Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

Locke sat in a comfortable, high-backed wooden chair in the study of Acastus Krell, Fine Diversions dealer of Vel Virazzo. He wrapped both hands around his slender glass of lukewarm tea to avoid spilling it.

‘Surely you can’t be unfamiliar with the term, Master Fehrwight,’ said Krell. The old man would have been sticklike if not for the grace of his movements; he paced his study like a dancer in a stage production, manipulated his magnifying lenses like a duellist striking a pose. He wore a loose brocaded gown of twilight-blue silk, and as he looked up now the hairless gleam of his head emphasized the eerily penetrating nature of his stare. This study was Krell’s lair, the centre of his existence. It lent him an air of serene authority.

‘I am,’ said Locke, ‘in the matter of furniture, but as for paintings—’

‘It’s a rarer thing, to be sure, but there can be no doubt. I have never actually seen the original versions of these ten paintings, gentlemen, but there are critical incongruities in the pigments, brush strokes and general weathering of their surfaces. They are not genuine art objects of the Talathri Baroque.’

Jean absorbed this morosely, hands folded before him, saying nothing and ignoring his tea. Locke tasted bile in the back of his throat.

‘Explain,’ he said, struggling to keep his temper in check.

Krell sighed, his own aggravation clearly tempered by sympathy for their situation. ‘Look,’ he said, carefully holding up one of the paintings they’d stolen, an image of Therin Throne nobles seated at a gladiatorial game, receiving the tribute of a mortally wounded fighter. ‘Whoever painted this is a master artisan, a fantastically patient and skilful individual. It would have required hundreds of hours per painting, and the work must have been done with full access to the originals. Obviously, the . . . gentleman from whom you procured these objects had qualms about exposing the originals to danger. I’d wager my house and all of its gardens that they’re in his vault.’

‘But the . . . incongruities. How can you know?’

‘The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons. A fact not known outside the Emperor’s court until years after it fell. In their paintings, Talathri’s chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brush strokes whose size and direction jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection, as it were. Like the beauty-mark some Vadrans favour for their ladies.’

‘And you can tell this at a glance?’

‘I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works.’

‘Damnation,’ said Locke.

‘It suggests to me,’ said Krell, ‘that the artist who created these - or their employer - so genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden marks of distinction.’

‘Well, that’s very heart-warming.’

‘I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mould or sunlight, no intrusion of smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy.’ Krell smiled sadly. ‘I have aged to a fine old state. These have not.’

‘So what does this mean for our arrangement?’

‘I am aware,’ said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the painting down, ‘that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even these facsimiles from the . . . gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration.’

Jean snorted and stared at the wall.

‘Your thanks,’ said Locke, ‘and your admiration, however well meant—’

‘Are not legal tender,’ said Krell. ‘I’m not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari.’

‘Two?’ Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. ‘The sum we originally discussed was fifty thousand, Master Krell!’

‘And for originals,’ said Krell, ‘I would gladly have paid that original sum; for genuine artefacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations completely unconcerned with the . . . potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar.’

‘Two,’ muttered Locke. ‘Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two thousand solari for two years, is what you’re offering us.’

‘No.’ Krell steepled his spindly fingers. ‘Two thousand solari for ten paintings. However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process required to retrieve them.’

‘Three thousand,’ said Locke.

‘Twenty-five hundred,’ said Krell, ‘and not a centira more. I can find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari, and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured them in some distant city. I don’t doubt that he would be generous. But if you don’t wish to accept my price . . . you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern, perhaps.’

‘Twenty-five hundred,’ said Locke. ‘Damn it all to hell.’

‘So I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I’d like a decision. Do you accept the offer?’