Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [17]
He nodded.
“It must have been beautiful,” she mused aloud. Her eyes traced the lines of his drawings with obvious relish, and he knew in that instant that she was the artist who would be translating his sketches into reality. The thought pleased him. “Revivalist, right?”
“I think so.”
“Neocounty?” She smiled as he affirmed that, too, her dark eyes sparkling. “I’ve never worked for nobility before.”
The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. “We haven’t... we don’t use the title. Not for a long time.”
“Are these from the same period?” She had found the sketches of armor at the bottom of the pile: breastplate and bracers of fine steel with embossed and inlaid motifs. “Armor?”
“I should have removed those,” he said quickly. Reaching for the sketches. “That’s a different job, I know you don‘t—”
“But we do. At least, Gresham does. My boss,” she explained. “He used to do this kind of work. There isn’t much of a call for it, you know. Not enough to base a business on. But I think he would love to work on these.” The dark eyes were fixed on him again; he didn’t dare meet them. “Unless you have someone else in mind, that is.”
“No,” he managed. “Not at all.”
“Then I’ll show these to him. He can probably get you an estimate on all this by ... say, Thursday?”
Estimate. He felt something knot up inside himself at the sound of the word. Estimate meant another interview about these damned pieces, more questions, always more questions ... and he couldn’t begin to answer them because he didn’t know why Calesta wanted these things made, only that he did.
“I don’t need an estimate,” he said quickly. Trying to get the words out before he could have second thoughts. “Whatever it takes. Just make everything as much like the originals as you can. Whatever that costs.”
She hesitated. “It’s going to be expensive.”
“That’s all right.”
“Really expensive. This is all gold here, look.” She showed him one of the sketches, her finger tracing the line of decoration on a breastplate. “The materials alone—”
“Money’s not an issue. Really.”
She sat back, and for a moment said nothing. He could see curiosity burning bright in her eyes, but knew she wouldn’t question him about his wealth. Not directly.
“He’ll want a deposit,” she said at last.
He reached into his jacket to where his traveling purse was secured and removed it. Untying its clasp, he spilled its contents out on the table. They were thick coins, heavy coins, the kind of gold one bought for investment purposes, not the kind one normally carried around town for day-to-day expenses. He had brought them with him so that he wouldn’t have to wait for the local banks to clear his account before he could buy anything locally. Now he was infinitely glad he had them.
She whistled softly. Despite himself he smiled, pleased with the drama of the moment. “Will that be enough?”
“Oh, yes. I think so.” She picked up one of the coins and studied it with a smile. “Yes, I think Gresham’ll take these.”
“How much do you want?”
She hesitated, then picked out half a dozen of the coins; one was a beautiful memorial piece which she admired before putting it away. In a smooth, flowing hand she wrote him a receipt. “I’ll need some information from you.”
“Of course.”
“Your name?” she asked. And it seemed to him that there was more than professional interest in her tone. Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?
God, he used to be so good at this! Where was all that skill when he needed it?
“Andrys. Andrys Tarrant.” Other questions followed, more difficult to answer. Where did he live? Permanent address? How long would he be in Jaggonath? Business references? Personal? He knew the questions were unavoidable, given the value of the work he was ordering, but some of them were difficult to answer. How long would he be here? Calesta had said that the process of vengeance would begin in Jaggonath. How long would that take?
Later, when he was finally out of the shop, he leaned against the brick wall outside and shut his eyes