take brush in hand. If I cannot paint I am nothing, he thought. I will surely
die.
But he did not move. Shivering with exhaustion and despair, still he would not
throw away this victory, even though he hardly understood his reasons anymore.
“Limner, I will give you your soul…”
“You can only give death, foreigner! You cannot trick me!”
“I do not need to-” the voice seemed very tired. “I only need to ask you a
question. Have you ever painted your own portrait, Limner with the sorcerer’s
eye?”
The silence stretched into eternity while Lalo tried to understand. He felt a
subtle quiver in the earth that told him the tide was beginning to turn. What
did Zanderei mean? Of course he had done self-portraits by the dozen, when he
could get no one else to pose for him-
-In the old days, before Enas York had taught him to paint the soul …
I’ve been too busy-no… the awareness came reluctantly, I was afraid.
“What will you see on your canvas when you have murdered me?” The voice echoed
his fear.
“Stop it! Leave me alone!” Lalo cried aloud. He heard a deep voice shout orders
in the street beyond the alley, and saw for a moment the flicker of lanterns
bobbing by, pallid in the moonlight.
In a few minutes the poisoned waters would be driven from their bed by the
inexorable pressure of the tide, and rush through the sewers of Sanctuary like a
host of angry serpents seeking their prey. In a few minutes Zanderei would be
dead.
If he disappears, maybe they will blame Zanderei for the Fire. When the stir
dies down I’ll be free to paint again. His hand twitched as if he held a brush,