Patronage Must Go to the Poor and Struggling
"Young master, did you know? Men who obsess over their love interests used to be quite popular, but apparently in romance novels these days, they're considered creepy and barely show up anymore."
"Why are you bringing that up all of a sudden?"
"Because that exact look is just barely visible on your face right now. You're going to personally seek out the artist who rejected your patronage. That's obsession taken to its final form."
"...I just don't like the idea of leaving things half-done."
"Is it proper to call it a gamble when there's nothing at stake? You've even disguised yourself and hidden your identity, no less."
"Are you allowed to talk to your lord like that?"
"Ah, so since I've pricked your conscience, you're using our lord-vassal relationship to force my mouth shut? Truly lamentable conduct, my lord."
I let Claire's nagging flow in one ear and out the other, quickening my pace. The basic disguise spell I was using wasn't particularly long-lasting, after all.
Even if I was just an idle layabout wasting away at home, I was still the second son of this domain's ruling house. If I walked around with my face showing, plenty of people would recognize me, so disguising myself was a necessary choice. And if I brought Claire — my personal bodyguard — along in her usual appearance, I might as well have hung a sign announcing my identity, so I'd disguised her thoroughly as well.
More importantly, she kept calling it obsession. This was absolutely not obsession.
If anyone's going to obsess, it should be the artist obsessing over the patron. A patron obsessing over an artist — does that even make sense?
This was, at most, a confirmation. If I got rejected at the very first patronage, I'd have this gnawing unease through every one after that. If I had to tremble in fear that even my donations might be refused, where was the fun in any of it?
At the very least, I wanted to see that face in person. And there was also the possibility that Claire had said something strange and gotten the patronage rejected for me.
"I trust, young master, that you aren't imagining the artist refused because of me?"
"...Of course not. You're my personal bodyguard, aren't you? If I can't trust my own bodyguard, who can I trust?"
Her perceptiveness was obnoxiously sharp, as always.
Though "perceptiveness" didn't quite cover it. A swordswoman of Claire's caliber could tell whether I was lying from nothing more than my breathing, the movement of my muscles, my heart rate, my body temperature. When I was younger, I didn't know that, and I paid for it many times over.
Still, the experience did sharpen my poker face when it mattered. Thanks to that, once I'd grown up a bit, I managed a decent win rate playing cards against her.
In any case, I ignored Claire's dubious stare boring into the back of my head and headed for the commercial district within our territory.
"It was around here, right?"
"Yes — where the young master obsesses over a penniless, nameless artist."
"Come on, some noble house suddenly offering patronage — couldn't she have been shocked into refusing? If I pose as a commoner of modest means, she might actually accept."
"Is that... so?"
"...Presumably."
After that pleasant little exchange with Claire, we arrived at the commercial district in no time.
The city our family ruled was one of the empire's foremost metropolises in the east, and a coastal one at that. Naturally, what we casually called the "commercial district" was enormous in scale.
Travelers from every corner of the land, merchants who'd arrived by sea, street vendors, guild halls, inns, and more.
And scattered among them, street performers and artists could be seen here and there.
"Look at that — he's putting a flaming sword in his mouth? How does he do that?"
"He simply reinforces his body with mana."
"...So it's not some trick? He's actually putting it in? Just reinforcing his insides so he doesn't get burned?"
"That's right."
"That's kind of insane..."
Jugglers, acrobats, musicians — all manner of clowns and street artists lent the streets their liveliness.
To be sure, the artists patronized by the capital's nobility were not these people, but "refined" painters, sculptors, and musicians. Yet to me, it was these very performers who seemed like the true artists.
Art doesn't have to mean exquisite paintings, sculptures, or music alone.
While I was at it, I briefly considered scouting out a different struggling artist — one who might give me a good reaction — but then Claire, who had been surveying our surroundings, pointed in a certain direction and started pulling me along.
"Young master, we must go in over there."
"Sure... wait, seriously, down there?"
"Is something the matter?"
"Several some things, actually, yes."
Wherever crowds gather, back alleys inevitably follow, and the spot Claire was pointing to was the entrance to exactly such a dark alley.
