The Trefoil Manuscripts

2: Gathering Threads

His Coy Mistress -- 'They' -- Missing pieces -- Realism in art -- Songbird for supper
A wealth of wizards -- The red tree -- A plausible pretext -- Portrait of a lady

~oOo~

Gabriela shifts in her bed, moaning some incoherent words and Tiago, in his chair, examines again his scribbled drawings of the dead man and the monstrosity. He had been uncomfortable tarrying that extra little while, especially in the company of Rotheric. The fellow had completely blanked him out as if he were a nobleman and Tiago but a commoner. His overbearing attentiveness to the hooded woman has been more uncomfortable to the artist, however, so he had quickly examined the bodies, jotted down what he thought were the salient features, and taken his leave.

He can't make anything of these images before him, however. There are three lines which he knows have some importance, if he could just figure them out. And then there's that touch of shading he'd felt compelled to add in when he had paused at the shrine to St. Gerlaint to offer his thanks. But, it's no use, he has his mind on other matters now and Gabriela seems to be stirring.

She is utterly unaccustomed to seeing Tiago at this early hour. Indeed, the artist is unaccustomed to seeing his sometime muse without her face painted, and this has filled him with a detached confidence. Preparing himself to challenge her, to wring the story out of her, he has stood himself to cut an imposing figure above the bed when her eyes open. This is not a wise move, though, as evidenced by the scream she lets out, one which immediately sets his fortitude a-crumbling.

In an instant he is beside her, her head rested on his shoulder. Comforting her with a gentle rocking, it takes a while for her sobs to die down and when she finally lifts her face to his, she is as composed as she can be without her makeup. Tiago is left wondering at her surprise though; was it just the hour or was she surprised to see him alive?

Collecting himself, he brings out the words he had been preparing for an hour or more, but the tone is not what he had intended. "I think you owe me an explanation," he says softly.

"I... I do?" she sniffs, tearfully looking up at him. "For what? Are you talking about the duel? Did something bad happen? Was Tomas there? Oh, Tiago - you didn't hurt his friend, did you?"

He senses the same undercurrent of fear in her voice that he heard before, but again there is no obvious hint of duplicity. In fact, her questions reinforce her previous story and imply that she had also expected her brother to be at the duel. Unless, Tiago muses suspiciously, she is deliberately aiming to create that impression.

Unsure what to think, Tiago concentrates on the rage he was feeling earlier, conjuring up the many perturbing images he saw at the break of day in an effort to focus on his task, to whit wringing the truth out of Gabriela. That bed is so tempting, but he can't help but feel that he has been dragged about town like a marionette and his strings are all a-tangle.

His hard anger is easily victorious over soft temptation. However innocent she may seem, however little she knows of the truth behind the morning's events, Tiago is certain that Gabriela knows more than she is telling. Quailing visibly at the look of steely determination in his eyes, she gulps back a sob and bows her head.

"Well...?" he says sternly...

Retaining his stern demeanour despite her evident distress, he tries to coax her out of her silence.

"Come now, it can't be that bad, just tell me what it's all about and I promise I'll make it all alright".

As he produces these words, he can hear the lack of sincerity in his voice. Hoping that she can't, he tries to cast the image of the woman he met this morning from his mind. Is he growing tired of Gabriela with all her histrionics and her neediness? Shaking his head, he glares at Gabriela, but a little more softly.

"Come now..." he repeats.

"I know that you are angry with me," she says eventually, in a very small voice. "And perhaps you have every right to be. But I must make you understand, Tiago: I had no choice in this! They would have killed poor Tomas, I'm sure of it!"

Risking a quick glance up at his face, she sees only his stern and impassive expression. Her shoulders slump.

"Oh what's the use," she mutters. "You probably know this already anyway, so what point is there in hiding it any longer? Yes, it's true that I have been, ah... recompensed for passing on information about you. It was only silly things, though: where you had been, what you had talked about, nothing really important. But my feelings for you were no lie! And they really did threaten to hurt Tomas when I didn't want to involve you in the duel."

She looks up at him now, and the sight of her tear-streaked face tugs shamelessly at his heart-strings. "Was he there, Tiago? And the other boy, Fabian? Were they hurt? Were you hurt? Oh my poor baby!" she coos, noticing his burnt hand and reaching out for him. "What happened?"

Slapping her hand away, Tiago grabs her by the throat.

"Who," he spits the words out. "Are 'they'?"

~oOo~

Tiago holds Gabriela tightly by the throat, his question hanging in the air like a bad smell.

"I... nggkk... I don't... know!" she gasps, trying desperately to escape his grasp. "You're... gah! You're choking me..."

He loosens his grip to allow her to speak, and her hurt-filled eyes glare back at him. "I do not know their names," she says, in a sullen voice. "But I can tell you what they look like, and then perhaps you will know who they are."

"Very well," he says, relaxing slightly, but still not releasing her. "But you must hold nothing back now, you hear me? Tell me as much as you can remember."

She nods, trembling slightly. "I will, I will: I promise. The first man, he is quite tall, I think, and very well-dressed. The second is smaller, but broader - but he wore a dark, hooded cloak and I saw him only once. He is the one who... who threatened Tomas. I was very afraid of him. But the first one seemed kind, generous - quite charming. I met him several times. He smiles and smiles and smiles, and his hair is....

Gabriela falters and pauses. "That is, his face is... is..." she falters again, and looks up at Tiago, wide-eyed. "That's strange. I can't remember what he looks like..."

He tightens his grip again, and is rewarded by a look of genuine fear as she struggles for breath.

