Published: June 15th 2025, 10:19:38 pm
There's an old joke among Clairmorne's Artists.
How can you tell if a man is a musician?
He'll offer to play for you. If his instrument isn't a piano, he probably carried it with him to the cafe anyway.
How do you know if a man is a writer?
He'll tell you. Regale you with snippets from the novel he never seems to finish.
How do you know if a man is a painter?
He'll insult you, then make a pass at your wife.
I would object to the characterization, but I never did finish my own attempt at a novel. Though I at least had the grace not to mention it in company. And Clarisse had been going out with Renoir when we first met.
I frowned.
Now that I thought about it, Jerome and I had first met each other at a university review session. We'd rather viciously criticized each other's work, before later making amends. I may have started it. Something about the way he drew figures had always irked me. The way every proportion of their bodies had to say something, a fixation on the twin extremes of unnaturally perfect, and subtly grotesque. An early sign of his Chimériste leanings perhaps.
I suppose some stereotypes exist for a reason. We Painters did tend to be... Passionate.
The newly arrived Painter was an elegantly dressed man in his late twenties or early thirties. He was tall and thin of limb, giving the impression of a gangly bird strutting about. He wore a waistcoat of crushed velvet in forest green over a well-starched white shirt. His cuffs were rolled up like a working man's, as if to imply he'd come directly from the studio. Atop his hair, which displayed clear signs of the premature whitening so many of us suffered, he wore a trilby of the same verdant green velvet as his coat and trousers. A Painted feather was tucked into the band, shining like a gemstone in three colors at once.
The only way he could have possibly looked like more of a stereotype was if he'd traded the trilby for a beret and Painted his eyes instead of the feather. I disliked him at once, and immediately felt justified in it when I noted the embroidery on the breast of his waistcoat, a silver oak tree.
Joy. Apparently the Realistes were still a force in the Painter's Guild politics. Not that I liked the other factions much better, but at least the Chiméristes had the decency to make plain their misanthropy. It took a special sort of monster to marry someone you were slowly killing, and I'd met more than one Realiste who'd done exactly that.
It took all of twenty seconds for the newcomer to prove himself no more likely to beat the allegations against our profession than I was.
"What, and you know better than we how our talents ought be used? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You certainly look like the sort of man who thinks that the world would be kinder, if he were in charge of it."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Willem thundered, half-rising from his seat. The Painter had caught him in the midst yet another rant apparently.
"Is it not obvious? You seem to struggle to regularly bathe, let alone manage your hair." The Painter made a fluttering sort of gesture with his hands, as he pointed at Willem's rather unfortunate receding hairline. The old communist flinched reflexively as if a gun had been pointed at him. A sufficiently skilled Painter's hands were no less deadly. "There are no men more keen to demand the power to manage the affairs of others, than those who struggle to handle their own."
"How dare you sir! I can forgive your insult, for clearly no amount of money has been able to help you purchase taste. But how dare you dismiss my considered thoughts on the management of our good republic simply on account of the modest fortune I was born to."
"The management of our republic?" The Painter asked, mockery clear in his voice. "Is that what you would call it, when you clap us in chains again? Every man is born free, except he who might be bled for the good of people who hate him? The talents you eye so jealously are not without cost, why should we expend our very lives in the service of others?"
"Your gifts," Willem spat. "Are an accident of birth and privilege. Were you born to my parents, you would earn your bread as I do! I would happily place the strength of my back and the sweat of my brow in the service of the people of Clairmorne. Why should your skills be exempted from honest service just because they required years of instruction to attain?"
"Willem, maybe you should-"
"And do not mock me, speaking of the excesses of The Revolution." Willem continued, shouting over his friend. He was standing next to his table, within punching distance of the Painter, now. "You cannot retreat to grievances that were already my age when you yet suckled at your mother's breast every time someone suggests that perhaps Artists should not be able to kill without consequence!"
"Kill without consequence? Years of instruction? You have no idea how our talents are honed, or what they cost to exercise. What every Painting costs us. It is not idle fashion that so many of us bear hair the same stark white as the elderly! An Artist should not be afraid to suffer in the pursuit of beauty, but your ideals are no glorious future. They would be a hell of our own creation, every man both inmate and jailor!"
