Dominions

11

11

- 11 -

The man now known as Terrell, dressed in casual trousers and a blue shirt, his jacket open, sat in a comfortable swivel chair on one side of a dark-wood desk with ornately carved‌—‌or maybe moulded‌—‌legs. The desk was in a well-proportioned room, the walls displaying artwork that was recognisably Sertio’s, mainly reproductions, but Terrell spotted a couple of originals, and a few preliminary sketches that would have made tidy sums at auction.

Many of the works were illuminated by subtle lighting, hues complimenting each piece, and more light shone up to the glass-covered ceiling, where it was reflected in such a way that the shadows disappeared. With the hard polish of the black floor tiles, it was possible to catch one’s own reflection between both floor and ceiling, endless repetitions that faded but never quite disappeared.

On the far side of the desk sat the man who had introduced himself as Daventree, Sertio’s agent. He was small, the top of his head barely reaching to Rodin’s nose, but he held himself taller. He wore a suit, complete with sombre black tie, and the shirt-cuffs that protruded from the ends of his jacket sleeves sparkled with gems. He had shaken Rodin’s hand in a firm grip, and he’d held Rodin’s eyes with his own for some seconds.

A man used to being in control.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mister Terrell. One hears so many differing accounts of the experience.”

“Fortunately, my journey was pleasantly uneventful. I used the time to my advantage, though‌—‌an opportunity to study more of this wonderful artist’s work.” Rodin brought his arms round, indicating the pieces.

Daventree nodded. “Ah, yes. Many times have I heard it said how each piece will only reveal its deepest secrets with days or even months of dedicated contemplation. Personally, I don’t have an eye for art‌—‌at least, not in that way. My talents lie more in the practical side of things. But tell me, what do you see in‌…‌in this piece here.”

The man indicated a reproduction to his left; a face pulled back, mouth open wide, with the hint of a hand grasping the hair. There was a red line across the throat, and where it widened it was possible to see what looked like a tongue pushing out.

“Ah, Voices Within,” Rodin said, nodding in fake appreciation. “I believe the original was sold a decade or so back for an undisclosed sum. An early piece, but one that bears many subtle hints at what was to come.” And Rodin allowed Terrell to continue, discussing the piece’s merits. And while Terrell talked, Rodin watched Daventree. The man nodded at the right places, showed surprise on occasions, and even turned his mouth up in a slight smile. But he was acting, putting Rodin at his ease.

Voices Within“Very good,” he said when Rodin brought his thoughts to a close. “I am sure my illustrious client will appreciate having an assistant who understands art so well. But let me tell you more about your role, and how you will fit into our little family.”

The man sat back now, turning lazily in his chair. Light glinted in the window, catching his cufflinks. “A great artist such as Sertio needs to concentrate on his work, and so leaves the more mundane tasks to others. As Sertio’s agent, I deal with the business side of his artistry‌—‌liaising with buyers and exhibitors, fielding interview requests, ensuring his finances are in order. I work from this office a few days a week, spending the rest of my time either meeting with buyers and critics or working with the few lesser clients I look after. This means that for most of the time Sertio will only have his new assistant for company.

“Your role is to look after his day-to-day needs. This is a broad heading, involving cleaning, catering, and so on, but over time you will develop an understanding of Sertio’s precise requirements. His finest assistants have been able to second-guess his moods and desires with great accuracy.”

Rodin nodded. “So my role will be to provide not what Sertio wants, but what he needs.”

“Quite‌—‌and wonderfully phrased. Do you have any concerns on the matter so far?”

“Not at all.”

Daventree’s brow furrowed. “You’re quite sure? It is preferable to deal with any potential problems sooner rather than later.”

“Well‌—‌there is one thing‌—‌and I’m sure it will not be an issue. You see, I’ve studied Sertio’s work in some detail, and although the man himself comes over as very affable in recordings, I can’t help wondering if, in the creation of such‌…‌challenging work, he has moments when his affability might be less than ideal.” Rodin opened his mouth to say more, then closed it and cast his eyes down.

“You are a man of some depths, Mister Terrell, and I appreciate your openness. I will allay your fears as far as I can, though. Sertio pushes himself hard, and there are times when he suffers for his art. I have never known him utter a cruel word, though, or to succumb to violent temperaments. At his worst, he sinks into melancholy, becoming closed off and wishing to spend time in solitude. But please be assured that there is nothing personal in this, and if he ever believes he has offended, he will burst with apologies at the earliest opportunity.”

Rodin smiled. “That is good to hear. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” And then the smile dropped. “But there may be another aspect of your role, depending on the whims of Sertio himself. I’m sure your research uncovered his use of models for initial inspiration, yes? It would not surprise me if he called upon you, as his assistant, to provide that service. Would you be amenable to that?”