"Erkk... no, no, no! I'm telling the truth!" she insists, and the note of panic in her voice almost convinces him, although he is finding it increasingly hard to trust anything that she says. "I keep trying to bring his face to mind," she continues. "But it slips away again. I know this sounds ridiculous, but you *must* believe me. I'm trying, but I just can't..."

Tiago shakes her furiously. "Then try harder," he snarls.

"It's no use, it's no use, it's no use," she says, weeping now. "I tell you, I just can't see his face any more..."

Frustrated, the iconographer relases her, and she falls back onto the bed, breathing heavily and sniffing back tears. Drawing away from him, she looks up at him fearfully as he glares at her.

"Wait," she says suddenly. "Wait. I can remember something now: his voice. His voice. It's like... like honey. Rich, and... and... golden. And a little bit too sweet. I can hear it now. And the lining of his cloak is a beautiful blue - or perhaps it is green. Anyway, it shimmers in the light." She pauses again. "And the second man - he wore many rings on his fingers."

Tiago continues to question her for a while, but it soon becomes clear that she cannot - or will not - tell him any more. All that she had done, she insists, was to report their conversations to the first man. He had approached her, effortlessly charming her with easy flattery, and before she knew it they were talking about Tiago and she was telling him everything. When she returned home she discovered a small bag of coins that he had placed in her purse.

It became a regular exchange. He had seemed particularly interested in the accounts Tiago had given her of his nightly excursions. She thought nothing of it at first, and later, when she had a chance to consider it and begin to worry a little, she managed to convince herself that she was doing no harm. Only when he brought up the subject of the mock duel had she started to become frightened. She had immediately told him no, that was too much, she would have no part in it... and the man simply smiled and said no more of it.

Then Tomas came to her, the very next day, with the version of the duel story that she had told Rotheric. Truly frightened now, Gabriela sent her brother away to visit an aunt in the countryside, with strict instructions to steer clear of the university and most particularly his 'friend' Fabian. That was when the second man - the hooded man, with the rings - had paid her a visit. He told her that Tomas was "safe, for the time being", and that she should persuade her paramour to participate in the duel if she wanted her brother to stay that way.

"What else could I have done?" she appeals to Tiago, tearfully. Feeling a twinge of compassion dull his anger, Tiago finally lets go of the girl. "No, you could have done no differently," he mumbles emptily as he slumps into the clothing-bestrewn chair beside the bed. "You must look to your brother now," he says, trying to work out the meaning of all that she has revealed, "And... quickly, because this Fabian, well...".

Seeing her eyes widen, he rises as she jumps out of bed to dress herself. Thinking to leave, the grisly image of her lying strangled in her bed, entangled in her bedclothes, rises before him and so he waits, softly reassuring her that all will be well, but stressing to her that she should be careful and should stay with her brother, to meet him later.

Leaving her quarters with her, Tiago dallies a little outside, that the owner may see her leaving hale and hearty, for Tiago can almost see death hanging over her, whether from an alternative present or from her very real future he does not know. He is not able, though, to accompany her in the daytime when the gossips' tales are given most credence, so is relieved to be able to nod to Mendrik, slouching in an alley across the way, to follow her and keep her safe.

~oOo~

The crisp morning air, as Tiago finds himself alone in the bustle of the street, is painful to the artist. He had intended to make some inroads on a particularly uninspiring commission this morning - the noblewoman wished to be represented as a naked warrior woman of the northern barbarians, atop a horse, painted in blue with a legion of savages behind her - he has fortunately seen enough of her nakedness to work with, but it is all so false and decadent that he has found it hard to gather the enthusiasm for the pastiche.

So it is with ease, and a stirring in the loins, that he decides to seek out the strange woman who had this morning been his enemy. The mood of the morning seems more in harmony with this sort of bright endeavour.

He glances down at the visiting card in his hand. The address is not a familiar one, but at least has some idea where to start looking in Hightown. Pondering his best route, he begins walking in the direction of the hill.

Turning the small white rectangle over, Tiago stares once again the emblem of the spreading oak on its reverse. It is a half-familiar symbol, one that nudges feebly at faint memories in the back of his mind. He has heard of House Heligan, certainly - who, in Syran, does not know the names of the twelve Old Houses by heart? - but he cannot immediately bring to mind anything of consequence regarding its history or its present allegiances.

It is a beautiful rendering of an oak, for sure, stripped down to the simplicity required for a small drawing to be repeated over and over again by an apprentice. The one defect, to an untrained eye, is a looping of a small branch back upon itself, but an artist will recognize this as a mark of respect from an apprentice to his master, representing as it does the eternal cycle of training of new hands which is integral to art. It is a very ungenerous loop, though, as of one reluctant to admit himself as an inferior to his master. Immediately, he realises who it is who has drawn these cards.

One summer ago, the Academy was full of malicious tittle-tattle. A young nobleman, a bastard if Tiago remembers it aright, had joined the Academy but briefly, having been fobbed off by his supposed father an made to learn a trade. Apprenticed to an artist but a couple of years his senior and of common stock, he had created all sorts of problems within the Academy, performing his duties with the utmost reluctance until eventually he had been released. Tiago had even had a minor run-in with this fellow in one of the drinking houses and can now clearly remember his drunken protestations that this fate was beneath a man of House Heligan. He had made no friends that evening, and had probably spent the night in a gutter after a sound beating if Tiago knows his fellow artists.

This recollection acts like a key, unlocking more memories, with more tangential connections to Heligan. He remembers a handful of half-overheard conversations in a tavern, some vague intimations from clients, a series of persistent rumours and some obscure episodes from Syran's history that he had unconsciously filed away in the dustier corners of his memory. Together these small pieces of information form an intriguing mosaic.