"How bold, for a Realiste to speak such tripe. What every Painting costs you? It is funny, how when your kind reach for a brush, it never seems to you who suffers for the sake of your creation."
For a moment, I wondered who'd said that. Then I closed my mouth. Oh. Well, I didn't come here to make good choices.
The Painter turned to me, fury plain on his face. It hit rather differently, when the man to insult you actually knew what he was talking about.
"I don't believe we've been introduced."
"Renoir Allard." I lied easily, stealing one name from each of my two oldest friends.
"Arthur Ficot." He returned in a voice entirely too calm for the insult I'd tendered him. "To which of the schools do you belong then, to so look down on we who paint from life?"
There were a lot of things I could have said. I could have lied, and feigned membership in half a dozen different factions. I knew enough to pass inspection. I could have apologized, and claimed not to be a Painter at all. Merely someone who has suffered tragedy at an overzealous Realiste's hands. I could even have told the truth, and begged forbearance of behalf of my recent loss and professional seniority.
I didn't feel like doing any of those things.
"Oh, I see." I said cheerily. "I suppose it makes sense, that a man who cannot paint alone would never dare settle a grievance with his own hands."
I noticed Willem had the good sense to sit down and shut up, now that Ficot's attention had moved on to me. Good for him.
"What did you say?"
"I said you're a coward who preys upon the very subjects you would immortalize in order to make up for a deficit of talent and creativity. And that you conduct your personal affairs in a similarly bloodless and disgraceful manner." I summarized.
A vein pulsed in Ficot's forehead, just beneath that awful hat of his. Who put a feather that large and gaudy in a trilby? And only an idiot who'd never fought another Painter would display the lion's share of his colors for all the world to see. A woody-olive green like his velvet, and earthy sort of burnt reddish-auburn, and a black so dark it glowed. My mind raced through likely possibilities.
"I demand satisfaction." He all but spat.
"Is that what you say to all your muses, when the work doesn't live up to your expectations?"
Not my most eloquent, but it'd do in a pinch. We were committed now.
"Are you-" He started, apoplectic and clearly unused to this sort of affair. Poor man, he was probably a reasonable sort when not so grievously offended.
I was going to enjoy this all the same.
"Now." I cut him off, turning to leave. "The first empty street we find. Whatever implements you please."
"What?" He asked, off-balance from the sudden change of tone.
I turned back to face him again.
"What are you waiting for? A written invitation? You challenged me, did you not? Do you plan to make good on your words, or must you first fetch a second to assist you in this too?"
The bar was silent now. The two of us had been so loud I hardly remembered when the rest of the occupants had fallen silent. There was a tension there that was not merely fear. I could see many of them had words they longed to add, or simply wished they were brave enough to rise and follow us.
I turned and left, and Arthur Ficot stalked after me in venomous silence. Twice, he started to speak, then fell quiet once more.
I wondered if this was the fop's first duel. Normally, this period between insult and satisfaction would last for several days. Our seconds would speak, seeking a bloodless resolution to the words I'd laid between us. He probably knew all this, how the matter should be handled. But he'd proffered his challenge thoughtlessly, before men and women who likely knew him. I knew from experience it was so very difficult to back down from such a thing, especially when I'd not even given him enough time for his blood to cool.
"No, left." Ficot commanded, stepping in front of me. "The Rue de Metz will be empty, even with the night so young."
A transparent attempt at asserting some control over his situation. I allowed it, silently following his lead.
I had no idea why I was doing this. There was no plan. It gained me no advantage. But for two months now, I'd wanted nothing. To eat was a thankless chore, to sleep or drink a welcome reprieve from the aching tedium of a world without Clarisse in it.
But I wanted to hurt this man who had done nothing to me. Wound and humble him. Lay upon him all the grievances that would never reach the men and women whose world had created him.
It was not fair. But it'd been so long since I wanted anything at all. I did not have the heart to deny myself this. My fingers twitched, colorless ichor percolating at their tips, threatening to stain the cobblestones. Apparently my particular flavor of sorrow longed to be spread.
