“You’re applying for the custodial position?” he asked.
“No,” Frank said. “I’ve come to paint Duke Costa’s portrait.”
“Oh. Okay. Wait on that bench for a moment.” Five minutes later a grinning, slick-haired clerk approached. “You’ve brought your portfolio, yes?”
“No,” Frank said, “but I’ll draw you in two minutes.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”
Frank took a chewed pencil from a pocket in his leather jacket. He laid his box across his knees and quickly sketched the man, using the side of the box for a surface. The drawing was quick and graceful, shaded with the fine cross-hatching of which his father had been master.
“Hm,” said the official, peering at it. “Not bad. But can you paint? It’s a painting he wants, you know.”
“Paint. Sure.” Frank took three tubes of paint, all shades of brown, out of his box and squeezed blobs from them onto the bench. He dipped a brush in one and went to work on the wall. In five minutes there glistened on the ancient plaster a portrait, done in the style of Goya, of the slick-haired clerk.
“Well,” said the clerk, “you’re good enough for me to pass you on to the Duke for a final decision, but I’m afraid I’ll have to fine you five malories for defacing government property.”
“Take it out of my salary,” Frank said. “When can I start on the portrait?”
“Anytime, I guess. I’ll have a guard escort you to the throne room, and you can discuss it with the Duke himself. Uh, what’s your name?”
“Richard Helder,” Frank told him. The clerk scribbled it on a piece of paper, then handed it to a guard.
“Just follow him, Mr. Helder,” the clerk said. Frank nodded his thanks and followed the guard upstairs.
The throne room, as Frank noticed when he was finally admitted, had changed considerably during his absence. The bookcases and desk were gone, replaced by overly-colorful tapestries, the throne had been painted, and the year-old, unfinished Claude Rovzar portrait of Duke Topo was nowhere to be seen.
Duke Costa, a little redder of face and ampler of belly, was sitting on the throne and staring at a sheaf of star-maps. “Who’s that?” he asked the guard, pointing at Frank.
“An artist,” said the guard. “Richard Helder. Briggs passed him.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Costa smiled, returning to his star-maps. Frank nodded and sat down in a chair by the entrance. He glanced at the doors and saw, dimly under the new paint, the unevenness of the putty filling in the old bullet holes.
The rise and fall of Duke Costa, Frank thought. Or maybe the rise and fall of Frank Rovzar. This is the room our fathers died in.
Under this building, he thought, staring at the floor, crouches, silently, my army. It would be an interesting development if the army wasn’t down there—if they’ve simply stayed home, as Emsley told them to do yesterday, just before I killed him.
Idly, as he waited, Frank did a couple of sketches of Costa in profile on the reverse side of the paint box.
Finally Costa flung the maps aside. “Mr. Helder?” he said. “I understand Briggs likes your work. He’s not too easily pleased. What were you drawing there, just a second ago?”
Frank walked forward and showed the Duke the profiles.
“Not bad,” Costa said with a critical squint. “I like the style. Did you ever study the works of Rovzar?”
“What artist hasn’t?” replied Frank.
“Just so,” nodded Costa. “When can you begin?”
“That depends,” said Frank in an artificially casual voice. “You see, the only canvases I have are small- -fit for paintings of children, or kittens, but hardly Dukes. I can order a canvas, of course; but with the interplanetary shipping system in the state it’s in, God knows when it would come.” He hoped Costa was unaware that canvases were made on Octavio. “Uh ... you wouldn’t happen to have an old canvas, a painting, lying around, that I could paint over? Something roughly three feet by five feet?”
“By God, I have!” laughed Costa. “Hey, guard!” he yelled. “Bring that picture in here! The big unfinished one!” He grinned at Frank. “You, sir,” he said, “are to have the privilege of painting over a genuine unfinished Rovzar.”
Frank raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
The painting was brought in, still on the original easel. It was dimmed with dust, and something greasy had dripped down the left side of it, but Frank easily recognized his father’s work, and the sight of it brought back memories of the old man with more force than anything else had in a year.
The guards bowed and withdrew. Frank took a rag out of his paint box and gently wiped off the canvas. There, looking nobler than Frank had ever seen him look in life, sat Duke Topo. Frank reached out and ran his fingers over the fine brush strokes.
He turned to Costa to speak, but saw the Duke, suddenly pale, rising from the throne and pointing a trembling finger at him. “I ... I was told you were dead,” he whispered.
“You’ve got me confused with someone,” said Frank levelly.
“No, no. Your drawing style—I should have guessed immediately.” The Duke slid his jewel-hilted rapier out of its velvet scabbard and then ran at Frank with the weapon held over his head like an axe. Frank snatched up the paint box and caught the descending blade with it; the sword stuck, and Frank roughly levered it out of Costa’s grasp. He kicked the Duke in the stomach and Costa dropped to the floor. Frank wrenched the paint-smeared blade loose, raised it—Costa cowered under an upflung arm—and brought it down across the face of the painting, slashing the canvas open from top to bottom.
“Guards!” bellowed Costa, scuttling away from him like a frightened beetle. “I’m being killed!”
Frank reached in behind the split painting and seized the book, then ran to the door just as it was flung open by the first of four sword-waving Transport guards.
Frank drove the spattered rapier at one of them, who parried it hard, flinging drops of color at the wall. The Winnie the Pooh was in Frank’s right hand, so he hit the man in the face with it A sword tore a gash in Frank’s right shoulder, and he twisted around and cut the throat of the guard who held it. Then he was through them, and running to find a bathroom. He impatiently peeled off the itchy false moustache and flung it to the ground.
“Get him! Get him!” screamed Costa. “He’s insane!”
Frank ducked into one room and surprised a half-dozen women who were tacking typed pages onto a bulletin board; he fled them and their panicky, guard-drawing screams and dashed down another hallway. Blood from his shoulder spotted his cape and ran down his arm onto the leather binding of the book he held.
Ahead of him a guard appeared from around a corner. The man raised his arm and a bang sounded as a strip of plaster beside Frank’s head turned to powder. Frank convulsively kicked open the nearest door, ran through the room beyond it and, whirling his cape over his head, leaped through the closed window.
He fell, together with a rain of shattered glass, through fifteen feet of air onto pavement, rolling as he landed to minimize the impact. He tore his cape off, picked up his book and sword and looked around. He was in an enclosed garden; tables stood among the greenery, and astonished people were flinging down forks and getting to their feet; two guards, swords out, strode toward him.
Frank desperately picked up a chair from beside a nearby table and tossed it through the largest ground-floor window, which burst inward with a hideous racket. Frank leaped through it, hearing the shouts of guards from all sides. I’ll never get to a bathroom now, he thought dizzily. They’ve got me surrounded.