Heligan has never played a central role in any of the defining moments of the city's long history, Tiago recalls, although it is always mentioned alongside the more famous Old Houses, often seeming like an afterthought. Speculation about this persistent peripheral role is the defining characteristic of several of Tiago's salvaged memories. The rumour-mongers and the tavern gossips had whispered of a unnamed secret power lurking behind the self-important posturing of Houses like Ademar, Gavon and Savaran. The historical perspectives had echoed this theme, albeit in less sensational tones, speaking of careful diplomacy behind the scenes.

Most intriguing of all, perhaps, are the oblique references and knowing quips of his noble patrons concerning the deeds, dictats or unwelcome attentions of 'the powers that be', 'the family' or just 'They'. Tiago has always dismissed these references, but he cannot help but connect them now with the conspiracy theories and with his growing suspicion that House Heligan's rarely observed role in the history of Syran is more significant than it seems.

Aware now that his head may have been turned by his curiosity about this woman, Tiago reconsiders seeking her out unprepared. Although she may have been tricked into this morning's events just as he and those others, what he can piece together about House Heligan makes him wonder if she is not too involved in shemes of a dangerous nature. Indeed, if she is acting for House Heligan and some other force, of comparable power, is acting against...well then, pity the mortal who stands in their way.

Weighing up the options, he notices that Mendrik is looking impatient. With a chill creeping up his spine, his thoughts turn to Tomas. Whatever mess the boy has got himself and others into, his heart was always good and, although he quickly realizes that it might well be too late, Tiago now perceives that someone must be very frustrated with the way things turned out this morning and, if what Gabriella said was half true, must be seeking to exact some form of vengeance. "Very well", his voice comes out as an embarassing squeak, betraying his fears to Mendrik before he can clear his throat, "Let us to the Imperial College to check upon young Tomas".

It was perhaps fortunate that Tiago betrayed his fear to his servant, for by the time they have reached the imposing entrance to the Imperial College, Mendrik has taken charge. Indicating some seating beside a fountain across the square, he takes himself off around the walls of the college, towards some side entrance that men of his ilk seem to jot down in some mental notebook for rainy days such as this.

As the minutes pass, Tiago reflects on this morning's strange happenings but his mind only goes around in ever tighter circles until, the sun having crept over a crenellated building and now splashing him with warmth, hea realises how much time has passed. With a jolt, he rouses himself from the stone seat and looks for Mendrik among the figures crowding towards the entrance to the College.

When his trusted associate eventually appears, the expression on his face is grim. Talking his way into the college had not been at all difficult, but finding someone with any useful information was less straightforward. Tomas had not been seen for several days, but this may be because he has followed Gabriela's instructions and kept away from the college. His absence has been noted, but non-one sees any significance in it.

The disappearance of his 'friend' Fabian, on the other hand, has caused more of a sensation. It seems that this young nobleman had an important examination this afternoon, which he failed to attend. Mendrik gathered from conversations that Fabian is a well-known and popular student, with a string of hangers-on. Everyone that he had spoken to seemed surprised by this, which suggests that he is not a habitual truant. No-one has any idea where he is, or what could have caused him to miss his exam.

Realising that he has perhaps acted rashly, without considering even the sparse the facts before him and without the spunk to confront what could be a dangerous situation, Tiago allows Mendrik to escort him home and then dismisses him. Mendrik retreats to his quarters below Tiago's residence while the artist quietly ascends the stairs past his sickly wife's bedchamber. She tends to sleep late, so there is still time for Tiago to begin with what he is planning.

~oOo~

Seeing the portrait of the Baroness with the horned helm and the single revealed breast, Tiago feels immense frustration at the tasks to which he must commit himself. Not for the first time, though, he casts the small canvas (the noblewoman's man was yet to supply the cost of the paints so he'd opted to reduce ever-so-slightly the size of the commission, whatever the cost to his reputation) to one side, barely registering that he will, once again, need to repin the wood. Pulling out a sheet of rough parchment, he quickly pins it to one of the larger boards and sets it upon the easel.

Charcoal in hand, he quickly draws a bold Truth rune, the central vertical line a matter of a moment, but the two lines, from the top two corners, taking a little while longer to decide upon. Where they meet the central line, this is important, but can be revised.

And now comes the matter of the figures. The location will come to him with time, but for now he must portray the actors in this scene and see how they fit in. To the right side of the central division, below where it is depicted, he quickly sketches himself, palette and brush in hand, facing left. On the left side, well, who else but Rotheric? The initial sketch is crude, especially the phallus for a rapier, but somehow Tiago perceives that there is more to this man than just his cock assuredness. Indeed, he knows that, as things begin to make sense to him, both the fop and himself will be relegated to corners of the scene, minor players on the canvas, but for now he must place them centrally and opposed to one another.

Then come, in quick succession, the servant, bloody dagger in hand, Gabriela and Tomas, the monster which chased them through Syran's streets and then... well, he has sketched very brief forms to represent everyone he can thing of, the man with the golden voice, the woman who assaulted them from an alleyway, the hooded figure, but, Fabian...he is there on the canvas, but is next to Tomas and...and this feels wrong. Time has passed, more than he had thought, and he has had to refer to his texts and his reference paintings, the smudges of charcoal upon the oil to be attended to later, but he has yet to work this one out.

Drawn to replace the boy who commanded the monster with Fabian, Tiago pauses and prays for a little inspiration. Was that boy Fabian, he wonders? Eventually despairing of finding the truth, Tiago goes to check upon Iracema. Still sleeping quietly, with even a smile upon her face, she is fine. Looking once again at the cloth, the artist begins to feel more decided.

