Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [186]
Eamonn studied the fire-eater. "He must hold a sponge in his mouth, don't you think?" he mused. "But no, there has to be oil, too. I think he sips it from that flask and spits it into the flames." When I shrugged in mute reply, he turned his study on me. "What are you up to, Imri?"
"Me?" With an effort, I laughed. "What of you? Brigitta… you like her, don't you?"
"Yes," he said. "I do. And you are changing the subject, as you have been doing all day. I understand why you do it with Lucius, and I'm willing to help. He doesn't notice, because he's absorbed in his own concerns. But I know you. Why are you doing it to me?"
I gazed across the Forum. Beyond the fire-eater, I could make out a familiar figure, bare-legged, clad in a filthy tunic. He was talking to a group of students, gesturing animatedly with one hand, holding a wooden bowl out in the other. "Is that Canis?"
"Canis?" Eamonn frowned.
"My philosopher-beggar, the one in the barrel." I nodded. "Him."
"Yes, it looks like him," Eamonn said. "And you're doing it again."
"Sorry." I rubbed my eyes, trying to scour away the exhaustion. "I don't mean to. It's just all a bit odd, don't you think?"
"Well, he does live in a barrel," Eamonn observed. "Imri, we always swore we could tell one another anything, didn't we?"
Is that a warning? Yes.
"I know." I rocked on the step, rubbing my palms over my knees. With a second corpse in close proximity to me, I was inclined to take the warning more seriously. "Eamonn, just… please. Don't ask, not now. I'll tell you when I can, I swear." I searched his face. "You do trust me, don't you?"
"With my life," he said simply. He sat for a moment longer, then sighed and rose. "Come on, let's get you back to the insula. You look half-dead." He eyed me. "Whoever she was, she rode you hard."
"You might say that," I murmured.
Halfway across the Forum, jostled by the milling crowds, I felt a hand catch my elbow from behind. I wrenched free, taking a step back and spinning, my sword hissing from its sheath. A half-step behind me, Eamonn followed suit.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" A small man in coarse homespun put up his hands, backing away. His voice squeaked with fear. "Sorry, young sir! It's only that my mistress would like you to call upon her, begging your interest. She may have work for you."
"Your mistress," I echoed. I stared at him, trying to determine if I recognized him from Claudia's domus. I didn't. "Who is she? What are you?" My voice hardened. "A procurer?"
Eamonn sniggered.
The small man drew himself up with dignity. "I'm an artist's apprentice, sir."
I blinked at him like an idiot. "Your mistress is an artist?"
"Erytheia of Thrasos?" he asked in a condescending tone. When I continued to blink, he sighed. "You're new to Tiberium, aren't you, young sir?"
"Rather," I said.
"I've heard of her." Eamonn sheathed his blade. "She's a painter, yes?"
"A painter." Her apprentice repeated the words with disdain. "Yes, young sirs, my mistress is & painter. A very famous painter." He measured me with his gaze. "She would like you to sit for her for a particular subject. The pay is good."
I shook my head, putting up my own blade. "Not interested."
He pattered after us when we turned our backs on him. "Wait!" He thrust a scrap of parchment into my hand. "Her patron was very specific," he said. "Think on it."
With his message delivered, he melted into the crowds, swift and darting. I gave a half a thought to pursuing him, then abandoned it. I was too damnably tired to give chase. Instead, I opened the note and read it.
Tomorrow afternoon. Erytheia's atelier.
There was no seal and no signature this time; not even a set of initials. It didn't matter. I recognized Claudia Fulvia's hand. She wrote with the same bold assurance with which she made love, stark lines of ink etched on the blank parchment, staking claim to it. The mere sight of it roused memories that