Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [187]
I sighed and tucked the note into my purse.
"May I ask?" Eamonn inquired.
"No," I said. "Better you don't."
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When I returned to the insula that evening, I told Gilot about the slain man. He listened without comment and gave me a long, sober look when I had finished. For the first time since we'd left Terre d'Ange, I felt the difference in our ages.
"Wandering the streets alone, at night," he said quietly. "I don't have to tell you how foolish that was, do I?"
I was abashed. "No. No, you don't. Gilot… do you suppose it's a coincidence?"
"Two dead men in a handful of days?" He frowned. "In a city the size of Tiberium, it may well be. Still, I don't like it. I'll see if I can have a word with the captain of the city cohort when you're otherwise occupied."
"My thanks," I said. "As it happens, I have an engagement on the morrow."
"And what might that be?" Gilot inquired.
I told him, and he laughed.
In the late afternoon of the following day, I presented myself at the atelier of Erytheia of Thrasos. It was easy to obtain directions; it seemed she was indeed well-known in the city of Tiberium. Since the note had not specified, out of some perverse impulse, I had chosen the worst time of day, when the heat was at its most stifling and most shops closed their doors. Only the baths were open at this hour. I knocked on the closed door of the atelier, then stood on the stoop, sweat trickling from my hairline.
"This is madness," Gilot muttered behind me.
"Like as not," I agreed.
Eventually, the door opened. The artist's apprentice regarded me with round-eyed surprise. "You came!"
"I came," I said. "Am I welcome?"
"Oh, yes." The voice came from within the atelier, rich and resonant, speaking Caerdicci with the trace of a Hellene accent. Its owner came into view. A woman of late middle years, with strong features and streaks of grey in her black hair. "Iacchos!" she breathed, lifting paint-stained fingers to touch my face. "You are welcome." I flinched, and she took a step backward, gesturing. "Come," she said. "Enter."
"I'll wait," Gilot muttered.
"There is no need," the woman said. "I will send Silvio to accompany him."
Gilot cocked a brow at me.
"Go," I said softly. "You can take care of the matter we discussed."
"Fear not, loyal manservant." The Hellene woman—Erytheia of Thrasos, I presumed—smiled. "I have no desire to have the D'Angeline ambassador on my doorstep, asking questions. Your young lord will be restored to you in short order. I only ask leave to make use of his face in the pursuit of art."
Gilot rolled his eyes. I was not sure which he liked least; leaving me, or being called my loyal manservant. He went, though.
Erytheia's fingers lighted on my arm. "Come," she said. "And see."
I must own, I was startled by her work. There were three paintings in the atelier in varying stages of doneness, and all of them were good. Very good.
She watched my reaction with a wry eye. "You are surprised."
"Impressed, my lady." I stood before the largest, which depicted the abduction of Europa. The bull looked so lifelike, I imagined I could feel the heat of his snorting breath. The churning waves were almost translucent, capped with frothing foam. The expression on Europa's face was fixed between ecstasy and terror.
"I studied in many places when I was young," Erytheia said. "Including Terre d'Ange, where I learned much about fixing pigments and the interplay of color." She lifted her hand to the panel, almost touching the bull's flank. It was coal-black, and yet it gleamed. "But," she said, "D'Angelines proved reluctant to commission a Hellene artist."
"We can be that way," I said, although I was growing weary of the accusation of D'Angeline snobbery. "Not all of us."
"So you are willing to model for me?" Erytheia asked.
"For this particular patron, yes." I paused. "Is she here?"
"No," she said shortly. "Take off your clothes."
Suddenly, sending Gilot away seemed like a bad idea. I doubted that one of the most famous artists in Tiberium intended me harm,