He is completely sure now that it was Fabian. From where this certainty comes he does not know, having never lain eyes on the boy in life and having avoided witnessing the manner of his death. Nevertheless, the image of a crumpled form lying in a pool of its own blood comes unbidden to his mind's eye, and he unhesitatingly alters his painting to incorporate it. This small change has a profound effect upon the painting as a whole, as if acting as an anchor of truth about which the other elements may be tethered. Before Tiago's wondering eyes, the various actors that he has depicted seem to come alive, as if the canvas has been filled with an array of looking-glasses that reflect their individual lives.

Here is the servant, at first washing blood from his hands and then standing in a darkened chamber. He seems to be speaking to the room's bed-ridden occupant, who is obscured by veils. And here is the duellist, at first prancing and preening before a tailor's glass, then in deep and serious conversation, accepting a purse from an unknown man. Next, a shadowy figure flits from alley to doorway, at first pursued by another shadow, and then observing his pursuer with an expression of confusion. Tiago feels strangely connected with these three, but his mind still rebels at the idea of making common cause with such dubious comrades.

His heart leaps unexpectedly at the next vista, when he see Gabriela with her arms wrapped around another man. Then he sees it is her brother that she embraces and his heart takes another leap, for the boy is quite obviously safe. Next he sees the woman from the alley, and feels the fluttering of a new emotion within his breast and his loins. No longer hooded and with her exquisite features undistorted by raw emotion, he sees that the brief glimpse he'd caught before had not done her face any justice. She sits before a mirror, staring sad-eyed at her own reflection and combing her long dark hair.

His gaze lingers on this image for the longest time, but then he catches a glimpse of the next. Noting the colourful lining of his cloak, Tiago realises with a start that this must be the man with the golden voice that Gabriela had described. The man's face is obscured by peculiar shadows, but the artist can see enough of the background to readily identify the location: the Docks. He tries to memorize the image, but it is already fading from view.

Now all of the vistas seem to merge into one moving image, an ever- changing series of scenes that come ago so quickly he can barely follow them. Many of these scenes are familiar from his night-visions on the walls of the city, but some are new. In quick succession he sees a frozen waterway covered with playfully skating figures; fires raging over what looks like half the city; a fleet of galleys at the mouth of the river; a tumbledown ruin overlain with the phantom image of a thriving city; a great army approaching Syran's walls; and a crumbling parchment in a glass case.

At last the scene dissolves and Tiago is left staring at the indiscriminate maelstrom of colour that fills his canvas.

Panting with the effort of this slapdash yet intense painting, Tiago lifts the pinned cloth off the easel and lays it against the wall to hide the image. This is all too much for him, so he takes up the obscenity which he has created and must needs call art and lays it on the easel. Half-heartedly touching up some of the minor figures on the canvas, he takes the work, within half an hour to the stage where he knows that his deeper arts are required.

Gazing at the image, his mind utterly blank, he is eventually relieved to hear his wife moving about below. Removing his painting shirt, he stiffly descends the steps to join Iracema and her light luncheon in bed. A couple of words and a smile are all he can manage before, exhausted, he enters a deep sleep, many images tormenting him for a while, but all of these soon blanked out by the comfortable sounds of the town.

~oOo~

"Guilty conscience?" are the words which drag him back to consciousness. Opening one eye, he sees Iracema, her back turned to him but softly rising and falling as if asleep. Is she truly asleep, he wonders, suddenly aware that he has been in conversation with someone. Was it his wife who uttered those words or was it... that woman? It must have been the mysterious, hooded woman, he of all people should know the risks of summoning and working on the image of one schooled in the arcane arts. He had taken no precautions when painting - he has never been as careful as he should be, given to the moment.

And so, he thinks, the woman came back while he was asleep and spoke with him. She can only have been trying to find out what he knows, else, else she would have done worse. Or was she seeking some purchase on him? And what did Iracema hear him say? Is she awake now?

No matter, he thinks, casting off such worries with only the slightest twinge of guilt. Quickly but quietly dressing himself,he steps out into the drizzle on the streets, determined to find this woman at her address and have a two-way conversation with her. He feels he can trust her to some degree, so why not?

The tolling of the clock in distant Newmarket, already sounding the second half of the day's last quarter, tells Tiago that he has been asleep for longer than he had realised. At this time of year, still early in Spring, sunset would come close on the heels of the night's first quarter. It is not too late to pay the visit that he is planning, but too late for a long conversation perhaps - unless his hostess invites him to stay for dinner. He does not know whether to hope for or to dread this possibility.

Undeterred, he makes his way through the city streets towards Hightown. Crossing the Narrows and passing through the district's fortifications - a modest but still substantial reflection of the city's outer walls - he finds himself rubbing shoulders once more with Syran's richest citizens. Climbing the steep pavements of Park Street he has a momentary twinge of doubt, but before he can act upon it he has reached the broad expanse of Summit Court and there seems little point in stopping.

The address that he seeks is perched high above the precipitous western slopes of the district. The house is large and quite grand, but not exactly ostentatious. The servant who admits him is wary at first, but unfailingly polite once he has produced the visiting card. He is shown into a modestly-furnished room and instructed to wait. A tall wooden bookcase at one end of the room naturally draws his attention and he occupies himself with a brief perusal of the titles that fill its shelves. They seem fairly innocuous, although he does note a number of weighty tomes written in a language that he does not recognise.

He turns at the sound of approaching footsteps and sees a tall figure approaching through the open doorway. Garbed once again in rich black robes, but without the hood that she had worn earlier in the day, Tiago's gaze is inevitably drawn to the approaching figure's face. When last they met, her visage had been half-hidden in shadow and distorted with gross emotions. Now observing it composed and unconcealed, he takes in the woman's fine features with an artist's eye and finds her completely captivating.

