49
"...Now, the fifty barrels of mead here I don't know about, I suspect they've come outta Rainwall, but who's to say they aren't genuine Razril import? I'm just thinking that we're getting them awfully cheap if they are."
I brushed a lock of hair behind my ear, using it as a pretense for rubbing my right temple. "It's just getting worse, isn't it?"
Laraine glanced up at me, then down at the enormous scroll in her hands. "What's getting worse?"
"The Rainwall smuggling."
"Oh yeah." She made a few ticks down her list of imports. "Old Barows is trying to lock down everything he has, stockpile, I guess. His merchants aren't too happy. They want to dump their goods as fast as they can and get out."
An unlikely prospect, as ever since the Dawn Rune scandal, Barows had closed the roads to Rainwall, barred the gates of his city and continued hiding inside. His people were clearly suffering for it; we didn't need verification from spies to tell us that. Goods had only just begun to leak out of his city. I remembered enough from my lessons to know that with all the goods holed up in the same place, the prices would be rock-bottom. Distributing them widely would bring in more money to the desperate Rainwall merchants, contraband or not.
"So you think these really came from Rainwall?"
Laraine thumped the nearest barrel. "I think they've been freshly painted. See? I bet you could hide the Barows crest under this paint." She looked quickly up at me. "So, you going to take them? Tainted money or not?"
I pursed my lips. "I'll have to consult my father."
She nodded. "See that you do, Lady Salisha. If not, I want to take these to someone who wants them as fast as possible." At the sound of wagon wheels, she glanced over her shoulder. "Oh look. I think you've got more, er, imports coming in."
I felt pretty foolish telling all the merchants that I'd have to get my father's approval before allowing them to sell their wares in Sable. They gave me baleful "I thought you Raulbels were in charge here" looks followed by pleading "You're no longer Barows' ally, why should you observe his sanctions?" gazes. I kept reminding them that my father had only left for the morning and would return after noon.
Still, by the time four wayfarers shuffled under our front gate, dusty to the eyebrows, I told Chaz to go see to them first. Maybe if their first view was of a soldier, they'd leave.
They didn't. I waited on the front step as Chaz spoke to them, then returned to me. "They are refugees, my lady."
"Refugees?" I repeated over an unpleasant shock of guilt. Giving them a second look, I saw they couldn't possibly be merchants. They only had one small burro to carry their possessions, and one of them was cradling a small dog. After wanting to drive them off, I suddenly felt it was my duty to see to them personally. As Chaz and I approached, the young woman with the dog eyed us warily.
"Welcome to Sable," I said, wondering if I should public speak, if that would be too cold. "I am Salisha Raulbel. Is there anything I can do?"
The girl with the dog shrugged. Another one, an older man with black hair, shifted his weight from foot to foot. The other two, a redheaded boy and girl who might be siblings, just glanced at each other. They all looked exhausted, their identical white jackets dingy with grime.
I don't like one-sided conversations, but I plunged on. "You are refugees? Where from?"
The girl with the dog swallowed. "Haud Village. As comfortable as it is there, we... wanted to put distance between ourselves and Rainwall."
Haud Village. Some memory tickled the back of my mind. I'd never been there, only ever heard of it, but... hadn't Grand once said he'd rather live in Armes than in Haud?
"You are welcome here, of course. There are several inns you can stay at, and if you want to take up residence here, you can..." I trailed off, watching the refugees. Introductions over, they had just walked past me, staring keenly at the front of Sable.
"All this dust," the redheaded girl said.
"Like stagnation," said the older man.
"My Muse feels gritty," said the dog-girl.
"Don't lose hope," said the red-haired boy. "Inspiration may arise from any quarter."
I raised my eyebrows at Chaz.
That afternoon I was raising my eyebrows at Dinn as I noticed him coming out of the White Ox Inn. I beckoned to Chaz and we caught up with him right in front of the apothecary.
"What were you doing in there? Don't tell me you're scrubbing tables and making beds for extra coin."
Dinn gave me a cursory smile. "Nothing as fulfilling as that. I was trying to interrogate a soldier." He looked very tired.
"A...soldier?"
"Forgive me." He ran a hand through his hair and seemed to collect himself. "We took some of Guisu's private bodyguards prisoner, as you know. One of them, this enormous brute with a spear... I almost decapitated him during the skirmish. He was such a brilliant fighter, I hated to see him die."
"You sentimental fool."
"So, with your father's permission, he's being treated at the White Ox."
"It doesn't bother you that he's from Armes?"
"It does," said Dinn, unusually diffident. "But skill is skill. I'd sooner see him live than kill him."
"What are you going to do with the other Armes prisoners?"
"Some of the mountain roads are in a deplorable condition. I'm going to put the stronger ones to work on those in case we have to-"
"OH SHINING SUN ABOVE!" a new voice wailed.
