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and strange gifts for their service.
    Whether that was true or not, though, I knew they did not spring into their lives fully formed, born with intricate art tattooed on their skin—their Adornments, their living art, would have to be painstakingly created by a tattoo-master, someone who would plot the entirety of their design and use their skin as his canvas.
    I had forgotten that, until their art was completed, Adorned were their tattoo-masters’ bondservants.
    We’d reached the top of the house. There was a single door; it stood half-ajar. From the corner of my eye I saw a man’s black boots resting atop a huge wooden chest.
    “Sir?” Yana knocked lightly upon the doorframe. “I’ve brought him up.”
    There was the clatter of boots hitting the floor. “Send him in,” a voice called from within. “And wait outside.”
    Yana nudged me softly in the small of my back, and I stepped into the atelier.

Chapter Seven
    It was the brightest room I’d ever seen. Wintry light streamed in through the large windows. I saw now why I couldn’t see inside from the street: curtains of thin gauze covered them, like cobwebs. A skylight allowed even more of the day inside. A sliver of sun peeked through the winter clouds overhead. Trunks, papers, bits of fabric, arcane tools and sketches were scattered everywhere, save closest to the windows, where two massive mirrors were set at sharp angles, throwing light everywhere. I caught a glimpse of myself in them; I looked small and spooked as a rabbit.
    Roberd Tallisk was sitting in an easy chair, legs sprawled open, his hands linked together loosely. He was a large man, thirty or a few years past. His hair was wild and black. For the space of a few seconds he remained there, looking at me with slightly tilted head. Then he rose and walked to me with quick, heavy steps. He loomed over me, broad and bearlike. His eyes, a very dark blue, did not quite settle on mine, but took in the whole of me: the planes of my face, the shape of my body. He was assessing me.
    I thought he’d ask my name; ask for an introduction. Instead, he said, “How old are you?”
    “I came of age three years ago.”
    He looked at me, hard-eyed. “Truly?”
    “I—yes.” His question took me aback, a little. “I am nineteen, sir.”
    “Good. You’ll have your full height, then.”
    I had always been small of size. I’d known early I always would be; I had reached my father’s full height when I was fourteen. But Tallisk, tall and hale as an oak, must have suspected I was shamming manhood. I felt stiff with embarrassment.
    He stepped back a little, narrowing his eyes. “Take off your shirt.”
    “Sir?”
    “ Undress , boy. I need to see your skin.”
    I hesitated a moment. He waited, arms crossed. I swallowed and pulled my shirt over my head. I held it in my hand; he took it from me and put it atop the great trunk.
    “The trousers as well.”
    I swallowed. “Pardon, sir?”
    There was something akin to compassion in his eyes then—or, at least, a grudging comprehension of my reticence. “I must see all of you. To make sure you are free of flaws.”
    Eyes half-closed, I stripped off the trousers and the last of my underthings. Tallisk took them and laid them gently on the trunk.
    “Turn around,” he said.
    I did. I felt his eyes on me.
    “Hold up your arms.” I heard him come closer, the warmth of him drawing near. My eyes flicked open. He had kneeled in front of me and was scrutinizing me. He reached up and brushed his fingers lightly over a patch of skin on my hip. I held myself as still as I could. “Some blemishes, here,” he said. He rose and held me by the shoulders, turning me this way and that. “And more freckles than would be ideal, though overall you’re quite pale. Have you been in the sun, much?”
    “No, Master Tallisk.”
    He made a face. “‘Sir’ will do. Do you burn badly?”
    “Pardon?”
    “In the sun, boy. Do you burn badly?”
    I could not recall if I’d ever