketches such as this of Isadel. He must have. Had there been more than her? Tallisk was in his middle years, and he would have been apprenticed at twelve or younger if what I knew of tattooists’ ways was correct. It was a long term of study, but he must have had quite a few years of mastership before Isadel had come to him.

“You will need to start a regiment of baths,” Tallisk said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your skin is not in ideal shape yet. There’s some hint of blemish here.” He touched my cheekbones lightly.

I swallowed. “You wish to tattoo my face?”

He chuckled low. “No. But it ruins the palette. A regimen of cleansing baths will even out your complexion. I will give Doiran instruction on your care.”

I stood, holding my jacket in my hands. Tallisk, who’d turned to arrange his sketches, frowned at me.

“Well?”

I opened and closed my mouth, very like a fish.

Tallisk’s mouth twitched. He was almost smiling. “I’m done with you,” he said. “For now. You may go.”

I ached to remain, to ask him all the questions gathered in my mind. Instead I went, without even a murmur; he closed the door behind me. Once it was shut, I let out a breath, deep and shuddering: a breath I had not been aware of holding.

Chapter Twelve

Tallisk did as he promised.

First, he gave Doiran instructions as to my bathing regimen, specifying with humiliating precision the how and when. Every day he called me to bathe, sometimes twice; the luxury alone seemed stunning to me. There were exotic soaps he had to purchase, and special creams to “even my complexion.” At least I was allowed the small mercy of applying them myself, after I insisted to Tallisk that I would take pains to scrub every plane and crevice of me until it met his exacting standard.

Second, he arranged for me to watch him at work.

He waited for a clear, bright morning, then summoned Isadel and me to his atelier. We went together; she wore her usual light, silken robes, without her coat of brocade. A wise choice, I learned; Tallisk had set the braziers working until it felt like midsummer.

He had his sleeves rolled up, and I glanced at his uncovered arms, where half-faded tattoos lay over corded muscle. Set out before him were a reclining chair and a low table filled with the tools of his trade: bottles of ink, needles, wooden hammers, paints and brushes, calipers and rods. Half surgeon’s tools, half artist’s. A shiver of fascination passed through me at the sight of them.

“Good,” he said, “you are here. We’ll begin.”

There were no niceties, no preambles. He simply gestured to the chair.

Isadel inclined her head. “Shall I disrobe, sir?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I intend to tattoo your clothing. Off with it!”

She winked at me. I realized she was making a little show of it, for my benefit. She untied the ribbons at her sleeves, and the cord at her waist, and handed them to me. “Will you hold these for me, please?”

I nodded mutely. She moved as serpentine and languid as the snakes tattooed upon her, taking off her robes and hanging them on a hook beside the door. The snakes moved subtly upon her skin, like painted puppets in a shadowplay; with her every step they shifted, as if they were trying to cling to her curves. There was such ease in her motion; though she was mother-naked, it seemed she wore invisible robes and jewels upon her. I found myself entranced, and jealous; a strange, constricting envy had settled in my chest.