A door opened. Lalo heard light footsteps above the plash and gurgle of the fountain, and a young woman with precisely coiled fair hair beckoned to him.
'My Lady?' he hesitated.
'I am the Lady Danlis, ancilla to the mistress of this house,' she answered briskly. 'Come with me ...'
I should have known, thought Lalo, after hearing Cappen Varra sing her praises/or so long. But that had been some time ago. As he followed her straight-backed progress along the corridor Lalo wondered what vision had made Cappen fall in love with her, and why it had failed.
A startled slave looked up and hastily began gathering together his rags and jars of wax paste as Danlis ushered Lalo through a door of gilded cedarwood into the Hall. Lalo stopped short, taken aback by the abundance of colour and texture in the room. Figured silken rugs littered the parquet floor; gilded grape vines laden with amethyst fruit twisted about the marble columns that strained against the beamed ceiling; and the walls were draped with patterned damask from the looms of Ranke. Lalo stared around him, wondering what could possibly be left to decorate.
'Danlis, darling, is this the new painter?'
Lalo turned at a rustle of silks and saw hastening across the carpets a woman who was to Danlis as an overblown rose is to the bud of the flower. She was followed by a maid, and a fluffy dog spurted ahead of her, yapping fiercely and knocking over the pots of wax which the slave had set aside.
'I'm so glad that my lord has given me permission to get rid of these dreary hangings - so bourgeois, and as you see, they are quite faded now!' The lady went on breathlessly, her trailing skirts upsetting the pots which the slave had just finished righting again. The maid paused behind her and began to berate the cowering servant in low fierce tones.
'My Lady, may I present Lalo the Limner-' Danlis turned to the artist, 'Lalo, this is the Lady Rosanda. You may make your bow.'
'Will you take long to finish the work?' asked the Lady. 'I will be happy to advise you - everyone has always complimented me on my excellent taste - I often think that I might have made an excellent artist - if I had been bora into another walk of life, that is ...'
'
'Lord Molin's position requires a worthy setting -' stated Danlis as her mistress paused for breath. 'After the initial ... difficulties ... construction of the new temple has proceeded smoothly. Naturally there will be celebrations in honour of its completion. Since it would be impious to hold them in the temple, they must take place in surroundings which will demonstrate whose genius is responsible for the achievement which will establish Sanctuary's position in the Empire.'
Lady Rosanda stared at her companion, impressed, but Lalo scarcely heard her, already abstracted by consideration of the possibilities of the place. 'Has Lord Molin decided on the subjects that I am to depict?'
'If you are chosen -' answered Danlis. 'The murals will portray the goddess Sabellia as Queen of the Harvest, surrounded by her nymphs. First, of course, he will want to see your sketches and designs.'
'I might model for the Goddess ...' suggested Lady Rosanda, twitching an improbably auburn curl over one plump shoulder and looking arch. '
Lalo swallowed. 'My Lady is too kind, but modelling is exacting work -1 wouldn't consider asking someone of your refinement to spend hours posing in such uncomfortable positions and scanty attire ...' His panic eased into relief as the lady simpered and smiled. His own vision of the Goddess was characterized by a compassionate majesty which he doubted Lady Rosanda could even visualize, much less portray. Finding a model for Sabellia would be his hardest task.
'Now that you understand the work, how much time will you require?'
'What?' Lalo forced himself to the present again.
'When can you bring us the designs?' Danlis repeated tartly.
'I must consider ... and choose my models ...' he faltered. 'It will take two or three days.'
'Oh Lalo ...'
The limner jerked, turned, and realized that he had come all the way from Molin Torchholder's well-guarded gatehouse to the Street of the Goldsmiths without conscious direction, as if his feet were under a charm to carry him home.
'My dear friend!' Puffing a little, Sandol the rug dealer drew up beside Lalo, who looked at him in bewilderment. It had not been 'my friend' the last time they met, when Sandol had refused to pay the full price for his wife's portrait because she said it made her look fat.
'I have wanted to tell you how much enjoyment your painting brings us. As they say, a work of art is a lasting pleasure - perhaps we ought to have a portrait of myself to balance my wife's. What do you say?' He wiped his brow with a large handkerchief of purple silk.
'Well of course I would be happy - but I don't know just when
- my time may be occupied for a while ...' answered Lalo, confused.
'Yes indeed -' Sandol smiled unctuously. 'I understand that your work will shortly grace a much more august residence than my own. My wife was saying just this morning what an honour it was to have been painted by the man who is decorating Molin Torchholder's feasting hall!'
Suddenly Lalo understood. The news of his prospective commission must be all over town by now. He suppressed a grin of triumph, remembering how he had humbled himself to this man to get even a part of his fee. Perhaps he should do the picture -the rug merchant was as porcine as his lady, and they would make a good pair.
'Well, I must not discuss it yet...' replied Lalo modestly. 'But it is true that I have been approached... I fear that an opportunity to serve the representative of the gods of Ranke must take precedence over lesser commitments.' Interested commentary followed them like an echo down the busy street, apprentices telling their masters, silk-veiled matrons whispering to each other as they tried on rings.
'Oh indeed I do understand,' Sandol assured him fervently. 'AH I ask is that you keep me in mind ...'
'I'll let you know,' said Lalo graciously, 'when I have time.' He increased his pace, leaving the rug merchant standing like a melting icicle in the sea of people behind him. When he had crossed the Path of Money into the Corridor of Steel, Lalo permitted himself a discreet skip or two.
'Not only my feet but my entire life is charmed now!' he told himself. 'May all the gods of Ranke and Ilsig bless Enas Yorl!'
Sunshine glared from the whitewashed walls around him, flashed from polished swords and daggers displayed in the armourers' stalls, glittered in myriad points of light from linked mail. But the brilliance around him was less dazzling than the vistas opening to Lalo's imagination now. He would have not merely a comfortable living, but riches; not only respect, but fame! Everything he had ever desired was within his grasp ...
Cutpurses flowed around him like shadows as he passed through an alleyway, but despite the rumours, his purse still swung slackly, and they drew back again without his having noticed them. Someone called out to him as he passed the more modest establishments near the warehouses, but Lalo's eyes were blinded by his visions.
It was not until his feet had carried him on to the Wideway that edged the harbour that he realized that he had been hailed by Farsi the Coppersmith, who had loaned him money when Gilla was sick after the birth of their second child. He thought of turning back, but surely he could visit Farsi another time. He was too busy now.