Dominions

12

12

- 12 -

“One more item to attend to, and then I will introduce you to your new master,” Daventree said as he slid a hand-held screen across the desk. “If you would present your palm, we can configure the security system to recognise you.” Rodin placed his right palm on the blue screen, and a white band ran under his skin. The screen glowed green, and the device bleeped. Rodin slid it back across to Daventree. “Sertio will sometimes seal his own door from inside when he requires absolute privacy, but otherwise you will be free to enter any of the rooms.”

Rodin nodded, holding in his smile. That was the sum of their security system?

That was the sum of their security system?“And now, let us meet our esteemed artist!”

Rodin followed Daventree, out of the office and into the corridor. The lift opened at one end, and there were another three doors along its length, all pulled too but not closed tight. “This is a second office‌—‌Sertio occasionally uses it for responding to messages‌—‌and this room is sometimes used as a meeting place, or a space for private showings. There is no need to enter currently. Besides, you will be more interested with what lays beyond this door.”

thisIt was arched, and split in the middle. The wood‌—‌possibly a simple veneer‌—‌was dark and imposing, and Rodin almost expected it to creak when Daventree pushed it open. But the two halves swung back soundlessly, and Rodin stepped through into what was surely the main living area.

The room was sumptuous, with plushly cushioned sofas surrounding a low light-wood table, a thick rug on the floor, and soft lighting playing over the walls that gave the setting an intimate, relaxed feel. Set in one wall was a small screen, the image that of the lift’s closed doors. Rodin detected the aroma of some type of incense, and the ambient temperature was a few degrees higher than the corridor, conducive to drowsiness. An archway to the left led through to what looked like food prep, but the view was blocked by the man standing under the curve.

Rodin instantly recognised the large body, the bald head and the friendly eyes. Sertio raised his arms, pale skin showing where the sleeve cut off, his wrists so bloated it almost appeared that his fingers grew from the ends of his arms. He wore soft shoes‌—‌no, slippers‌—‌and baggy trousers and top, over which was some kind of apron or smock, lightly stained, especially around the pockets to either side.

“Welcome, welcome. You must be Terrell, the new marvel my illustrious agent has found for me. So pleased to make your acquaintance. I trust Daventree has been treating you well, yes? You have survived the rack and the burning coals? The electro-shock lie detection was not too much of a burden?” He laughed deeply. “But come, be seated. Or, no, maybe you wish to acquaint yourself with your new home first, yes? Let us take a tour of my humble abode, that you may see where the magic happens‌—‌although the muses have declined to visit me of late, so I’m afraid there will be little to excite your wonder. But the choice is yours‌—‌should we recline for a while and get to know one another, or are you itching to explore?”

“I have been seated for much of my journey,” Rodin said, waving his arms in the air, much as Sertio had done. “And I will admit that I am eager to see the birth-place of so many wonderful creations, Mister Sertio.”

The grin and chuckle radiated warmth. “I fear you may find the studio nothing more than a common paint-splattered retreat, but see it you shall. And, please, let’s dispense with formal address. Come, friend Terrell! And Daventree will make our party a trio, yes? Excellent!”

With a flourish, Sertio led Rodin through the food prep. There was a table that could seat six in comfort, eight at a squeeze, and the area looked well-appointed but under-used. The surfaces were too clean, utensils displayed aesthetically.

“Through here are the private quarters,” Sertio said, indicating doors in turn. “Mine, and three guest suites. Yours is the furthest one‌—‌my agent believes you would appreciate the privacy.”

“And your bags are already within,” Daventree said. “I assumed you would want to unpack yourself.”

“Thank you,” Rodin said, wondering what Cat had packed. “And these stairs here?”

Sertio threw his arms wide. “Oh, so keen to see the heart of the place! Those, my friend, lead to the studio. Here, let me lead the way.” He squeezed past, grabbed the railing, and started to climb.

Rodin followed‌—‌slowly, because Sertio took his time. The man wheezed, but he still talked. “There is the lift, of course, but I prefer to ascend in this manner. I find the light-headed sensation conducive to letting the physical depart and the metaphysical take over. So important in the creation of art, don’t you think?”

