The End of the Misunderstanding
"This spot should do, don't you think?"
"I believe so. The artists will surely have made for the Street of Arts."
"It's just a little worrying that this is what our disguises turned out to be..."
"There was nothing to be done about it. Who could have imagined we'd need disguises after reaching the capital itself? It's only possible at all because I had the foresight to pack the perfume I normally wear."
"I appreciate that, Claire. And with crowds this thick, we should be fine."
"Then why go to the trouble of disguising yourself at all? The Street of Arts is a fair distance from this commercial district, and there aren't nearly that many people around, are there? It seems we could simply wander about as we are."
"True enough."
The capital dwarfed even the Medici family's own city, and its crowds were thicker still. Even leaving things to chance, the odds of bumping into Rin or Iris here converged on zero.
Besides, I already knew their destination was the Street of Arts. Even if they had gone somewhere else instead, there'd be no reason for them to wander into this commercial district—and the district itself was enormous, which made it all the more unlikely.
And yet the reason I had disguised myself was simple.
"But think about it. Say I really did run into the two of them by chance, looking like myself. I told them I was taking part in the summit—that I had duties to attend to as a member of House Medici—and then it turns out I was just off sightseeing in the capital with you. What would they think of me?"
"...A jobless bum blowing hot air?"
"Probably something along those lines. Like this, Rin might still see through it, but Iris won't have a clue. That alone cuts the odds in half."
"Even so, if you do cross paths with that insolent painter, things could get complicated."
"That's fair. But that's exactly why I went and bought robes and wrapped us up in them, isn't it? How many blond, tanned people are there in this city? Who's going to pick me out on sight? ...Though honestly, there's one reason bigger than all the rest."
"There's more?"
"It's academy break right now, remember?"
"Ah."
"Because if I happened to run into our godforsaken little sister here in the capital, it would be an absolute disaster. The whole family has come to the capital, so she'll show up at the villa by evening anyway—but I'd rather put off meeting her for as long as humanly possible."
"Understood."
For once, Claire and I were in complete agreement. The youngest of House Medici—my damned little sister—wielded precisely that much power.
In any case, without a disguise I would have to keep an eye out for three people: Rin, Iris, and my sister. With one, only Rin. When the odds shrink to a third, not disguising yourself would be the strange choice.
"Then let's head over that way first. It's my first time in the capital, but even I know where the famous sights are."
"I saw you sneaking a read of that pamphlet earlier, by the way."
"...When did you see that?"
"Actually, I didn't. And yet here you are, confirming that you really did read it on the sly."
"Argh."
Walked right into that one. Doing my best not to look at Claire as she covered her mouth and snickered, I got us moving.
The streets were packed to bursting, but that didn't mean there was zero chance of Rin spotting me, so I wound the robes we'd bought along the way around myself this way and that. That left only my blond hair showing, and unless someone stared very hard, my sun-browned skin wouldn't be visible either.
Besides, what the capital had in surplus was precisely blonds and tanned folk. Claire had done the same, so our preparations were more than adequate.
And so, savoring the capital's bustling avenues—so unlike anything back in the east—as we made for the famous sights—
"...Hm?"
"Claire, what is it?"
"Ah, it's just—there's a street stall over there. Though 'stall' might be a generous word for it."
"A stall? It's hardly strange for a commercial district to have street stalls."
"Well... it appears to be a painting stall."
"What?"
Where Claire pointed, an old man sat slumped in the narrow gap between two buildings, a straw mat spread out before him.
He looked destitute, draped in filthy rags—the sort of beggar or vagrant you could find in any city.
Spread haphazardly across his mat were painting after painting, none of them even framed. Perhaps because of how he looked, not one of the countless people passing by showed the paintings so much as a glance.
"Strange. If he's selling paintings, the Street of Arts would be a far better place to do it."
"From what I've heard, that quarter is quietly notorious for turf wars. Which is probably why he's set up shop here in the commercial district instead."
"I see... Want to take a look?"
"Pardon? Are you being serious? Surely you aren't looking for yet another artist to patronize."
"It's nothing like that—well, maybe a little—but I'm curious. I'd like to see what the capital's painters can do, too."
"...Scouting the standard of the capital's painters by way of that beggar strikes me as a hasty generalization. Shall I open a path, then?"
"I'd appreciate it."
Claire had her reasons for looking none too pleased. Getting to the beggar painter meant shoving through quite a crowd. And a task like that naturally fell to her.
Not simply because ours was a master-and-guard arrangement. In this world, where nearly everyone is born bearing magic, the manaless incompetents who can't handle it at all—people like me—are born only now and again, numbering barely one in ten.
And a body steeped in magic and one without differ enormously on their own merits. If I told you that a grown man like me had roughly the strength of a small child who could wield magic, you'd understand at once.
That was how heavy a burden simply pushing through a crowd like this was for me, which is why Claire took it on. It was, after all, the very reason I had a bodyguard attached to me twenty-four hours a day, unlike my brother or that wretch of a sister of mine.
In more ways than one, I was fortunate to be born into House Medici. Doubly so to be the second son—had I been the eldest, the question of succession would have been a royal headache.
Following the path Claire carved through the crowd, we soon found ourselves in front of the beggar painter's stall.
"Sir? I'd like to have a look at your paintings."
"............"
