“Great realism.” Atreos’s words were tinged with irony. He turned and looked directly at me. “Yet… realism… untempered by, shall we say, practical considerations, fails to serve the patron or the artist.”
It would be best for me to say little. Aeryana was listening, and I knew what Atreos wanted. I nodded.
“You know that we are seeking a likeness of the new Directeur. The work would provide a handsome commission. You did not submit a proposal.”
“I am here, ser Atreos. My work is known. If the Societe Generale sees fit to commission me, I would be most honored.” I offered the slightest bow.
“The Societe General, ser Barna, cannot offer commissions to those who do not apply,” Atreos replied. “The application deadline is tomorrow. You might wish to know.”
I bowed again. “You are most kind and thoughtful.”
“I am not, ser Barna. I would prefer not to deal with you. The others requested you be told.” With a brusque nod, he turned and departed. He did not hurry, but he did not look back.
His parting sentiment was not unexpected. That he had come to the studio at all had been the surprise.
“Chendor!” Aeryana walked down the ramp from the loft Her deep blue eyes flashed. Her jet-black hair was shoulder length, most unfashionable, but perfect for her wide forehead, oval face, and high cheekbones. She was angry, but I enjoyed watching her before she spoke.
“You turned him down! You are an idiot, Chendor! An idiot! You are a great artist, but you are an idiot. You are less than an idiot. You are an arrogant, artistic genius, and we will all starve because you never compromise.” Aeryana’s words burned. They always did. She was exaggerating. I had the studio, and it was on Rimbaud Boulevard, with an eight-room conapt behind it We owned both, in fee simple without encumbrances. We could afford the Academe for Nicole. That was hardly starving in Noveau Rochelle, the city of the arts on Gallia.
“I do not see you subsisting on stale biscuits, my dear.” After twenty years, she was more beautiful than ever, and some of the portraits of her in the conapt would take away the breath of the most jaded. They were not for others, but for me. I would destroy them, in time, but not for many years.
“You are impossible!”
“That is possible,” I admitted.
“Will you never reach out to ask for a commission?”
“Atreos does not want me.”
“The others do. They forced him to come here and ask you to offer a proposal.”
“Anything I painted would not satisfy him. I would not have one of the most powerful financiers in New Rochelle dissatisfied with me.”
“His satisfaction will never pay the bills.”
“That is most true, my dear, but his dissatisfaction may keep others from paying them.”
“You are impossible.”
“I believe you said that before.” I smiled broadly.
“Chendor… I don’t know why I stay with you.”
“Because I am an arrogant artistic genius. And because I love you. I have always loved you and looked at no one else.”
“All that is true, Chendor, but don’t you dare turn down another paying commission that good. Don’t you dare!”
“I can’t promise that, dearest.”
Aeryana was shaking her head as she walked back up the ramp to the upper level, from where she managed the financial side of the studio. She was no longer angry. That I could tell.
Should I offer a proposal on the Societe Generate portrait? It would be simple enough, and the work would not be that hard. Then again, Atreos would tell everyone he knew in Noveau Rochelle all of the faults he saw in the portrait. He knew far more people than I did.
If I created a portrait that pleased Atreos, it would not be the kind of work for which I was known. I would then be accused of abandoning my standards. That could cost me more than I’d gain from the Societe Generate commission.
I looked up from my thoughts. Out beyond the front display window, a black sedan glided to a stop at the curb in front of the studio. It was a security vehicle. I recognized it because one had always followed Zaphir’s limousine when he had come to sit for his portrait. I’d offered to go to his office. He’d said that he preferred the excuse of leaving it.
Two men got out of the sedan and stepped toward the studio door. It was going to be one of those days. Aeryana would be anything but pleased if I turned down a second commission, especially from someone wealthy enough for a security detail.
When they stepped into the front foyer, I bowed. “Greetings.”
As I straightened up, I recognized the shorter man in the lighter gray. It was Georges Hillaire, the managing directeur of Bane du Nord. I’d done a portrait of his wife nine years back. It had been one of my better works, except for those of Aeryana, of course.
“Ser Barna?” That was the taller and younger man in the severe dark gray singlesuit. He had the figure of someone who had been an athlete and still kept in training. His eyes drifted to the representation of the Grande Opera Theatre. He nodded, and his eyes flicked back to me. They were dark gray. They were also far harder than I would have expected from a man who looked so young as he did.
“The same.”
“I apologize,” he went on. “Ser Hillaire had given me your name and had agreed to accompany me. I’m here to discuss a possible… commission.”
The hesitation over the word “commission” suggested tentativeness, but Hillaire would never have accompanied someone who could not have afforded my work—and prices.
“We would appreciate a few minutes with you, perhaps in a less open space.”
Some clients were like that. “The conference room is damped.” I gestured for them to follow me.
Neither spoke until the door was closed. One of them added a secondary damping field. Hillaire wouldn’t have done it. The younger man in the darker gray surveyed the octagonal chamber, with the cherry-paneled walls—and no artwork. He studied the piped-light chandelier, then the circular table, before seating himself in one of the four wooden armchairs.
I took the chair across from him. Hillaire sat at my left He worried his lip with his lower teeth. I’d not seen that before.
“I am here on behalf of the both the Comity Cultural Service and the Diplomatic Corps,” began the man I didn’t know.
“You didn’t say who you are,” I offered.
“I could give you a name. It wouldn’t be mine, but you could track it, and it would be real. As real as any name is, and it would even identify the company that pays my salary. It’s not real, either, except as a financial entity.”
“Why didn’t you just give it, then?”
“Because ser Hillaire suggested I do not. He said that you would know it was not real. Our research indicates the same. That talent is part of the reason the Comity would like to offer you both a stipend and a series of works for a commission. The stipend would go to your wife, the commission to you.”
“I’m certain Aeryana would agree to that.” I laughed. “She might ask why both did not go to her.”
The corners of Hillaire’s lips lifted, then dropped.
“What is this commission?”
“A series of depictions of places and items of great and unique interest. I can only say that you have never seen their like.”
“Can only say, or will only say?”
“I cannot say more because I don’t know more.”
He was telling the truth. That was interesting, and unnerving.
“The stipend would be five thousand Comity credits paid every Gallian month for up to three years.”
That was even more unnerving. Over the past decade, my best year had been seventy thousand, my worst thirty. The Comity was offering a baseline stipend of fifty thousand. “And the commission?”