Dominions

15

15

- 15 -

Once more, Rodin found himself n***d in front of another. Sun filtered through the skylights to warm his skin, and the white sheets that hung around him reflected the light.

He stood motionless as Sertio drew, charcoal scratching on paper. The artist muttered now and then, and occasionally Rodin heard a rustle as a sheet of paper slipped from the easel, sinking to the floor with the other sketches.

Rodin didn’t move, and it was a strange sensation. He’d remained hidden many times before, but he’d clench and unclench his muscles, keeping them from cramping up. But now, he remained rigid, because there was no need to burst into action, no approaching threat to be neutralised. Now, he simply posed, and his flesh and bones might as well have been clay.

Before the first pose, Sertio had studied Rodin. When Rodin disrobed and stood before the easel, Sertio had circled, reaching out to almost touch, muttering under his breath. So like Daventree, but also different. Where the agent looked critically, Sertio became excited by artistic possibilities.

But, just like Daventree, Sertio was obsessed with Rodin’s scars. He’d shown particular interest in the one that ran ragged across Rodin’s stomach. He’d commented on the thin lines that crossed it, no doubt unaware that they came from self-applied stitches.

Rodin could remember making them, the b****y flesh reflected in the broken glass propped on the warehouse floor. He remembered the shimmering pull of the medi-thread cutting through the dull throb of the wound itself, with all the other injuries vying for his attention. But he couldn’t stop. If he did nothing about this wound, he’d collapse into the blood beneath his knees.

Not all his blood, of course, and Rodin knew exactly how each of the fallen had died.

There had been two men guarding the door. Rodin slammed his fist into the face of one, forcing the bone in the man’s nose up into the soft tissue of his brain. A swipe took the legs out from under the other guard, and Rodin brought his boot down on the man’s skull, hard enough to silence his cries.

But the sound alerted the others‌—‌the target and her two accomplices, one male and one female. Two raised blades, but the female accomplice brought up a g*n.

A blade flew from Rodin’s hand, tumbling end over end before embedding itself in the woman’s throat, tearing out her shriek as she toppled backwards. Then he was upon her, ripping the g*n from her hand, swinging it round to slam into the approaching man. He staggered back, a splash of crimson erupting from his forehead.

The fight, like always, was brutal and frantic. The target attacked, and Rodin threw his weight at her, pinning her to the ground. The g*n was still in his hand, and he hammered it against her head again and again, the sticky redness coating his fingers, running down her face. He pounded away, her bone cracking and splintering, his throat sore from shouting.

That was when the man sliced a blade into Rodin’s left arm, white-hot pain that brought a howl to Rodin’s lips.

The man was relentless, bringing the blade down again and again. Rodin dodged, rolling away, finding his feet. He’d dropped the g*n, but his right hand dove into his jacket, came out holding his lance. Rodin saw the man swing once more, senses heightened with adrenaline. He ducked under the arm and stabbed with the lance. As the needle pierced the man’s side Rodin pressed the button with his thumb, pushed the d**g into the man’s body.

He followed the man to the ground, grabbing a fallen blade and drawing it across the man’s throat. Just to make sure.

Rodin recalled the way the air wavered in that warehouse, and how his vision blurred as he crawled away from the man. He remembered feeling lightheaded as he reached into another pocket and pulled out his medi-kit, remembered wanting to lie on the floor, to shut his eyes just for a moment, but knowing that if he did that, he’d never open them again.

And so he’d sewn the wound, each pull of the thread a sharp reminder of his mistakes, the ones that had almost cost him his life.

Failing to silence the guard before he’d warned the others.

Losing his grip on the blade.

Not reaching for his lance sooner.

Not making sure the man was dead.

Allowing himself to be sliced so easily.

Not being quick enough.

Not being good enough.

His scars were lessons. They told of his failures, and it was disconcerting that he had so many. Yet he was still alive. He’d learnt from them, learnt enough that he hadn’t received a new scar in some time.

But here, in the studio, Sertio would suspect none of that. The man saw them as superficial wounds, something ugly he could turn into art. And Rodin was fine with that. Let the man think what he liked.

At least the artist was out of his funk. Maybe soon, he’d lead Rodin to the target.

When the sun had lost much of its warmth, and when Rodin’s muscles were filled with a soft ache that wasn’t altogether uncomfortable, Sertio called the session to a halt. The artist’s brow was damp, and there were dark stains under his arms. As Rodin dressed, Sertio bent down, groaning, to collect together his numerous sketches. Rodin didn’t get an opportunity to see them clearly, and Sertio took them with him, saying that they’d eat after he’d had a shower.

So Rodin prepared the evening meal‌—‌a simple pasta dish, cooked until the texture was like soft rubber because Sertio had mentioned his preference for this kind of mush. But Rodin added a few spices in an attempt to give it back some bite‌—‌he might be tasked with feeding the artist, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have food he enjoyed too.

The man appeared some time later, wearing loose trousers and a flowing shirt with some kind of floral pattern. He bounded from his room, making a strange sound that might have been an attempt at whistling, and sat as Rodin served their meal.