"You-"
"Silence." I interrupted. "You demanded satisfaction. There are to be no more words between us."
After a quarter hour's brisk walk, we arrived at the Rue de Metz. A wide street lined on both sides by warehouses that had fallen into the sort of awkward gulf between serviceable and disused. They were clearly not abandoned, but neither had any true effort been put into their upkeep. Instead they seemed content to hobble along, keeping the rain off goods until the peeling paint and rusted locks one day became the next owner's problem.
There was probably something there. Some scrap of poetic irony waiting to be granted form. I did not care to find it.
We stopped, and turned to face each other. I took a dozen steps back, to give Arthur a sporting chance.
"With what weapons, are we to conduct our contest?" He asked. Another matter
I shrugged open the front of my woolen overcoat, exposing the handle of my blade. It was an inelegant old thing, leaf-bladed and just a little too short for a gentleman's arming sword. A weapon more suited to butchering vegetation than defending one's honor.
"Is it not a little late for that question, Arthur?" I asked, drawing my blade. I gave it a little flourish, memorizing once more its heft and length. "Fight me with whatsoever you please, my good man. Summon forth your élans and contraints. Draw your pistol or manifest your mondaine if you have one. I care not."
He frowned.
"Are you even a Painter, to speak so casually of our greatest achievements?"
"Questioning my honor, when it was you who issued a formal challenge?" I tutted mockingly. "How bold. Draw steel, or don't. One way or another, I will see the color of your blood."
I saw it in his face, the moment he finally began to take the matter seriously. Instead of a broadsword, Arthur Ficot withdrew a paintbrush from his waistcoat. His other hand rose up, and pulled the pulled that stupid trilby from his head.
"Very well then, Renoir Allard. To the first mortal blood."
"To the first mortal blood." I agreed, honest as the name I'd given him.
Arthur plucked the feather from his hat, and then tossed away the trilby itself. He raised the feather to his breast, and crushed it. Earthy tones spread like water through the air, shrouding him in a cloak of woodland shadow. When the chroma settled, his hat had been replaced by a delicate circlet of rose gold, thin lines of painted metal entwined like ivy. A heavy cloak, more fitting for a princeling of the fae than a foppish young Painter, adorned his shoulders.
I placed it immediately as a contraint, defensive in nature. Barkskin mostly likely. Of his three colors, only black had spoke to me of mobility, and only an idiot would duel to the first blood when his great defensive work granted regeneration. I could probably pierce it in a pinch, but it would be best to wait it out.
Chroma gathered at the end of his brush, as he summoned a second work.
I had no élan of my own to call forth, so I simply waited. Then a mad thought struck me. I indulged it. My sword rose in a duelist's salute.
"I walk where color dies. And so I pray, let me paint death."
"Impossible! You are no Palletier!"
"They were never all that formal about membership." I said with a shrug, rather ruining the dignity of the oath. "Nor about the nobility of their causes, really."
"How dare you mock the most noble of us!"
The canvas of the world shuddered beneath the tip of Arthur's brush as his chroma reached critical density. I ran two fingers along the edge of my blade, defiling the weapon with the stain of the one hue that still answered my call.
I never did understand the oath, what it meant for color to die, until I lost Clarisse. The Palletiers had already been all but extinct by the time I studied in Clairmorne, some twenty years ago. But suspecting that they too had lost all color from their life rather recontextualized some of the stories I'd heard about them.
"Everyone thinks the oath a boast, you know." I said idly. "Let me paint death. Such a heady ambition. But now, I think it was always intended to be more of a confession."
"Bleed, you execrable knave!" He shouted, summoning forth his élan.
With a stroke of his brush, Arthur painted new life into the world. A storm of green and red surged forth, trailing a black background infinitely darker than the street. The raging colors quickly found their places, resolving into the form of some sort of fae or goblin, a squat green-skinned figure endowed with mighty thews and terrible claws. An idle part of my mind could not help but note it was rather deficient in the clothing department, perhaps the better to display it's savage red warpaint. Some form of animate shadow clinging to it's body at least granted it enough modesty avoid committing an offense of public indecency.