Boldly return his frank gaze, she inclines her head in greeting.

"You will join me for dinner," she says in a tone that brooks no question. "We have much to discuss, I think. Alasdair?" This last is directed at the servant who has followed her into the room: an unobtrusive middle-aged fellow with an air of quiet efficiency.

"Of course, my lady," the servant answers. "In the salon?"

She nods and he bows and exits, closing the door quietly behind him. Gesturing towards two upholstered chairs, the woman waits until her guest has made himself comfortable before seating herself opposite him.

"I wondered how long I would have to wait before you paid me a visit," she begins with the shadow of a smile. "Let me begin my dispensing with the tedious rigmarole of formal introductions. I am Amelyn, you are Tiago. I am the eldest daughter of Lord Heligan and you are nobody of consequence. There - we are acquainted. Now, have you finished conducting your... enquiries? What have you discovered?"

"Until today, I have counted myself fortunate to be a man of little consequence, My Lady." Tiago is unnerved to find himself treated, however disparagingly, as a guest at a great noblewoman's table. Unsure where to look, with all the finery laid out before him, he finds he can only adopt the role to which he is accustomed when within a noble house. He looks, therefore, directly at Lady Amelyn's face.

"I am but an artisan, My Lady. I am known for my renderings of the nobility within religious icons. Your Grace would..." he pauses, trying to detect the sadness he found in his earlier efforts, but finding that her noble bearing defied him. "Would make a good subject for a portrait." Seeing that she seems little interested by this, he seeks to justify himself. "There is power to be found in such images. I expect that your Grace has not sat for an artist since childhood?" Seeing her slight nod, as if he has intrigued her ever so slightly, he finishes. "I would consider it an honour to render such an image."

Holding his head bowed but hearing no response but her soft breathing, the arrival of some stuffed songbirds on a platter reminds him of what is expected of him. "I find that I am embroiled in some scheme in which Your Grace is also involved. I did not know those fellows who were there this morning, I assure you, and it seems they were dragged into this mess as was I. One young man has lost his life and another has been forced to flee for his."

The fear rises in him as he thinks of the implications of his earlier painting. "There is something afoot which threatens the City. And I think it is motivated by a man with a golden voice, some sorceror. Perhaps he is the one you seek. I wouldn't know that, but there is a tangled web which was revealed to me through my...my work. Those others are in it and...your Grace too. I could show you, but it is in my workshop and, with this weather, the paint will take two days to dry so I could not bring it here easily. I could perhaps sketch it?" He looks at her enquiringly, prodding uncertainly at the songbird which has been dispensed to him.

"If your paintings truly reveal as much as you suggest," Amelyn observes with a frown. "Then I should be loath to sit for you. A portrait is quite revealing enough in the hands of a competent artist. Who knows what secrets might be uncovered by an artistic adept?"

"But this 'work' of yours... if I understand you correctly, you believe that it reveals something of the agency behind this morning's little drama? If that is true, then I must see this painting for myself. And If it cannot travel to me then it seems that I must visit your workshop. I hope that will not prove awkward," she adds, with the shadow of a smile.

Her face grows serious again. "That will wait until the morrow, though. For the moment you are a guest in my home and I would not give you cause to find fault with Heligan's hospitality."

Catching his dubious glance at the dainty before him, she delicately arches an eyebrow and her face lights up with mischievous amusement. "But perhaps this dish is not to your taste, Sir Artist?"

Before he can reply, she snaps her fingers and the quietly efficient servant materialises once more. "We are done with the songbird, Alasdair. I trust that the next course will be more to our guest's liking. We will have wine with it, I think," she adds, with a bold glance at Tiago.

"Very good, my lady. The Estalan red, perhaps?"

She nods dismissively. "Yes, yes. Whatever you suggest."

As the servant bows and withdraws, Amelyn leans forward, focussing her intense gaze upon Tiago again, who cannot help shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

~oOo~

"I am intrigued by your mention of this 'man with a golden voice'," Amelyn continues. "A sorcerer, you suggest? What makes you say that?"

"In truth, there were two men," Tiago tells her. "One is this... I use the term sorcerer loosely, but I could not see his face, doubtless due to some magic, and he had a honeyed, golden voice and a cloak with an iridescent lining. The other has many rings on his fingers but I couldn't render him." Looking at the next dish which the manservant Alasdair brings, Tiago is dismayed anew. No wonder this woman is so thin, he thinks, how can these noblefolk eat such...

Prodding at the grey mush which sits on his plate, Tiago is sure that this must the brains of some poor creature, though it looks for all the world like a porridge made of snails. When he does manage to get the first forkful down, with what he hopes is a convincing smile, he finds it palatable, but only just. The lady gestures at a pile of unleavened breads, so Tiago is relieved to be able to put something more normal into his mouth, though the bread is just spicy enough to remind the guest of the House's wealth.

"I think", he says when he thinks his mouth is sufficiently free of food that he will not embarass himself by spitting it back on to the table, "I think you might tell me who it was who sent you?"

"Sent me?" she says, surprised. "You mean this morning? Why, nobody sent me - or at least, not in the way that you mean. As I explained before, I was there on my account. I was acting upon a piece of intelligence - false, or at the very least misleading, as it transpired, but a piece of intelligence nevertheless, and from a trusted source. It pointed, in no uncertain terms, to the presence of my enemy in that alleyway and at that time."