It couldn't see who it was at first because Chaz instantly put himself between me and the wailer. Dinn pivoted but didn't move to draw his sword. After a moment, Chaz stepped aside, and I was able to get a clear view.
It was the girl from Haud, still cradling her dog. Behind her were her three fellow refugees, and all of them were advancing on Dinn with shining faces.
"Look at that visage," the redheaded boy was saying, "the dichotomy of juxtaposed disconsolation, levity and ennui!"
The dark-haired man had his hands in front of his face, as though framing Dinn's head. "The rigidity of his bearing -I -I could see him holding a severed head in his left hand, couldn't you?"
"The stark chiaroscuro of his features," the redheaded girl was saying. "That face is a veritable aqueduct of protoclassical aesthetics!"
I couldn't see Dinn's face (aqueduct?), but I could hear the frown in his voice. "With all respect, I don't appreciate being mocked."
The four Haudites exchanged startled looks. Then the older man stepped forward.
"Mockery? No! I would sooner destroy the dome of the Sun Palace than mock you. You are-" His eyes went misty again. "You are the most- the best example of neoteric physiognomy of the late Brummagem style I have ever had the honor of -of- looking at!"
Dinn was obviously still frowning, because the red-haired girl stepped quickly forward. "We are from Haud Village. We're artists. We've come here for refuge. We thought the utter ghastliness of this place would slay our Muses, but now -you've come along! Oh please, won't you let us paint you?"
There was a profound silence.
"All at once?" I asked, uninvited.
The girl with the dog nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. We always collaborate on the same canvas. We are the Sham Quartet." The next silence, though shorter, was just as profound. "We named ourselves after the dog." Sham yipped.
It took a while to get more information out of them. Dinn or I would try to dig for explanations, and they'd go inexplicably winging away about neoclassical failures, the value of sumi ink and something called plein air. They eventually told us that they had been greatly celebrated in Haud.
"It was we," said Scheryn, Sham's keeper, "who painted the front gates. Oh yes, and that mural on South Street -the one with the dancing cacti and inverted fish pond. Oh, and did you see the sculpture of the bat-winged giraffe?"
Twenty minutes later, while they describing to Dinn about how they had constructed a twenty-foot wide portrait of Commander Ferid entirely out of confetti, Father called me away to help with the merchants. Of course, he had it all figured out, but he wanted me to be there and observe. (We ended up buying much of the contraband goods, with fairly free consciences. Rainwall had been one of our vital trading partners, and Barows had no right to destroy his people's livelihoods.)
I didn't see Dinn again until supper, when he came to the table looking more tired than ever. He gave me a wan glance and said, "They followed me all afternoon, making sketches the whole time."
"It was worse than that," Rej told me later. "He'd be in the middle of issuing orders, and one of them would yell, 'Hold that expression! It's magnificent!', and General Dinn would look like someone had slapped him with a cold fish. And during our drills, that little dog hared off onto the field and panicked six horses." Rej shook his head. "But what can the General do? There's no law that says they can't stalk him."
This continued into the next day. Every time I saw Dinn, he was being shadowed by the four Haudites, their white jackets growing increasingly dusty as they scribbled together on a single canvas. Once I tried to take a look at their work, but they jerked it away, yammering something about "Don't crowd our Muses!" and blocking their "creative aura". Around evening of the next day, Dinn simply went into his room and locked the door. Dejected, the Sham Quartet sat down in the courtyard under his window and continued to scribble.
They were still there at seven when Chaz and I returned from visiting the hospital, where several of Dinn's men were still wounded from the fighting with Guisu. After I dismounted, said goodnight, and Chaz led the horses away, I stared at the four of them. "Did...Dinn ever give you his permission to do this?"
"Art recognizes no authority," the red-haired boy muttered, ink splattering his nose as his pen darted along the bottom edge of the canvas.
"Just a minute...just a minute..." Scheryn murmured, making what looked like dozens of rapid pinpricks with her pen. "There!" She leaned back. "Oh, I think that looks good. What do you think, Whyliamh?"
The black-haired man's pen made one mighty swoop down the middle of the canvas. "Fine work, fine work. I am especially fond of Giulyah's floral design there."
"Thank you," said the red-haired girl. "Myself, I like Baubb's cross-hatching right over there."
They all smiled and nodded at their canvas.
"We should let our subject see it," Scheryn said brightly.
"But it's only the preliminary sketch," said Giulyah. "Do you want to spoil it for him?"
Scheryn put her nose in the air. "I think he should be involved in the creative process."
Sham, curled up in Scheryn's lap, barked. "That decides it," said Baubb, as he reached for a satchel at his side and withdrew a roll of wax paper. In a few moments, the four of them had succeeded in wrapping their canvas, and, in another moment, they were presenting it to me.
