Page 8 of A Forgery of Fate

Mr.Jisan set down his magnifying disk, the clatter of the glass swiftly cutting Gaari off. “No thief will dare enter anestateunder the protection of Governor Renhai,” he said narrowly. “Your scroll, if it is indeed worth anything, will be quite safehere.”

“Oh, that is a relief, Your Honor.” I took out my fan and batted it. “Thank you for setting my mind at ease.”

“My graciousness has its limits.” Mr.Jisan cast me a sideways glance through thick spectacles, and I could tell that he’d judged me to be a lady of low rank. Hardly someone who’d bring in the prize of the day.

“You were due an hour ago,” he chided me, “and I am a busy man.”

“You’ll be glad you didn’t miss this one,” said Gaari, waving the scroll. “Lady Vee is an avid collector of portraits. She has one of the finest collections in West Gangsun.”

Mr.Jisan sniffed. “That wouldn’t be difficult to do. There’s scarcely any interest in portraits these days.Faces age, empires fall, but land is eternal.”

It was a quote from my least favorite Sage, who was responsible for the A’landan obsession with landscape painting. Mountains and rivers and forests and villages—thatwas what sold for thousands of jens these days. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what I specialized in forging.

“I’m fascinated by faces,” I replied, pretending not to hear, “and what they reveal about character.”

“Any street artist can paint a portrait,” Mr.Jisan said.“Few masters waste their time on the form. It is amateur work. Rarely sells for more than a few hundred—”

“Few masters indeed,” Gaari interrupted. “But those would include Master Lei Wing. Wouldn’t you like to see it before you dismiss it? It’s one of his originals. Dated the year he went missing.”

At that, Mr.Jisan perked up. Interest buzzed in his dark eyes, and he motioned for the scroll. “Show me.”

While Gaari carried forth the scroll, I backed into a corner and folded my skirt over my shoes. My wig itched again, and thanks to the sun flooding in from the windows, sweat was accumulating on my nose and under my arms. What a nuisance! Once this was done I was never playing a lady again.

I just hoped no one would hear how my heart hammered. This was the part of the transaction I hated the most. Either I’d end the day with a fat sack of coins in my pocket, or Mr.Jisan would ring that tiny bronze bell hanging at his side, and his guards would gleefully rumble in, hack off my right hand so I’d never paint again, and gouge out Gaari’s remaining eye.Thenthey’d take us to prison.

Enough, Tru,I chided myself.The authenticator hasn’t even begun the inspection yet!

Mr.Jisan unwrapped the scroll. First, he’d inspect the artist seal on the right corner of the paper. That was Gaari’s handiwork, and the real reason he earned half my cut. Gaari had a highly criminal talent for carving identification stamps, which explained the first rule he’d given me when we’d started working together:Only pick artists who are dead.

The dead couldn’t contest the unlawful use of their seals. Even then, I typically chose artists who’d died young, who’dbeen famous but nottoofamous. The profits were lower, but safer. Besides, I had no illusions about my skill as a painter—I was better than average, but nowhere near a master.

If you ever get caught, it’s both our necks at stake,Gaari never failed to remind me.And thick as it is, I’m rather fond of my neck.

I was fond of mine too, even the painful throb of its veins as yet another second passed without Mr.Jisan uttering a sound. Sometimes, a vivid imagination was a curse.

The second rule:

Don’t copy an artist’s work. Paint a new one in the same style.

That was common sense. I didn’t exactly have a personal library of classic art pieces, so I couldn’t have copied them stroke for stroke anyway.

And the third rule—

Mr.Jisan pushed his spectacles up his nose, disrupting my thoughts. “Hmm.”

My pulse spiked. “Hmm?” I echoed.

Gaari darted a warning glance in my direction.I’ll do the talking.

“Tell me about this work,” said Mr.Jisan.

“It’s a Lei Wing original,” Gaari replied. He folded the brocade cuffs of his sleeves while he spoke, then he leaned over the authenticator to give a more detailed introduction. “An early work, but he’s already begun to master the meticulous style and come into his own. Notice the signature clouds, the rolling hills in the distance? They embrace his hometown, which he missed dearly during his service to theemperor.”

Gaari said nothing about the actual subject of the portrait:a fisherman in the middle of netting a catfish. I’d modeled the face on an elderly basket weaver who’d taken daily residence on a corner of Dattu Street, deep in concentration as he worked. Someone I doubted Mr.Jisan would ever notice, even if he walked past him every day.

“What about the river?” queried the authenticator. “Lei Wing didn’t paint rivers like this. The motion, the composition—it’s all wrong.”

My eyes dipped to the water winding between the fisherman’s legs. Two catfish swam in the foreground, one light and one dark. Their eyes and tails were so lifelike they could have swum out of the parchment. But that wasn’t what made my breath catch. It was the serpentine shape of the river. If you stepped back, concentrated hard enough, it looked like a dragon, and the fish its two eyes.

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