“Ah, another gastronomic delight to satiate my stomach as much as this afternoon’s session has satiated my soul,” Sertio said, driving a fork into the slop on his plate. “You are a godsend, my dear Terrell, truly you are.”

They ate in silence for a while, Sertio shovelling the food in, Rodin taking smaller mouthfuls. The carbohydrates would restore him after the exertion of remaining still for so long, but he had no need to over-eat.

“Tell me, my friend,” Sertio said when his plate was clear, “how did you find our work upstairs? Not too strenuous, I hope?”

“Not at all. In fact, I found it pleasantly meditative.”

“So you wouldn’t be averse to sitting‌—‌or maybe I should say ‘standing’‌—‌for another session?”

“I’d be delighted.” That seemed too effusive, and Rodin carried on, tempering his comment. “If it improves your state of mind, I’d be glad to help.”

“So kind, so kind. And yes, I do feel so much better.” He patted his stomach, and Rodin cleared the plates away. There was a fruit pie keeping warm, and he brought this to the table as Sertio continued talking. “I realise I’ve been poor company these past few days, but now you’ll see a different side of me. I’m ready for the muses to infect my whole being! Those sketches I drew as my eyes fed in your superior form, they have invigorated me. I feel like I could keep on drawing‌—‌but, of course, I know this is not wise. All things in moderation,” and Sertio eyed the pie ravenously. Rodin cut a large slice for the artist, a smaller one for himself.

“I’ve been neglecting my social responsibilities, too,” Sertio said, reaching for a spoon. “Being around others brings me great pleasure, of course, but also I feel it is an important part of‌…‌of my work, I suppose. Daventree often tells me how personality sells, and he positively encourages me to meet as many art-lovers‌—‌or, indeed, potential art-lovers‌—‌as possible.” He poured cream over his pie and took a bite. “Oh, this is exquisite! Surely, you bought this.”

Rodin shook his head, then spoke, eager to see off any superfluous praise. “I found the recipe in the records.” He shrugged. “It’s a simple matter of following instructions.”

“Oh, so modest! But back to the subject.” He took another bite, moist crumbs adhering to his lips. “I received an invite some time ago, from Federick‌—‌you’ve heard of him maybe? No? Of course, he’s a rising talent, and I doubt his work has reached other Domes yet. But I’ve long admired his work, from when I first detected a wonderful spark of brilliance in a piece some years ago. Even then, I knew his future would be bright, and even though I’m something of a mentor to dear Federick, surely the time will come when his work outshines mine.” He took another bite of pie. “But I’m becoming sidetracked. He’s been working on something new for a few months now‌—‌I was privileged enough to view an embryonic stage some weeks ago‌—‌and is officially unveiling it tonight.”

“Sculpture, or something else?” Rodin asked, hoping Sertio finished his next mouthful before he started talking again.

“Ah, an excellent question.” Crumbs of pastry fell from his lips. “I’d have to say it’s sculpture and something else. Truly, it’s a work that needs experiencing. Mere words cannot do it justice.”

and“It sounds intriguing.”

Sertio waved his spoon. “It’s that, and so much more! But back to the invite‌—‌initially, I wasn’t prepared to attend. I let him down gently, of course‌—‌as a fellow pursuer of the muses, he understands the dark valleys we must travel to reach those glorious peaks. But now, I’m no longer in that valley. Oh, this isn’t a peak, but I’m racing up the slope, my eyes fixed on that summit. And with my ascent, I’m sufficiently buoyed that I contacted Federick again, and informed him that I would be delighted to attend.”

Rodin felt the beat of his heart increase, but he took a sip of his water and calmed himself. “That’s good to hear,” he said, striving for nonchalance. “I hope you have a wonderful evening.”

“Oh, I will.” Sertio beamed, and pointed to Rodin with his spoon. “And I trust that you will, too. Yes, my good friend, as my assistant the invite is naturally extended to your good self.”

Rodin smiled, did his best to look surprised. “Really? I wouldn’t like to get in the way. I mean, I’ve only been here a few days, and I’m still finding my feet.”

“Pfff!” Sertio waved a hand. “Your feet are on the ends of your legs! You say you’ve only been here a few days, but what better time is there to make new acquaintances?”

“Will there be many others at the event?”

“Ah, I understand. My dear Terrell, you have no need for nerves. Yes, there will be a great many in attendance, from all aspects of life in our fine Dome‌—‌business leaders, educationalists, writers, Councillors, restaurateurs and so on‌—‌but I can assure you that they will treat you with the utmost respect. You’re the assistant to the great Sertio, are you not? If any of them displease you, then they displease me.” His smile grew, and he threw his arms out wide.

“That does set my mind at peace. Thank you, my friend.” But the words belonged to Terrell. Rodin was deep inside, ruminating on one thing Sertio had said.

Councillors would be present. And Leopold was a patron of the arts. There was every chance that, tonight, Rodin would set eyes on the target.