painting, why don’t you turn to thievery like everyone else in this dungheap of
a town?’ Her face, reddened by anger and the heat of the day, swam above him
like a mask of the demon-goddess Dyareela at Festival time.
At least I have that much honour left! Lalo bit back the words, remembering
times, when one of his merchant patrons had refused to pay, that the limner had
let fall the location of rich pickings while drinking in the Vulgar Unicorn. And
if, thereafter, one of his less reputable acquaintances chose to share with him
a few anonymous coins, surely honour did not require him to ask whence they
came. –
No, it had not been honour that kept him honest, thought Lalo bitterly, but fear
of bringing shame to Gilla and the children, and a rapidly deteriorating belief
in his own artistic destiny.
He struggled up on one elbow, for the moment too dispirited to stand. Gilla
sniffed in exasperation, laid down the child and stalked to the other end of the
single room in the tenement which served as kitchen and chamber for the family,
and, too rarely, as the painter’s studio.
The three-legged stool groaned as Gilla sat down, set a small sack on the table,
and began with ostentatious precision to shell peas into a bowl. Late afternoon
sunlight shafted through the shutters, lending an illusory splendour to the
tarnished brocade against which his models used to pose, and leaving in
obscurity the baskets of soiled clothing which the wives of the rich and
respectable (terms which were, in Sanctuary, roughly synonymous) had graciously