She pauses, considering. "In a way, though, I suppose that I was 'sent' there, by whoever passed this information to me - presumably the same agency that arranged your duel. Your golden-voiced sorcerer, perhaps? Or this other man - did you say he had rings on his fingers? Were they like these?" she asks, holding out her hands to display their numerous precious adornments.

Examining them carefully, Tiago notes that each of Amelyn's rings is set with a stone, most of them black. He regrets now that he had not seen the second man that Gabriela had described; it had been she who had mentioned the rings.

"I... I did not see them," he admits. "Why do you ask?"

"You do not know their significance? Surely even an Iconographer must use some kind of talisman for his spells? In my School, this is the favoured form for such foci. If your mystery man wore similar rings, I might know to look for him amongst my colleagues. What else can you tell me about this man? Or the other one - you mentioned a cloak, I think?"

She stares thoughtfully into her wine-glass.

"I told you this morning that my enemy is an adept," she says quietly. "Well, now it seems that I have a number of candidates to choose from: a veritable wealth of wizards. Your golden-voiced fellow might be the man I seek. Or perhaps his associate, with the rings. Then again, our unfortunate apprentice from this morning did not raise that hell-beast by himself, so his master may be a third candidate - unless one of the others was responsible."

Producing a small object, she passes it to Tiago to inspect. It is a grisly figurine, fashioned from bone and intricately carved to represent... what? A hideously deformed monster? A strangely distorted individual? Tiago is not sure, but he is certain of one thing: this thing gives him the willies. He hands it back quickly, suppressing a shudder.

"I took this from the corpse of the boy this morning," she tells him. "Ah, but you'd left us by then, hadn't you? You didn't get to see the grim end of the pathetic puppeteer. Well, anyway, it seems to be a talisman of some sort, although I've never seen its like before. My guess is that the boy's master taught him the spell to control the demon, and this was his focus. What do you make of it?"

~oOo~

"All of this is new to me" says Tiago, feeling utterly baffled and not a little shaken, "but..." He fumbles at his pockets and draws out the card she gave him earlier. "Perhaps you could assist? It's something we did when we were learning the craft." Laying her card with the Tree of Heligan upwards and before him, he stares at it a moment.

"No, that's wrong." Getting up, he goes over to her side of the table with the card. She draws back, startled and he, not noticing her discomfort, places the card in front of her, "No, you stay there", he says. Seeing he intends nothing upon her person, she waves away the serving man who had rushed forward bearing a ladle, but remains with her chair shoved back from the table.

"With your permission?" asks Tiago, taking out some pieces of charcoal which spill on to the immaculate cloth. He pauses for a moment until she nods, then hurries back to his side of the table, pushing the platters and the candelabra to the sides. Picking up one of the charcoals, he leans right over the table, keeping only one foot on the ground and, beckoning her forward to sit at the base of the Tree, quickly recreates the emblem across the tablecloth away from her, in broad, thick strokes, but leaving out the loop which signified the artisan in the representation.

Standing to look at his design, he mutters to himself, "Still something missing here." Fishing her wineglass out from the mass of plates, he moves around the table again to hand it back to her, then returns to his side. "Could you?" He beckons at her and she moves her chair forward again. "Thanks."

"Now... perhaps one of your rings? A family token?" Her eyes narrowing, Lady Amelyn instead takes a pendant from about her neck and places it at the end of one of the central branches, laying the chain on the image as if wrapping it about the branches for security, back to the trunk of the tree. "Yes, good thinking, Amelyn", says Tiago, forgetting himself as he works with a fellow adept rather than a superior.

"The...the informant? Is he Heligan?" He looks at her expectantly until she reluctantly nods. "In which branch does he sit, and," he reaches for a salt cellar and her napkin. "For reward or for loyalty?" Amelyn nods at the napkin, signifying loyalty, and at one of the branches. Tiago positions the object accordingly.

"Now, the man with the cloak and the man with the rings." Tiago bends down, searching the floor for a hair which, eventually finding, he ties into a loop. Standing up next to a rather poor tapestry, he whips a gold thread out of it, ignoring Amelyn's look of outrage as he turns back. "Estaban is a charlatan, the work is worthless", he says with a smile.

"All good so far", he mutters as he goes back to beside Amelyn, popping the hair and the thread into her glass. "Now, the boy's..." he corrects himself, "Fabian's figurine."

Seeing where he is going with this, Amelyn dips the vile object into the wineglass. Both she and Tiago pause as they try to ignore the sizzling which comes from the vessel. Once the liquid is still, she swirls the glass and gently tips its contents on to the base of the Tree.

Amelyn's eyes grow wide as she sees the red liquid creep up each branch of her family's emblem, turning every branch blood red, the hair and the thread remaining at the base of the tree before her. Looking up furiously at Tiago, she is given pause, for he is looking her straight in the eye and smiling, as if expecting this reaction.

"It's not as bad as that," he says, pleased to have unsettled this Lady. "Or as simple. If you look from the base, then this is what you will see. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that wars had been started on the basis of such divinations." Pointing at the glass in her hand, he tells her, "That is where the truth of the matter lies. You must refill it and place it on top of yourself," he gestures at her pendant. "And look again."

After what seems like an age, her servant refills her glass, her tremor noticeable to all, and she places it square above her pendant. Nothing happens at first but, as Tiago recites some old chants under his breath, the flickering spots of red on the tablecloth, the refractions of the candles through the wineglass, make their way to the base of the tree and then, ever so slowly, make their way up from the trunk, pulling the hair and the thread with them.

Confident as anything, the hair and the thread rising up the Tree as he had planned, Tiago doesn't notice, for a moment, that the wine has started bleeding out of the confines of the charcoal markings he has made. An "Ahem!" from Lady Amelyn draws him back to his canvas, a glance to the side indicating that she has detected an external resistance.