"Sir?"
"Looking is free. Speak only when you mean to buy."
Hm. Blunter than I'd expected. Or was I just imagining echoes of Rin in him?
Artist or not, when it came to the business of selling, he failed outright. Claire, for one, was already wearing a distinctly sour expression. Worse, having told us to speak when we meant to buy, the beggar painter promptly began nodding off in the shade of the building.
That insolent attitude nearly had me turning on my heel, but having come this far, I decided to at least give the paintings a look.
"And this one...?"
"Do you recognize it, young master?"
"You know the name Raffaello, of course?"
"Naturally—is he not the most celebrated grandmaster in the capital at present? Oh, and this one?"
"Ah, that's a Raffaello. One of the portraits he painted."
Raffaello was a painter so renowned that even Chloe and I knew his name. Word had it the crown had offered him the post of court painter and been refused; among the capital's nobility, there was even a running joke that whether or not a Raffaello hung in your mansion decided where your house stood in the pecking order.
Raffaello was especially famous for his portraits, and most of the paintings the beggar had spread out were portraits as well.
Of course, I knew only his name and his famous works—nothing of his style or technique. Even so, the portraits the beggar had painted were astonishingly refined. The figures in them looked ready to step out of the canvas at any moment.
Frankly, they were a cut above anything from Rin or Iris. And just as I was about to marvel at that—
"Hey there, ignorant young man. Don't go wasting your money on that pathetic forgery."
"Are you speaking to me just now?"
"I overheard you discussing Raffaello and his work, and I simply could not keep silent. As a devoted fan and collector of Raffaello, I'll state it plainly: this piece could not hold a candle to a true Raffaello."
A man with a somewhat pudgy face had butted in, and proceeded to deride the beggar's portrait as though it were the most self-evident thing in the world. At those brutally blunt words, my eyes and Claire's swung toward the beggar—but he went right on dozing, as though the chubby man did not exist.
"How so? This portrait looks remarkably fine and detailed to me."
"That is precisely the problem! Raffaello's portraits deliberately set aside excessive precision and detail, so that the viewer must imagine the subject's true face for themselves. Call it the aesthetics of simplicity, if you like. Which makes this a trash of a fake—it apes Raffaello's paintings while showing his style not a shred of respect."
"Hmm..."
"Above all, his paintings overflow with a passion and soul that no simplicity can hide! But look at this one—it's far too cold. Not an ounce of passion or soul went into it. When a painter puts no passion into his own work, the answer is simple: it's a doodle, nothing more."
Is... that so? Honestly, I couldn't speak to souls and passion. But a picture this intricate had plainly taken an enormous amount of effort to produce.
And above all—even if the chubby man's critique happened to be correct, his manner was the real problem.
"I understand perfectly well what you're trying to say."
"No thanks are necessary. As a fan of Raffaello, I merely did my duty—"
"But quite apart from whether you're right or wrong, I'd say you ought to observe basic courtesy first."
"What did you say?"
"Legitimate criticism is one thing, at the very least. But calling a piece trash or scribbles isn't criticism—it's an insult. And berating a work indiscriminately, right in front of the very painter who made it, is conduct devoid of both manners and common sense."
"Wh—no, I was only trying to help—!!"
"That isn't helping. That's forcing your opinions on other people. If you have nothing further to say, kindly be on your way."
"Tch! Not a shred of a connoisseur's eye! Go spend the rest of your life gawking at third-rate paintings!"
Face contorted, the chubby man stomped off in a fury. Claire watched his back with eyes full of contempt.
A brief bit of commotion, but my mind was unchanged. Whatever Raffaello's portraits were like in style or soul, in my eyes this portrait was no trashy forgery. It was a fine painting.
After some deliberation, I picked out the piece copied from the most famous of the Raffaello portraits I knew, and roused the beggar painter.
"Sir? I'll take this painting. What's the price?"
"...You're buying it?"
"Yes."
"Even after what you heard just now?"
"Oh—you were awake?"
"Just answer the question."
"Well, from where that man stood, perhaps that's simply how he saw your painting... but then, a painting is bound to strike every viewer differently, isn't it? Some can stand before the masterpiece of the century and feel no beauty at all, while another might decide some nameless painter's work is the finest thing in the world."
"To each their own eyes—well said. And choosing that one, out of all these paintings."
"Pardon?"
"It means you have a good eye. One copper coin will cover the price."
"Surely that's far too cheap, no matter how you look at it?"
"Call it my thanks for the kind words. Now take your painting."
Dazed, I handed over a single copper coin—and the beggar painter truly did hand the painting over. However I looked at it, this was no picture worth a single copper, yet the old man seemed to harbor no attachment to it whatsoever.
Going by his appearance, money had to be desperately scarce, and yet he would sell off a painting like this for next to nothing simply because he'd heard a kind word. And though the insults had been hurled right before his eyes, his composure hadn't so much as flinched.
A person like this. An artist like this...
"Sir, might I ask your name?"
"...And why would you ask that?"
"No particular reason. More to the point, sir... would you perhaps consider accepting my patronage?"
"Hm?"
The scent of dopamine and heartfelt reactions hung so thick in the air that I didn't hesitate for a moment to offer him my patronage.
Thud.
For some reason, from somewhere within the crowd, I heard the sound of someone dropping something.