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being a dragonrider is not just sitting on its neck and going
wherever we want to.'
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A prophecy she was to learn was all too accurate. She didn't
regret making the bargain with the two youngsters - it was a
fair distribution of effort - but it did seem that she spent
her next weeks either butchering or feeding or bathing her
dragonet with no time for anything else but sleeping. She had
dealt with orphaned animals, true, but none the size nor with
the appetite capacity of dragonets. Morath seemed to grow
overnight, as if instantly transferring what she ate to visible
increase - which meant more to scrub, oil AND feed.
'It's worth it, I keep telling myself,' Sarra murmured one
day as she wearily sprawled onto her bed.
'Does it help?' Grasella asked, groaning as she turned on
her side.
'Does it matter?' put in Mesla, kicking her boots off.
'All that oil is softening my hands,' Debera remarked in
pleased surprise, noticing the phenomenon for the first time.
'And matting my hair something wicked,' said Jule, regard-
ing the end of the fuzzy plait she kept her hair in. 'I wonder
when I'll have time to wash it again.'
'If you ask Tisha, she'll give you the most marvellous
massage,' Angie said, stretching on her bed and yawning. 'My
leg's all better.'
She and her Plath had tripped each other up, and she'd
pulled all the muscles in her right leg so badly that at first
they feared she'd broken a bone in the tumble. Plath had been
beside herself with worry until Maranis had pronounced the
damage only a 'bad wrenching'. The other girls had helped
Angie tend Plath.
'All part of being a dragonrider,' T'dam had said, but he
exhibited sympathy in making sure he was at hand to assist
her, too. 'Nothing you won't grin about later.'
Although the room in which Lord Chalkin sat so that the
newly-certified Artist Iantine could paint his portrait of the
Lord Holder was warmer than any other chamber in Bitra
that Iantine had occupied, he sighed softly in weariness. His
hand was cramped and he was very tired, though he was
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careful not to reveal anything to his odious subject. He also
had to do a bang-up job of this portrait as fast as possible, or
he might not leave this miserable Hold until the spring.
Fortunately this first snow was melting and, if he finished the
painting, he'd leave before the paint was dry. And with the
marks he'd been promised!
Why he had ever thought himself able to handle any
problem that could occur on a commission, he did not know.
Certainly he had been warned: more about not gambling with
any Bitrans, to be sure, had he had any marks to wager. But
the warnings had been too general. Why hadn't Ussie told
him how many other people had been defrauded by the Bitran
Lord Holder? The contract had seemed all right, sounded all
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right and was as near to a total disaster as made no never
mind. Inexperienced and arrogant, that's what he was. Too
self-assured to listen to the wisdom of the years of experience
Master Domaize had tried to get through his thick head.
But Master Domaize had a reputation for letting you
deal with your own mistakes - especially the ones un-
connected with Art.
'Please, Lord Chalkin, would you hold still just a moment
longer? The light is too good to waste,' Iantine said, aware of
the twitching muscles in Chalkin's fat cheeks. The man didn't
have a tic or anything, but he could no more be still in his
fancy chair than his children.
Impishly, Iantine wondered if he could 'paint' a twitch - a
muscle rictus - but it was hard enough to make Chalkin look
good as it was. The man's muddy brown, close-set eyes seemed
to cross towards the bridge of his rather fleshy, bulbous nose.
- which Iantine had deftly refined.
Master Domaize had often told his students that one had
to be discreet in portraying people, but Iantine had argued
the matter: that realism was necessary if the subject wanted a
'true' portrait.
'True portraits are never realistic,' his master had told him
and the other students in the vast barn of a place where classes
were held. 'Save realism for landscapes and historical murals,
not for portraits. No-one wants to see themselves as others
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see them. The successful portraitist is one who paints with
both tact and sympathy.'
Iantine remembered railing about dishonesty and pander-
ing to egos. Master Domaize had looked over the half-
spectacles he now had to wear if he wanted to see beyond his
nose and smiled that gentle, knowing smile of his.
'Those of us who have learned that the portraitist must also
be the diplomat make a living. Those of us who wish to portray
truth end up in a craft Hall, painting decorative borders.'
When the commission to do miniatures of Lord Chalkin's
young children had been received at Hall Domaize, there had
been no immediate takers.
'What's wrong with it.9' Iantine demanded when the notice
had stayed on the board for three weeks with no-one's initials.
He would shortly sit his final exams at Hall Domaize and had
hopes to pass them creditably.
'Chalkin's what's wrong with it,' Ussie said with a cynical
snort.
'Oh, I know his reputation,' Iantine replied, blithely flicking
a paint-stained hand, 'everyone does. But he sets out the
conditions,' and he tapped the document, 'and they're all the
ones we're supposed to ask for.'
Ussie smothered a derogatory laugh in his hand and eyed
him in the patronizing way that irritated Iantine so. He knew
he was a better draughtsman and colourist than Ussie would
ever be, and yet Ussie always acted so superior. Iantine knew
his general skills were better, and improving, because of
course, in the studio, everyone had a chance to view everyone [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]