"To be expected, Milady", says Tiago, lying through his teeth in hopeful emulation of Mendrik. Bending down to the level of the table, with a sheer force of will, he stares at the wine as if to defy it to disobey him, mentally mopping up the overspill and keeping it to its track.

His determination is rewarded, as the two slender threads continue their journey and diverge, each following a different route. The loop of hair travels furthest and most slowly, moving ponderously up the trunk and onwards, its course seeming to take it to the top of the tree. The golden thread, however, moves more quickly, following a branch and heading unerringly for the napkin.

Tiago spares a moment from his concentration to glance significantly at Amelyn. "It seems that our loyal napkin is anything but," he murmurs. "Or at the very least that our golden-voiced friend has pulled the wool over his eyes..."

Then, seeing her staring at the table, he returns his attention to the still-unfolding picture. The loop of hair is still moving, now ignoring the confines of the Tree and following an arrow-straight path that passes through and then beyond the charcoal image.

It finally stops when its progress is interrupted by a small dish of half-eaten food. Tiago lets out a sigh of disappointment, certain now that his divination has run its course and convinced that this mundane obstacle has cheated them of a further insight. Then he hears Amelyn gasp and looks again at the hair-loop's final resting place to see what he has missed. What could stuffed apricots signify, he wonders? He looks quizzically at Amelyn.

"The dish," she says. "Look at the dish."

Picking up the piece of crockery, Tiago empties its contents into a another dish to uncover the design that the food was concealing. It is a stylistic but finely-executed depiction of a ship, a single-masted galley like those commonly seen on Lake Felster. The significance of this symbol is not lost upon him in the context of the working, but it is not an unequivocal clue: he can think of a number of organisations in Syran who commonly use a ship as their symbol.

House Savaran, which has always wielded the great nautical power in the city, is one of these. The current Lord Savaran holds the coveted position of Principal on the Council of Houses, but he is not renowned for his subtlety and very few political observers believe that his nominally pre-eminent position in the city is an accurate reflection of his personal power. Savaran is, nevertheless, one of the so-called Old Houses, which have dominated Syran for centuries, and several of Lord Savaran's many heirs hold positions of power in the city's institutions.

Then there is the Church of the Waters and the closely-associated Felster Naval College. The latter is mainly responsible for the mundane instruction of the Sentanos Navy, but it also houses a small Wizardry school, whose adepts are famed throughout Safelster for their unrivalled mastery of their chosen element. The Church itself is one of the most popular of the smaller denominations in Syran, its various congregations only outnumbered by the long-dominant Stygian and Imperial Churches, and the increasingly popular Free Church of Sentanos.

The only other organisation of any real importance that uses a ship as a symbol is the Shipwrights' Guild, but it seems less a likely candidate for involvement in a conspiracy.

Tiago looks up from the dish, suddenly aware that he has been staring at it for several minutes. Amelyn meets his gaze levelly, her handsome face now looking calm and composed, showing none of the conflicting emotions that he had seen playing across it moments before.

"Should we trust this... divination of yours?" she asks, rather sharply. "Or was it merely a parlour trick?" Without waiting for him to answer she continues. "If we are to trust it - if I am to trust you, sir - then there must be no games between us. Someone was deadly earnest this morning and I mean to find out who they are and what they intended."

"Well, sir? Will you work with me to unravel this conundrum? Some find me a harsh mistress, or so I am told, but you will not easily find a stronger ally once you have earned my trust. What do you say?"

"I say yes, but on one condition." says Tiago, looking her straight in the eye and deciding to risk everything on a single question, "You must tell me of the Proven Reappearance."

~oOo~

Amelyn's composure is quite comprehensively disrupted by this unexpected turn in the conversation. She gapes at Tiago open-mouthed for a few moments before attempting to restore some semblance of dignity.

"You really are an deep one, aren't you?" she manages eventually. "Very well, I think I can guess where this is coming from, so I'll tell you what I know. I warn you, though: there is precious little to tell."

"What some have called Lady Erengazor's greatest folly started a little more than ten years ago. The Duchess had become convinced that the time had come for the triumphant return of the Liberator. A prophecy," she pauses and gives Tiago a significant glance. "Was about to be fulfilled, or so her followers insisted, which supposedly foretold the Saint's return within a few years."

"Erengazor was moved to stake everything on this notion and for a time she carried a lot of credulous fools along with her. They might have written it all off to experience when Arkat failed to make himself known to the world in 1615 as predicted, but instead someone came up with a revised timetable. By the time the second appointment had been and gone, the dear Duchess had embroiled herself in the debacle at Valantia. The rest, as the say, is history."

She smiles humourlessly. "And that was about it for the so-called Proven Appearance of Arkat, as an organised movement at least. Soon afterwards, however, some rather fantastical rumours started to circulate, attesting that Arkat had appeared after all. The spirit of the great hero had manifested itself before witnesses, it was said, and delivered a message of hope. Someone even claimed that a painting had been commissioned by Erengazor, by an artist who was fortunate enough to be present at the manifestation. This, unless I miss my guess, is the Proven Appearance to which you refer.

She sighs. "But I am sure that you know this already. I'm right, aren't I? It is this painting that you seek, not an insight into Erengazor's folly? Do you really believe that it exists? And what made you think that I would know anything about it?"

Tiago can't help but scoff. "Of course it exists, I've..." Realizing he may have revealed too much, he pauses. But then, better out than in, he thinks to himself. "I've seen it myself and I need to work from it," he says. "As for why Your Grace might know of it," he repeats her question, remembering his Ps and Qs. "Well, milady seem to know a lot of things."

