Page 38 of Sword & Shadow
The man, whom Deckard now assumed to be a steward of the duke’s, gave the clerk a disparaging glance. “You’ll carry the package to my carriage,” he instructed, his accent far smoother than even the Calders’.
The clerk nodded as though he should have thought of it first. “O’ course I will.” He scooped up the parcel once again, which was barely large enough to hold a teapot.
Deckard marveled as the clerk hastily followed the steward out. Once the door was shut behind them, he turned to Auden. “Are all noblemen and their staff so condescending?”
“Huh?” Auden blinked as though clearing away his thoughts. “Oh, yes. It’s expected.”
Though Deckard had experienced his fair share of haughty nobility in Ephria, they weren’t so high and mighty that theirstewardscouldn’t carry a package that weighed less than five pounds.
Returning to his examination of the shelf, Deckard found himself more disenchanted with Wauld than he’d anticipated. Between the dreary weather, despondent citizens, and tyrannical ruling class, he wasn’t altogether sure who would want to live in such a place. The Calders’ defection and the Alliance’s rebellion made all the more sense.
As he scanned the shop, a trio of small vignettes on the display caught Deckard’s eye. He leaned closer, all qualms forgotten. The delicate, detailed landscapes in oil paint sat within daintily carved wooden frames. But it was the image on the far right that swept the breath out of his lungs.
The clerk reentered, grumbling under his breath. By the time he reached the counter, all Deckard heard was, “...wi’ their pompous ’airdos.”
Setting his hands on the counter, the clerk surveyed Auden. “My apologies, mucker. Livin’ wi’ those shite noble lackeys ain’t easy, is it? Now, where were we?”
As the men resumed their haggling through Auden’s list, Deckard carefully lifted the painting. It was lovely with beautiful craftsmanship, though he didn’t recognize the artist’s signature in the bottom corner. Not a great artwork, but with a vastly meaningful image. It looked uncannily like the Ephrian countryside of Wayford in winter: frost-tipped grasses, pine-green copse of trees, and an iced-over lake. A soft yellow sun reflected with a lifelike glow off the water’s surface, downy clouds filling the sky.
The only thing missing was a blanket, a bag of books, and two strangers-turned-spouses searching for their perfect adventure on a map.
“Yer companion find somethin’ he likes?”
Upon the clerk’s direction, Auden turned, seeing Deckard with the vignette. “That’s nice,” he noted disinterestedly as he glanced at it.
Working to remember his accent, Deckard cautiously addressed the clerk. “How much for this?” he asked.
“There’s a price tag, ain’t there?”
Deckard stepped closer. “It’s for all three. I just want the one.”
“Well, it’s a set, ya see,” the clerk said. “Can’ go sellin’ bits of a set on their own, can I?”
Hearing the tone of a salesman in his voice, Deckard set the vignette on the counter. “How much?”
Auden drew his shoulders back, his brow furrowing.
Deckard kept his stare on the clerk.
Tapping his chin, the shopman scanned Deckard and then the painting. “It’s a valuable piece, ya see. Over a hundred years ol’. Paint’d by the legend Fortinne Graas, an Easterner by birth. He paint’d this triplet from memory, ’tis said, of the travels of his youth.”
No matter how unknown Graas’s work was to Deckard, he was even more convinced that this was the very lakeside where he and Evylin had shared their afternoon in Wayford. He leaned forward, holding the clerk’s gaze. “How. Much?”
Greed sparkled in the sharp blue Waulden stare. “Ten crowns.”
Auden scoffed. “That’s outrageous. The triplet is twelve altogether.”
“An’ I’m takin’ a loss, splittin’ a collection so fine.”
Deckard fished the coins from the pouch on his belt. “I’ll give you seventeen, and you’ll include everythin’ else on our list with it.”
The hungry glimmer in the clerk’s eyes grew brighter. The supplies should have cost closer to ten on their own, prices inWauld being higher than in Ephria naturally. But he knew that Deckard was desperate for the painting.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “Can’ do that. Full price for the goods on the list, and an upcharge on the broken triplet.”
Deckard knew the value of the painting wasn’t near what the clerk claimed. He’d lived in Ephria’s capital for years, and the name Fortinne Graas had never reached his ears. The potential merit of the tale of Graas’s travels and emigration notwithstanding, whoever the painter was, he hadn’t been a legend. But the average Wauldener wouldn’t know that.
“Listen,” Deckard rested his hands on the counter, “we passed a grocer, a baker, a chandler, and all other varieties of shops on the way here. There was even another general store down the way.”