By the time Sertio finished speaking these few lines they’d reached the door at the top. The artist leaned into it and threw it open before mopping his brow on a sleeve. “And this is where the magic so often fails to happen.” He waved an arm, bidding Rodin enter.

The second floor of Sertio’s apartment was one huge room, bathed in light from windows high up on all four sides, further rays coming through the skylights. The remaining walls and roofing were in pale wood panelling, and the flooring was tiled, the natural stone effect easy on the eyes. Easels, screens and sketches were piled to the edges of the room, there was a sink and cupboard to Rodin’s left side, and lift doors were set in the far wall.

Dust-motes danced in the sun’s beams, and Rodin cast his gaze around the space, imagining the uses he could put it to. Long enough to enable private practice at blade-throwing, high enough that, with a few ropes and bars hanging from the ceiling, it could function as an excellent exercise area, with enough windows to provide moonlight for training in the dark.

“And this is my current project, much as it is.” Sertio waved a hand to the far reaches of the room, where charcoal sketches hung from wires, surrounding the object itself. At its heart was a wire frame, reaching up to chest height. The lower portions were covered in clay, and from the colour gradient (brittle yellow to dark brown) Rodin guessed parts were still wet. Even from this distance he breathed in the earthy, damp smell.

“To be honest, it no longer pleases me,” Sertio said. “I wished to create the illusion of motion in a static media, but I fear it is not to be. It is a great shame, as there was so much I wanted to say about the passing of time in its syrupy manner, one minute oozing along like molasses, then the years flowing past in a fast-moving river of liquid sugar. There, you see? Even my metaphors are cumbersome and unwieldy. How can I hope to achieve anything with the sculpture if my thoughts are so confounded?”

Sertio’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed, loudly. But Rodin’s‌—‌Terrell’s‌—‌job was to help this self-indulgent fool. With Daventree present, Rodin knew he had to prove himself.

“Maybe now would be an ideal time to sit in comfort,” he said, “and you can talk of your favoured ways for me to carry out my duties. I hope I may assist you in a manner that helps your metaphors meander with more meaning.”

That brought a smile to the artist’s face. “A somewhat clumsy alliteration, but I appreciate the effort, and I thank you for your heartfelt words. Yes, reclining and relaxing, that is what we need, do you not agree, Daventree? Although no doubt you have more of your own magic to perform. Oh yes, my agent can cast his own kind of spell. Where I use clay and paint, he weaves wonders with algebra and alphabets‌—‌is that not so, my wordy wizard, my numerical necromancer?”

“You’re too kind,” said the agent, dipping his head in a kind of bow.

“False modesty, my friend!” Then, to Rodin, one hand held to his mouth theatrically, and his voice a loud whisper. “But he really is a master at his art.”

Daventree nodded, but Rodin could tell he wasn’t happy with the flattery. “Should I prepare drinks before I return to my work?”

“Oh, no, no! I’m sure my new friend will manage just fine. Terrell?”

“Of course. I recall an interview where you extolled the virtues of a strawberry infusion?” Little more than scented water in Rodin’s opinion, but harmless enough.

Sertio raised his eyebrows. “You’ve done your research, I see. I’m not sure if that’s flattering, or if I should be concerned about my darkest secrets. Maybe I will have to watch my tongue when you are around.”

Rodin took in a breath, fearing he’d overstepped his mark. But the artist’s eyes sparkled‌—‌just another example of his humour. Besides, what reason did Sertio have to suspect that Rodin was anything other than the man he claimed to be?

“But that interview was a few years ago, and my tastes have, quite naturally, changed in that time. I find a mint tea settles my stomach now.”

“And I’m sure I can find my way around your food prep. I’ll have it ready by the time you reach the lounge.”

Sertio beamed, stepping to one side so Rodin could pass. “I think this could be the genesis of a very fruitful working relationship, my dear Terrell.”

Rodin nodded, then headed down the stairs. A working relationship‌—‌that was all this could be. He’d play this pathetic artist’s servant, but only to further his own agenda. And through Sertio’s connections, Rodin would build up a false relationship with Leopold.

And then, he could return to the honesty of the districts.