“Big brother.”
“Mm.”
“Do you know any nobles?”
Retnüir watched as Laž’ar was half-seated, half-lying, while poking at an empty plat with his spoon. He seemed to have got bored while Retnüir drank his warmed wine.
“What do you need to know the nobles for, little grace?”
Laž’ar froze. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
Laž’ar contemplated his answer for a while before sat up, looked around and then moved crawled over to Retnüir’s side. “Some people call me Hellelaz and it makes me uncomfortable to hear outside of that setting.”
“So you don’t like the word for grace…?”
“No.” Laž’ar traced the words ‘maçeil’ and ‘ellaz’, meaning ‘small grace’ and ‘flutter’ respectively, on the table surface. “From the line ‘the graceful little flutter of wings carries the fate given by gods’.”
“But Masellazh is fine? Isn’t that from the next line in the poem?”
Laž’ar shrugged. “You can call me little lily too, you know?”
Retnüir pinched between his eyes. “How did we go through little grace to little lily?”
Laž’ar smiled. “I’m just looking for someone. It’s not all that important, but if you could me, big brother, that would be good.”
“I’m neither my brother nor my father. I can’t do much even if I wanted to help you. But I don’t. I want you to go away.”
“If I paint you something?”
“What could you possible paint me?”
Laž’ar’s eyes narrowed into crescents. “Mother says my paintings are better than most great painters. Tell me what to paint, and I’ll paint it.”
“Paint yourself out of here.”
Laž’ar tilted his head, then stood up. Retnüir frowned and followed him with his eyes as the boy went to the counter where a young woman stood. He talked to her for a moment, then pointed in Retnüir’s direction.
For a moment the teen felt anger surged through him and was just about to think that this boy was too shameless, but he saw Laž’ar put his hands together and bow gratefully. After this he returned to his seat, and reached over for the heated fruit wine. He poured a little in his cup then diluted it with water with a sort of grace that was unusual for someone his age. Retnüir narrowed his eyes.
“How old are you, anyway?” he asked.
Laž’ar had just put his cup to his lips. “Huh?”
“Your age.”
“Thirteen?”
Retnüir was taken aback. “Thirteen?”
“I’m certainly not fourteen,” Laž’ar said with a smile. “And not seventeen like big brother.”
“You know my age?”
“I’m educated, big brother.” Laž’ar looked amused when Retnüir looked at him in disbelief. “It was your fourth cycle that was celebrated so grandly last year. I know the names of all important people in Žančar.”
“Then—”
“But I don’t know what they look like.” He put down the cup and smiled. “Mother tells me many things, but I seldom leave home. I snuck out.” He took a piece of fruit from Retnüir’s plate without reservation. “To cause trouble,” he added with a smile.
Right then the woman placed couple of pieces of paper, and tools on the table.
Laž’ar made another gesture of gratitude and then began preparing the ink, with practices movement while Retnüir watched him.
It seemed he changed from a playful kid to a mature teen like the wind changed directions, very concentrated on his task.
He watched attentively to see how good this little master’s skill could be and startled after a few lines when he recognised his own face.
It didn’t take too long for Laž’ar to finish. He had spent many hours practicing painting and had already take over the duty of painting anything for the Rose Pavillion, so a quick portrait wasn’t much work to him nor did he need to put in effort into it. He very carefully put his signature at an empty spot before he place the brush aside and softly blew on the ink, then turned around to show Retnüir.
“Big brother, you didn’t tell me what…”
He saw Retnüir stare at the portrait he had done with such intensity, he got a little embarrassed.
After a moment, Retnüir took it. “You are surprisingly good.”
Laž’ar felt a little flustered. He hadn’t even done it very seriously, so he grabbed his brush and began anew, now changing many of the wide, somewhat sloppy stroke he had made to more controlled ones.
Retnüir was about to tell him he didn’t need to paint, but seeing that Laž’ar was now fully concentrated, he held it back.
What he saw come to life was another painting of him, but with more detail, standing in a landscape.
He was fascinated, but the more he saw of it, the angrier he became.
If this child was this good, how come his esteemed master didn’t give him a hand?! If he was learning from an esteemed master, didn’t this mean the mother could just as well have some influence?! Even if she was a mere concubine, she would have to be a wife of someone of high status.
Instead this brat came to bother him!
The childishness of Laž’ar seemed to have been washed away, and he looked both more obedient and mature. Retnüir detested the idea of admitting that when he focused like this, holding a brush, back straight, eyes half lidded with gaze lowered, and dressed with that green simple robe and the silver accessories… Laž’ar did suit his name of elegance. His movements were graceful and he could truly be a noble.
The more he thought Laž’ar fit the image, the more he felt he just wanted to leave. Yet he stayed.
Because surely a child asked if he, Retnüir, knew rich and noble families because he found someone, there were circumstances. He wanted to know those, and once he did, he’d leave and hopefully never see the loathsome boy every again.
Just as he thought this, Laž’ar lifted his gaze, his expression blank but his eyes focused. He looked at Retnüir for very many moments, before he lowered his gaze again.
Not long later he put down his brush.
“Are you done yet?” Retnüir asked sharply.
Laž’ar smiled a little. “Big brother, did you get tired of waiting? You could have left. Even made me pay the bill.”
Retnüir huffed. “What’s up with that?`”
“With what?” Laž’ar asked, genuinely confused.
“If you have a master in painting tutoring you, why ask me, a stranger, to help you?”
Laž’ar looked at his painting. “My mother taught me. I’m not so good one could claim I’ve learnt from a master.”
“Nükiž knows that you lie!”
Laž’ar didn’t know how to respond. He knew he was good at what he did at the Rose Pavillion and for his mother, but there was a limit to what praise was reasonable. This big brother’s praise was beyond unreasonable.
He chose not to give it any deeper thought.
“Never mind that, big brother. I still need to find someone.”
Retnüir nearly spat out a ‘no’, but changed his mind right before he did. “Who?”
Laž’ar fell silent, holding his chin while gazing at the painting in contemplation. After a very long time he took the painting rolled it up and handed it over to Retnüir. “I don’t actually know.”