He did better with Lonada and Briskin who, several kilos lighter, had the look of his great-uncle - pinch-faced, lantern jawed and big-eared. Iantine had judiciously reduced the size of those ears even as he wondered what artist had got away with such unflattering appendages on great-uncle.
He redid Luccha’s after the other two: she’d put on some weight and her color was better - not much, but better. And he set her eyes wider in her face, which improved her no end.
Too bad it couldn’t be done to the model. He vaguely remembered that the First Settlers had been able to remodel noses and bob ears and stuff like that.
So, grudgingly and after making him touch up each of the four not-so miniature paintings to the point where he was ready to break something - their heads for preference the Lord and Lady Holder considered the four paintings satisfactory. The final critique had lasted well into the night, which was dark and stormy: the winds audible even through the three-thick-thick cliff walls.
So, as he descended wearily but in great relief to the lower floor cubicle, he became aware of the intense chill in this level.
The temperature in the big Hall had been somewhat warmed by the roaring fires in the four hearths, but there was no heating down here.
In fact, it was so cold that Iantine did no more than loosen his belt and remove his boots before crawling on to the hard surface that was supposed to be a mattress. It looked and felt like something recycled from the ships of the First Crossing. He curled up in the furs, more grateful than ever that he’d brought his own, and fell asleep.
Arctic temperatures swirling about his face roused him. His face was stiff with cold and, despite the warmth of his furs, when he tried to stretch his body his muscles resisted. He had a crick in his neck and he wondered if he’d moved at all during the night. Certainly it was cold enough to have stayed in the warm of the furs. But he had to relieve himself.
He crammed his feet into boot leather that was rigid with ice and, wrapping his furs tightly about himself, made his way down the corridor to the toilet. His breath was a plume of white, his cheeks and nose stung by the cold. He managed his business and returned to his room only long enough to throw on his thickest woolen jumper. With half a mind to throw his furs around him for added warmth, he ran up the several flights of stone steps, past walls that dripped with moisture.
lIe paused at the first window on the upper leveclass="underline" solidly snowed closed. Then he went up the next short flight and opened the door into what should have been the relatively warmer kitchen area.
Had every fire in the place gone out overnight? Had the spit-boys frozen on their bed-shelf? As he turned his head in their direction, his glance caught at the window. Snow was piled up against the first hand’s breadth of it. He moved closer and looked out at the courtyard, but it was all one expanse of unbroken snow. Indeed, where the courtyard should have stepped down to the roadway the snow was even, concealing any depression where the road should have been. No-one moved outside. Nor were there any tracks in the expanse of snow-covered court to suggest that anyone had tried to come in from one of the outer holds.
“Just what I needed,” Iantine said, totally depressed by what he saw. I could be trapped here for weeks!” Paying for room and board.
If only the kids hadn’t come down with measles… If only he hadn’t already freshened up the murals - - How would he survive? Would he have anything left of his original fee - that had seemed so generous by the time he could leave this miserable Hold?
Later that morning, when half-frozen people had begun to cope with the effects of the blizzard, he struck another bargain with the Holder Lord and Lady: and very carefully did he word it. Two full-sized portraits, each a square thick on sky broom wood to be supplied by Lord Chalkin, one of Lady Nadona and one of Lord Chalkin, head and shoulders in Gather dress, with all materials and equipment to make additional pigments supplied by the Hold; maintenance for himself and quarters on an upper floor, with morning and evening fuel for a fire on the hearth.
He completed Lady Nadona’s portrait without too much difficulty she would sit still, loved nothing better than to have a valid excuse for doing nothing. Half-way through the sitting, though, she wanted to change her costume, believing the red did not flatter her complexion as well as the blue.
It didn’t, but he talked her out of changing and subtly altered her naturally florid complexion to a kinder blush, and darkened the color of her pale eyes so that they seemed to dominate her face. By then, he’d heard enough of the supposed resemblance between herself and Luccha so that he improved on it, giving her a more youthful appearance.
When she wanted to change the collar of her dress, he improvised one he remembered seeing in an Ancient’s portrait - a lacy froth which hid much of the loose skin of her neck. Not that he had painted that in, but the lace softened the whole look of her.
He had not been so lucky with Chalkin. The man was psychologically unable to sit still - tapping his fingers, swinging one leg as he crossed and uncrossed them, twitching his shoulders or his face, making it basically impossible to obtain a set pose.
Iantine was nearly desperate now to finish and leave this dreadful place before another snowstorm. The young portraitist wondered if Chalkin’s delays, and the short periods in which he would deign to sit, were yet another ploy to delay him - and rake back some of the original fee. Though Chalkin had even invited him to come into the gaming rooms - the warmest and most elegant rooms in the Hold - Iantine had managed to excuse himself somehow or other.
“Do sit still, Lord Chalkin, I’m working on your eyes and I cannot if you keep moving them about in your face,” Iantine said, rather more sharply than he had ever addressed the Lord Holder before.
“I beg your pardon,” said Chalkin, jerking his shoulders about angrily.
“Lord Chalkin, unless you wish to be portrayed with your eyes crossed, sit still for five minutes! I beg of you.” Something of Iantine’s frustration must have come across because Chalkin not only sat still, he glared at the portraitist.
And for longer than five minutes.
Working as fast as he could, Iantine completed the delicate work on the eyes. He had subtly widened them in the man’s face and cleared up the oedemic pouches which sagged below them. He had made the jowly face less porcine and subtracted sufficient flesh from the bulbous nose to give it a more Roman look. He had also widened and lifted the shoulders to give a more athletic appearance, and darkened the hair.
Further, he had meticulously caught the fire of the many jeweled rings.
Actually, they dominated the painting, which he felt would find favor with Lord Chalkin who seemed to have more rings than days of the year.
“There!” he said, putting down his brush and standing back from the painting, satisfied in himself that he had done the best job possible: that is, the best job that would prove ‘satisfactory’ and allow him to leave this ghastly Hold.
“It’s about time,” Chalkin said, slipping down from the chair and stamping over to view the result.
Iantine watched his face, seeing that flash of pleasure before Chalkin’s usual glum expression settled back over his features.
Chalkin peered more closely, seeming to count the brush strokes although there were none, for Iantine was too competent a technician to have left any.
Watch the paint. It’s not yet dry,” Iantine said quickly, raising his arm to ward off Chalkin’s touch.
“Humph,” Chalkin said, shrugging his shoulders to settle his heavy jerkin. He affected to be diffident, but the way he kept looking at his own face told Iantine that the man was finally pleased.