The Light That Never Was Read Free

embarrassed. After that tramp through the swamp he couldn’t have looked otherwise.
    “I’m Brance,” the bearded man said. He grinned. “I can’t remember the last time anyone wanted to see me that badly.”
    “I’m Gerald Gwyll, of Harnasharn Galleries,” Gwyll said. “You recently sent a painting to Gof Milfro, and he—”
    “ Harnasharn Galleries? I don’t understand.”
    “Milfro sent the painting to us.”
    “The devil he did! The next time I see him I’ll flay him alive. I’ll do worse than that. I’ll—I’ll paint him alive!”
    “Did you paint that picture, Mr. Brance?”
    “No, I didn’t, and Milfro had no business sending it to you.”
    “Who is the artist?”
    Brance stepped from the hovel and confronted him belligerently.
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “I want to offer him a contract.”
    “I see.” Brance’s eyes were deeply, coldly blue, and Gwyll had the sensation of being impaled and dissected. He managed to meet them firmly, though he took a step backward. “I can’t help you,” Brance said.
    “Do you have a grudge against this artist? There are few painters who wouldn’t welcome an offer from Harnasharn.”
    “Here,” Brance said suddenly. “Come in and have something to drink. Your feet are soaked, and the way back is just as long and muddy as the way out.”
    “Longer than you know,” Gwyll said grimly. “If I don’t find that artist, I may be looking for another job.”
    Brance held the cloth aside, and Gwyll resignedly took a cautious step into the dim interior.
    “I’ve only got the one chair,” Brance said apologetically. “Sit down. I met L.H. once, a long time ago. He told me I was an art dealer’s nightmare. My craftsmanship was adequate and I had no notion of what to do with it.”
    “L.H. says what he thinks.”
    “He was right, too. I never sold a painting, but that was only because I refused to paint souvenirs. Drink this.”
    Gwyll took the mug and sipped cautiously. The liquid was cool, fragrant, spicy-tasting.
    “Our local product,” Brance explained. “Kruckul-root tea. The stuff also makes a very good bread. Here—I’ll cut you a slice.”
    “Thank you. Do you grow it yourself?”
    Brance nodded. “If we ever develop a strain that’ll give us a better yield, we’ll do very well with it.”
    “It seems like an odd occupation for an artist.”
    Brance laughed. “Ex-artist, you mean. Why odd? Ex-artists must eat. The old duffer who owned this place was a friend of mine, and when he got fed up with it and offered it to me I grabbed it without apologies. I’d given up painting, and I wanted to go to the most inartistic place imaginable.”
    “You found it,” Gwyll said fervently, resisting the impulse to stomp the drying mud from his shoes and legs. In the dim light he could see little of the hovel’s interior. He slowly munched the bread, which, like the drink, had a strong, spicy flavor. Brance hovered nearby, almost invisible in the gloom, recounting the nutritional virtues of kruckul roots.
    Gwyll swallowed the last of the bread and drained the mug. “Thanks. I suppose I’d better get through the worst of the mud before it’s completely dark.”
    “You won’t,” Brance said. “Both moons will be up in another hour or two. Better wait.”
    Gwyll shrugged resignedly. “I’m in no hurry. I probably won’t be able to get back to Nor Harbor before morning. Why won’t you tell me who the artist is?”
    “Because I can’t,” Brance said slowly. “Because I don’t dare. Did you mean that about looking for a new job?”
    “You said you’d met L.H.”
    “He was being nice at the time, but I can easily imagine—look here. You seem like a decent enough person. Will you swear to keep this between yourself and L.H. and make him swear to that before you tell him?”
    “Yes—”
    “Come along, then.”
    He led Gwyll from the hovel. A smaller mound, a sort of outbuilding, stood a few paces to the rear, and there Gwyll