"So, as to the present situation," Tiago says, finally returning to his seat and looking at the darkness outside one of the stain-glassed windows.

"It seems, Your Grace, that there is some investigating to be done. Your oh-so-loyal servant is likely an agent for the golden-voiced one, so it is perhaps best to feed him tidbits and keep him sweet, to be used later. He will no doubt find out that I have been here and as he seems to have an interest in me, perhaps it were best we established some professional link as a... a cover. Perhaps Your Grace does wish to commission that portrait after all?" he asks, his face as straight as can be.

"This golden-voiced one seems to be, in his turn, the hooded one's agent. If milady could reveal to me his identity - or hers? - then I am sure that my man, who I think has taken a liking to Your Grace," he can't help but add that mischievous quip. "Might follow his inevitable trip to the Docks. Unless, that is," here he finally looks Lady Amelyn in the eye. "Your Grace has recourse to superior spies?"

"And beyond all that," he says, seeking to conclude the evening's entertainment, mindful of the darkness without and the dangers which appear to stalk him. "Perhaps I might be graced with a visit on the morrow? I am certain that you will find my work of interest."

"Very well, sir," Amelyn says. "I will grant you this commission that you so greatly desire, if only because it offers - as you so rightly observe - a plausible pretext for our continued association. I shall endeavour to call upon you at your studio as you suggest, but I am not at liberty to do so tomorrow, nor the day after, so I shall be unable to visit you until Windsday. Shall we say... at the beginning of the second quarter? If that is convenient, of course."

"As for my informant," she continues. "Well, let us see if this meeting does prompt my dear cousin to reveal his true allegiances. My father has given Kenelm a place to live here since the death of his mother - my father's sister - although his quarters are not part of the main house. Tell your man to watch out for him - he is quite distinctive. If nothing else, he can be distinguished by his rather absurd taste in footwear."

"Until tomorrow, then... Tiago," she concludes, seeming rather uncomfortable with her use of his name. She automatically extends her hand to receive a kiss, but snatches it back before the iconographer can react. With a final nod of acknowledgement, she leaves the room, carefully avoiding his curious gaze. A delicate cough alerts Tiago that the servant, Alasdair, has arrived to escort him to the door.

Mendrik is waiting for him in the chill air outside, a faint smirk on his face. Without giving him an opportunity to turn his smirk into snide comments, Tiago rushes before him until he reaches home. Dismayed to be confronted by the ghastly piece Lady Winsham Confronts the Savages (ugh!) he goes straight to bed, but does manage, over the next couple of days, to begin getting the work into some semblance of aesthetic decency.

~oOo~

Amelyn is true to her word, arriving at the iconographer's studio at the appointed hour on Windsday, accompanied by an anonymous female servant. At first, Tiago is disappointed that to see that she is garbed in the same hooded black robes that she had been wearing when they first met in the alley. When she discards her outer garments, however, he finds her apparently sombre attire is richer and more flattering than he had first thought. She has even deigned to wear jewellery - in addition to her accustomed rings, that is - sporting a very striking necklace of jet and onyx with matching earrings.

Having dispensed with pleasantries, settled her in a comfortable position and persuaded her stern and close-mouthed maid to sit to one side where she will not distract him, the artist begins to sketch. Amelyn proves to be an excellent subject, sitting silently and holding her pose without complaint, and she does nothing to interrupt him until he steps back from the canvas to scrutinize his work.

"Perhaps you would like to offer me some refreshment at this point?" she says with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. "And then you can tell me what your man has discovered about my dear cousin and his golden-voiced acquaintance."

With a guilty start, Tiago realises that time has passed more swiftly than he had realised, a common side-effect when he become absorbed in his work.

Mendrik had spent most of the past two days following Kenelm around on a series of apparently purposeful excursions throughout the city. After a while, he had concluded that his mark must have noticed that he was being followed and was attempting to deliberately mislead him. Although annoyed with himself for being spotted, he had maintained his observation and was eventually rewarded for his diligence. He had spotted Kenelm, whose gleeful expression clearly indicated how pleased he was with this deception, surreptitiously passing a note to a confederate.

Following this fellow instead, Mendrik soon found himself in the Docks. Staying with his mark through the crowds, he was led to a tavern called The Kraken. Although he was certain that the man entered this rather disreputable establishment, Mendrik could not find him within and did not see him leave, although he watched the tavern until closing time. He concluded that the fellow must have given him the slip.

This is pretty much as Tiago relates it to Lady Amelyn, after taking a few blind alleys. He sees that she is not interested when he occasionally mentions one of the interesting characters that haunt the dockside taverns, so he eventually sticks to the story and, thereby, gets it out.

Seeing her eyes wander over to the corner, where the wide canvas that he has covered up leans against a window frame, he steps over and removes the cloth from the nearly-dry piece. Amelyn gets up from her seat and steps over to examine the piece coldly. She says very little but spends a good while examining each figure. Eventually, she asks the artist the briefest question, but one that, to him, cuts to the bone. Very quickly, she has milked him for all the information he has, for, whatever her other talents, she is very competent at dealing with her social inferiors. Tiago even finds it something of a relief to reveal his amorous predicament, although he does so in a whisper. He feels a twinge of jealousy when she pays particular attention to the duellist.

Finally, she has had enough of the painting. She seems quite exhausted by all of the information, while Tiago is buzzing with ideas for his two new works, his earlier commissioned pieces quite at the back of his mind. Quite overenthusiastic, he offers to escort her back to her House. In spite of her initial refusals, he does eventually persuade her and, picking Mendrik up from the inn across the way, escorts her south towards Hightown.

~oOo~