The boom of cannon shook plaster dust from the ceiling.
It drifted like smoke between Fulvio and the Count.
"You can leave that out," the Count said.
Fulvio nodded, chewing on his lower lip, trying to ignore the
shattered window, the bullet hole in the doorframe, the sound of
clattering pikes and clashing blades. He dipped the tip of
his unicorn hair brush into a pot of phoenix oil, then dragged it
through pigment and began painting the gold candlestick.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to start with you?" he
asked.
"Certainly not," the Count replied. "I go nowhere without
my wealth."
There was a knock on the door. A servant entered,
followed by a youth in Prince Barovnik's livery. The herald
halted before the Count, blocking the light, and Fulvio set down
his brush, his task frustrated by this ill-placed messenger.
"The Prince offers you one last chance to sign his treaty," the
herald said. "You will not be allowed to leave, whether this ends
in ink or blood. But the fates of your men, your family,
your estates, are still to be decided."
The Count sighed and rose from his throne. He walked to
the remains of the window, staring through razor shards and
twisted lead at the carnage on the plain. He beckoned the
messenger over.
Light fell across the candlestick again. Fulvio picked up
his brush and returned to work.
"Tell your prince that the Count of Adenland surrenders to no
man," the Count said. "And that I do not negotiate with
heralds."
He grabbed the youth's tunic and flung him out the window.
There was a scream and a wet thud.
The Count brushed his hands on a curtain and returned to his
seat.
Fulvio added a spot of white to the candlestick, capturing the
light reflecting from its rim. As his painting dried it
became more real, while the candlestick itself faded from the
room. The Count nodded his approval.
"The large chest next," he said. "Then I think it's my
turn. This place can barely hold out another day, and I need
to be gone before it falls."
***
The lighting in the tent was terrible. A brazier and a
pair of oil lamps cast everything in flickering orange or
ink-black shadows, fracturing the visual unity of objects,
blurring the lines from one shape to the next. Suitable
perhaps to model for a landscape of Hell, but utterly inadequate
for painting Prince Barovnik or the men around him.
"Tell me, why would the great Fulvio of Mantua be crossing our
battle lines in the dead of night?" The Prince was younger
than Fulvio had expected. Mischief danced in his eyes. He
would make a fine subject for a portrait.
"I was painting for the Count," Fulvio said. He knew how
to lie, but had never understood why anyone would do so. Art
was truth. Why twist it? "Now I have finished. I am
going to Venice."
"You've been painting for the Count of Adenland?"
"Yes."
"May I see?" The Prince held out his hand.
Fulvio understood just enough of people to know that this was a
question with only one answer. He untied a roll of canvas
and passed it to the Prince.
"Here's a familiar face." The Prince rose from his throne
and stepped closer to the brazier, tilting the picture to get the
best light. "The resemblance to our rebellious cousin is
uncanny. And the colours . . .
Tell me, what did you use as a base?"
"Egg white for the background," Fulvio said. "Phoenix oil
for the fore."
"Wonderful. I shall have to remember, for my own
dabblings." The Prince turned the canvas, admiring the
glitter of fire-light off gold pigment. "They say that a
true artist can capture a man's soul. What do you think?"
Fulvio shrugged. "I'm a painter. Souls are for priests."
"Not the soul then, but the essence, all that makes a man real.
Do you think that a painter can capture that?"
"Only the right painter, with the right tools."
"Like phoenix oil?"
"Like phoenix oil."
"Do you think he's smiling?"
"My lord?"
"The Count. In your portrait. Is he smiling?"
"Oh yes."
"And this was yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Strange. You know that his fortress fell, while my
guards were deciding what to do with you?"
Fulvio nodded. He wasn't surprised. It was mostly
by luck that he'd escaped the building, while men died around him
and shots whistled past his head.
"And yet the Count was not there. Somehow, he slipped
through our lines. All I have is this painting. This
incredibly accurate painting."
The Prince caught Fulvio"s eye as he dangled the canvas over
the brazier. Flames swallowed the treasure chest, the gold
candlestick, and began creeping up the Count himself.
"I suppose it will have to do." Prince Brovnik dropped
the painting into the fire. "Won't it, oh capturer of
souls?"
Fulvio watched entranced as the Count was devoured by flames.
The image of his robes didn't crack and crumble like paint, but
scorched and smoked like cloth itself. His skin peeled, his
flesh melted, his mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile.
Fulvio shuddered as, somewhere in the hiss and crackle of
flames, he heard the fleeting essence of a scream. And then
the Count was gone.