My sword glided forward to meet it, colorless death dripping from the blade.
The goblin leapt back weightlessly, as if pulled by invisible strings. Smarter than its creator apparently.
It hardly mattered. With a flick of my blade, I sent forth a wave of corrosive chroma to chase it.
I did not understand everything my new color was capable of. But I'd tested it enough to know it was just as good at destroying things as I'd expected.
The goblin hissed in pain as the colorless droplets bit into its face, smoking like molten metal. Arthur swung his brush again, sending forth a wave of green chroma I easily cut in twain.
But the weight, the reality, of it, took me by surprise. Most chroma was weightless, but every Painter's innate hues were different. His green was heavy, significant, apparently. The unexpected pressure threw me back a step, giving the goblin a moment to recover.
It took advantage of that moment to fade into invisibility. That'd be his black. Contrast and visibility were common aspects of black chroma. Stealth, durability, that only left his earthy reddish-brown to watch for. Possibly expressing as regeneration, from how quickly that goblin recovered.
I didn't have the colors to match him anymore. Once, I'd commanded five. More than most Painters who could not claim the title of Luminary. But there was more to combat than the ferocity of one's élans and the strength of their chroma.
Slowly, I stalked forward, sword dripping all the while. Arthur's eyes never left me, as he matched my strides in the same direction.
I didn't need to wait long. The goblin hadn't moved far, and it leapt the moment it saw my unguarded back. I spun, sword high, and the goblin flinched back to avoid the hateful sting of my chroma. As my spin spun to a close, my free hand slid beneath my jacket.
The crack of a gunshot resounded through the night.
Arthur groaned out a cough, as the bullet took him right in the belly. Paint might turn lead easily enough, but getting shot in the stomach still hurt like a devil's tender ministrations. The goblin hesitated, turning on reflex to check on its master. Its prince perhaps, in the narrative Arthur had painted.
A moment's hesitation was a moment too long. My descended like a woodcutter's axe. Painted muscle and bone offered no resistance at all to the virulent bile of my chroma.
The goblin fell in two pieces, and dissolved into nothingness. The inevitable fate of all our art.
I continued to advance, returning the pistol back to it's holster beneath my coat. Guns. Inelegant, but very effective.
"I. Yield." Arthur gasped out, still reeling from the impact of the bullet.
I stepped closer still.
"Wait!"
I bent over, as I grabbed the man by the hateful silver oak that was the lapel of his waistcoat. I flicked my sword once, letting the worst of the chroma drip onto the street.
"That, was not mortal blood." I quipped glibly, a cruel smile on my face.
I raised my sword, and ran his thigh through.
Arthur Ficot fell to the ground, whimpering. His blood poured out onto the street, red as anyone's, even in the dim light of the late evening.
I expected to feel something. Anything. Satisfaction. Shame. Vindication.
I just felt tired.
My head pulsed, the beginnings of a hangover making themselves known. Gods I'd become such a lightweight in my dotage.
I let my sword fall to the cobblestones, too lazy to wipe it clean and sheath it. It was probably ruined anyway. Sorrow was not a kind hue, without direction it ate away at a everything it touched.
As I stared down at the defenseless painter, a third terrible idea rose to the surface of my mind.
"I can make better decisions tomorrow." I promised myself. "Tonight is a night for poor choices."
Arthur gasped like a fish out of water. From his uncoordinated flailing, I rather doubted he'd ever been stabbed before. It hurt like a bitch, but it was only his own mind that kept him from rising.
"Shh." I cooed, painting over his eyes. "It is over. You can sleep now."
I did his ears next, fully blocking out the world. He slowed, then stilled, dragged down into a dreamless sleep by the ineffable weight of my color that was not a color. I bandaged his leg passably, stripping the calf of his velvet trousers for material, then dragged him against a warehouse.
I pulled out my own brush, and gave the tip a lick. Ruination percolated on the tip of my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of ash. I'd done so many shameful things today. What was one or two more?
"You know Arthur, I've been wondering what exactly my new chroma can do to a more human canvas."