“My role will be to assist. If that is what Sertio needs, I have no problem at all.”

“Of course. But some previous assistants have baulked at the frank nature of this modelling. Sertio deals with the body itself, not its coverings.”

Daventree lifted his eyebrows, turning the statement into a question, and Rodin answered. “I understand‌—‌he requires his models to be unclothed. I have no problem with that.”

“That is good. However, words are not actions, and a person’s desire to provide service can sometimes be compromised by unease. I must, therefore, ask that you prove your words in a physical demonstration.”

Rodin rolled the words around in his head, slowly figuring out what Daventree was asking. “You wish me to remove my clothing?” Daventree nodded, and Rodin rose to his feet.

He moved into the space behind the chairs, and undressed, placing each article of clothing on the back of the chair, his shoes underneath it. Before long his jacket, shirt, trousers and socks lay before him. Daventree looked down to his crotch, and Rodin slipped off his shorts.

Daventree walked out from behind the desk and circled Rodin slowly, eyeing him up and down. Phrases escaped his lips, appreciative mutterings. “Yes, yes. Very good. Fine. Interesting. Impressive. Yes, definitely. Hmm. Good, good.”

Rodin stared forward the whole time, gazing through the window, looking out onto the rooftop garden; the covered wooden seating, the stone path meandering through the close-cropped lawn, the bushes starting to tumble over the walls, the splashes of colour in the flower beds. Immaculate, but out of place. The top of a building was no place for a park. The bushes, and the small tree that stood at one end, had nowhere to anchor their roots. They needed the soil, the honest openness of the ground. Four storeys up, everything would need constant attention, water filtration systems, added nutrients. It was fake, nature misplaced.

Daventree was in front of him now, one hand stroking his chin. He brought his other hand forward, brushed Rodin’s bicep, barely a touch. “They are real?”

Rodin nodded, realised more was expected of him. “Exercise is one of my pleasures, and I find an important lesson in the results that such hard work brings. I do not believe there are shortcuts in life.” Terrell’s words, but they reflected Rodin’s own thoughts.

“And you have put in considerable work, Mister Terrell. Really, most impressive. If Sertio requires your services as a model, I feel sure he will not be disappointed.”

His hand came out again, tracing a pale scar on Rodin’s chest. As the finger ran along its length, again nothing more than a fleeting touch, Rodin remembered the blade slashing down, the look of triumph on the woman’s face. He remembered the tightness in his wrists where the cord held him, the agony in his body as he pulled, the blood swarming round her head where she lay, her skull shattered.

Daventree removed his hand. “But these are‌…‌interesting. May I ask why you have not had your scars removed? I understand the procedure to be a simple one.”

Rodin was ready for this. It was one of the things he had discussed with Cat. In a place where surgery and alterations were so commonplace, where perfection in image was easily achieved, Rodin’s scars would require a good cover story, and he now told the one he’d prepared.

“I have made mistakes in my past,” he said, “mistakes that I deeply regret, and not only because many of them left me with these marks. I regret my immaturity, my impetuousness. I’ve fought hard to turn my life around. These scars serve as reminders‌—‌not so that I may wallow in regret, but so that I may strive to be a better person today. To remove the scars would be an attempt to remove the past, and what would that mean to the lessons my past has taught me? The marks on my body might be ugly, but they are honest, and they have made the real me, the one beneath this flesh coat, a better person.”

Again, Terrell’s words spoke Rodin’s own thought. And they must have struck Daventree, because the man leaned back against his desk in contemplation. His eyes moved from Rodin’s scars to his eyes.

“Yes,” he said softly, his head nodding. “Yes. Each scar tells a tale, and in these tales is the making of the man. Each wound is a chapter. Oh, that is excellent, Mister Terrell. The follies of youth as lessons for the growth of the man. I do believe that Sertio would appreciate these thoughts, too. I really think you have something here. I must get this down.”

With a spring, he rounded the desk, sat, and started tapping at a screen. Phrases, similar to those Rodin had spoken, fell from his lips, and his eyes sparkled.

When he glanced up, he seemed surprised to see Rodin still standing there. “My apologies. Please, Mister Terrell, dress yourself. You have done admirably. A fine specimen, a fine specimen.” And he returned to his notes.

That is how he sees me, thought Rodin. A specimen, not a person. He sees price tags in artwork, and opportunities in people. Daventree was supremely superficial.

That is how he sees meA specimen, not a person. He sees price tags in artwork, and opportunities in people.But was the Dome, and he was now working with an artist‌—‌one who was so pampered that he needed a live-in servant. Everything would be superficial.

EverythingEverything except his reason for being here. Only the removal of the Councillor mattered.