"You show it to him," Scheryn said, as one conferring a great honor, "and get his opinion of it."
Bemused, I took the canvas and headed into the house, itching all the while to look at it. I went upstairs to the second story and down the hall to Dinn's room. The door was still shut and, I presumed, locked. But I came up short when I heard low voices coming from inside.
They were too indistinct for me to make out what they were saying, and something about them made me think I probably shouldn't be hearing this. So naturally I tried to listen harder. Dinn's voice was recognizable, joined by another man's voice, deeper and unfamiliar.
I wondered if this were one of our spies. Well, if so, he was ultimately in the pay of my father. I straightened up out of my crouch, but even as I moved to knock on the door, the voices fell abruptly silent.
I knocked. I heard the sound of a chair scraping -Dinn rising from his desk- and footfalls before the door opened to reveal him. There was nothing furtive in his manner, but I noticed he was standing in such a way that I couldn't see beyond into his room.
"Who's there with you?" I asked, thinking (after I'd said it) that this could be a dangerous question.
Dinn glanced over his shoulder. After a moment, he said, "It's all right." He stepped aside to let me in and didn't close the door behind me.
The other man was instantly familiar, though I couldn't remember where I'd seen him. He was tall, solid and broad-shouldered, wearing a long beige traveling cloak. He had short black hair and a wide eyepatch across his left eye. He nodded to Dinn and, even as I entered, walked past us and down the hall to the manor's back door.
"Who was that? I've seen him before."
"That was Sir Georg Prime," Dinn said, bending over his desk a moment and making a quick note.
I glanced back down the hall again, but Sir Georg was gone. "Yes. I remember seeing him at court now. Why isn't he with the Prince?"
"The Prince is working hard to gain support for his new army...the Dawn Army." Dinn finished writing and straightened again. "Since so many still believe Sir Georg actually murdered the queen, his presence wouldn't enhance the Prince's reputation."
"Damn those Godwin lies," I said, almost as reflex. In Sable, pairing "damn" with either Godwin or Barows was now entrenched in everyone's vocabulary, though some damned the Prince just as freely for adding more battles to the crisis. "What is Sir Georg doing here?"
"He's been keeping an eye on General Guisu's movements." For a moment, Dinn was lost in thought as he stared at the map that hung on his wall, showing southern Falena and much of northwestern Armes. Then he turned back to me. "Did you want something?"
"I'm afraid I'm bringing bad news. Well...it might be bad news." I held out the wrapped canvas. "Your Haudite fans have finished their sketching and want you to see it before they, er, begin painting."
Dinn raised an eyebrow as he took the canvas and unwrapped it. He held the canvas in front of himself, his eyes going wide. I sidled around to his shoulder to see.
There was, indeed, a floral pattern of orchids and daisies rioting up the left side of the canvas. The bottom had been enthusiastically crosshatched, and the top was marked by a series of long strokes that made me think a tiger with ink-covered claws had savaged the canvas. As for the figure in the center...
"Your nose isn't that big," I said.
"My hair's not curly either," Dinn commented.
"And I don't think I've ever seen you wearing a toga."
"I have never worn a toga," Dinn said forcefully.
"What's that...you're holding?"
"A severed head, I think."
"It looks a bit like Chaz. But I meant in your other hand."
"It's...uh..."
"I think it's called a lyre."
"It looks like a torture devise."
"It's actually a musical instrument."
We stared for another long moment. Dinn had his lips pressed together, as if forcing himself not to scream.
Finally, I had to ask. "Why do you suppose they drew a flock of pigeons coming out of your left ear?"
Dinn swallowed, staring at his likeness. Then he lifted his chin and looked down at me. "My lady, forgive me. I didn't realize you were so cold."
I was utterly taken aback. "What?"
He was walking across the room, still holding the canvas. "The nights here are terrible. I can't allow you to be uncomfortable. Just a moment."
"Dinn -what are you...Oh, you know, now that you mention it, it is rather chilly."
"Then you can help," Dinn said brightly, propping the canvas in the fireplace and reaching for his tinderbox.
Twenty minutes later, I put on my most contrite face to inform the Haudites that their sketch had unfortunately been dropped in Dinn's fireplace and was nothing more than a pile of ash. Their eyes widened as they stared at each other.
Then Baubb leapt into the air and whooped, exclaiming that their sketch had been consecrated in a fiery baptism. "Tomorrow, it shall arise anew as an even greater work of art!"
"We shall title it," Whyliamh said, "'The Phoenix'!"
I decided not to relay this news to Dinn just yet and let him spend at least one night with an easy mind.
However, the next morning, when I warning him that the Quartet's enthusiasm had not been subdued, Rej galloped into the courtyard with unwelcome tidings. For the first time in nearly three years, bandits had begun raiding the in the Sable mountains. This would have to stopped immediately.
So much for Dinn's peace of mind.
