more than I. . .or perhaps it will have been you who suffered a revulsion of
feeling and did it yourself-for I am sure that Coricidius forced you to this
work. But one way or another, the painting must be destroyed-” Zanderei looked
at the other portraits and for the first time amusement flickered in his eyes.
“You are far too accurate!
“Reckon up your life, Master Limner-” he said more gently, “for once the
painting is gone the painter must disappear as well.”
Lalo swallowed, afraid that his churning stomach would deny him dignity even in
his death. And what had his life been worth to anyone, after all? Zanderei took
flint and steel from a pouch beneath his robe, and in a moment light flared in
the dimness of the room. Then the assassin set a stained paint rag aflame and
held it to the canvas.
Lalo groped for support and his hand closed on the smooth side of a paintpot.
His throat ached, holding back the urge to beg the man to stop. He hated the
painting-he wished it had never been done-and yet, why did he feel the same pain
as he had when the Hell-Hound struck Gilla to the floor? His eyes stung with
unuttered grief for his work, for himself, for his family left fatherless.
The canvas had caught fire and was beginning to crackle merrily now. Bright
flame fattened on the paint-soaked cloth and cast demon-flickers on the face of
Zanderei.
“No!” The cry burst from Lalo’s lips, and as Zanderei straightened, Lalo’s hand
closed on the paint pot and he flung it at the other man.
It struck Zanderei’s shoulder, and red paint splashed like blood across the grey