price of best oil for the substandard stuff which was all the cook would
sell him.
And that mark, he was sure, would never be passed on to Lord Chalkin as
fee.
He managed to get enough saucers or mugs – they used a very cheap
pottery in Bitra Hold – to hold the different colours he needed. He
hadn’t quite finished the repair work when Chaldon recovered
sufficiently from the rash to be able to sit/ stand once more.
Chaldon had lost weight during the fever which accompanied the emergence
of the rash. He was also lethargic and, as long as Iantine could think
up funny stories to tell as he worked, he stayed reasonably still.
Calling himself the worst kind of panderer, Iantine made the boy
resemble the best looking of the ancestors he’d re limned The boy was
certainly pleased and ran off to find his mother, shouting that he did
look like Greatgranddaddy, just as she always said he did.
The same ploy did not quite work on Luccha’s portrait when she had
recovered. Her skin was sallower, she’d lost hair and too much weight
to improve her undistinguished looks. While he had aimed for her
great-grandmother thrice removed, she didn’t have the right facial
structure and even he had to admit the result was unsatisfactory.
Her illness,’ he’d mumbled when Chalkin and Nadona recited the long
catalogue of dissimilarities between their daughter and the portrait.
He did better with Lonada and Briskin who, several kilos lighter, had
the look of his great-uncle – pinch-faced, lantern jawed and big-eared.
Iantine had judiciously reduced the size of those ears even as he
wondered what artist had got away with such unflattering appendages on
great-uncle.
He redid Luccha’s after the other two: she’d put on some weight and her
colour was better – not much, but better. And he set her eyes wider in
her face, which improved her no end.
Too bad it couldn’t be done to the model. He vaguely remembered that
the First Settlers had been able to remodel noses and bob ears and stuff
like that.
So, grudgingly and after making him touch up each of the four not-so
miniature paintings to the point where he was ready to break something –
their heads for preference the Lord and Lady Holder considered the four
paintings satisfactory. The final critique had lasted well into the
night, which was dark and stormy: the winds audible even through the
three-metre-thick cliff walls.
So, as he descended wearily but in great relief to the lower floor
cubicle, he became aware of the intense chill in this level.
The temperature in the big Hall had been somewhat warmed by the roaring
fires in the four hearths, but there was no heating down here.
In fact, it was so cold that lantine did no more than loosen his belt
and remove his boots before crawling on to the hard surface that was
supposed to be a mattress. It looked and felt like something recycled
from the ships of the First Crossing. He curled up in the furs, more
grateful than ever that he’d brought his own, and fell asleep.
Arctic temperatures swirling about his face roused him. His face was
stiff with cold and, despite the warmth of his furs, when he tried to
stretch his body his muscles resisted. He had a crick in his neck and
he wondered if he’d moved at all during the night. Certainly it was
cold enough to have stayed in the warm of the furs. But he had to
relieve himself.
He crammed his feet into boot leather that was rigid with ice and,
wrapping his furs tightly about himself, made his way down the corridor
to the toilet. His breath was a plume of white, his cheeks and nose
stung by the cold. He managed his business and returned to his room
only long enough to throw on his thickest woollen jumper. With half a
mind to throw his furs around him for added warmth, he ran up the
several flights of stone steps, past walls that dripped with moisture.
lIe paused at the first window on the upper level: solidly snowed
closed. Then he went up the next short flight and opened the door into