Even in broad daylight, wedged between buildings with laundry lines strung from rooftop to rooftop, hardly any sunlight reached inside. Unsurprisingly, the people strolling the commercial district didn't spare the alley so much as a glance.
The knights of our house patrolled the commercial district on a regular schedule, but the back alleys were so cramped and filthy that unless it was one of the occasional large-scale sweeps, even the knights rarely set foot in them.
"That said, the public order is surprisingly decent. People rarely die in there."
"So everything happens except murder. Am I hearing that right?"
"...In any case, it's in there."
An artist living in the back alleys.
Well, if "impoverished" was part of the description, it made sense enough. If someone was just going to sit in a studio and paint all day, there was no reason to pay for space in the expensive commercial district.
And besides, any suffering along the way would fall to Claire the bodyguard. That thought made everything considerably easier to bear.
"Let's go in."
"Yes, young master."
The moment we stepped into the alley, the boisterous atmosphere of the commercial district vanished, as if snuffed out. Maybe it was the narrowness between the buildings, but even the noise from the street reached us noticeably muted.
Silent, and gloomy.
After a brief look around, I decided to simply follow behind Claire. If I wandered off alone and got lost in here, that would be a disaster.
There were a few people about, but whether out of wariness toward strangers, they either shut their doors and disappeared at the sight of us or glanced at us warily as they passed. Just as Claire had said, the streets weren't lawless enough for anyone to pick a fight outright.
After walking for some time, Claire finally stopped before a small signboard.
"Here it is."
"...Rin's Painting Workshop? Huh. It even has a perfectly decent signboard?"
"That's the only reason I was able to find it."
"Good."
Creeeak.
"Is anyone here?"
Pushing open the poorly maintained old door, I found the interior surprisingly bright — several gas lamps had been lit inside.
The space was tidily kept, and filled to the brim with paintings. For its location, the studio looked almost too respectable; I almost doubted whether its owner was truly an "impoverished" artist at all.
But my doubt soon turned to certainty.
I see...
Most of the easels holding the paintings were rotten through. Which meant cheap, low-grade wood had been used.
And though the interior looked well-ordered at a glance, a closer inspection revealed a cracked wall hidden behind a curtain, and a broken chair patched back together with crude, desperate carpentry.
Traces of someone trying to maintain and repair this studio by any means possible, but lacking the money to do it properly and slapping on stopgap fixes instead.
This was, quite simply —
It's perfect.
The very specimen of the poor, struggling artist I'd been looking for. Just imagining fixing all this up with my patronage and receiving a letter of heartfelt gratitude already had me grinning.
And yet — for a painter so destitute she had to use wood like this for an easel, one of a painter's lifelines, why had she refused my patronage?
"Is she not in?"
"...Who's there?"
"I was walking by, saw the signboard, and came in. This is a painting studio, yes?"
As for the real reason, I could sort that out by meeting the owner directly.
Raising my voice again with that in mind, I heard someone inside react and rise to their feet. I couldn't see clearly from here, but they soon emerged toward the door, and the lamplight revealed their silhouette.
"A studio? Yeah, that's right."
The figure that came into view was a woman. And a strikingly beautiful one, at that. Aside from her looks, though, she was the very picture of an artist — in every unflattering sense.
Her silver hair, far from well-kept, was greasy and thrown up in a careless knot, and her work clothes and face were smeared with paint of every color. On top of that, her eyes were bleary, as if she hadn't slept properly.
Maintaining her looks despite all this was pure talent. I'd naturally assumed the artist would be a man, but come to think of it, Claire had never actually mentioned a gender. So that's why she'd been going on about me obsessing over someone.
I'd unintentionally become a nobleman obsessing over a beautiful painter — but I was in disguise now, so no harm done. I subtly adjusted my voice and answered.
"Then your name is Rin, I take it, miss?"
"It's called Rin's Painting Workshop, so what do you think?"
Hm. She's got a tongue on her about as sharp as Claire's.
I glanced sideways at Claire, who for some reason was wearing an expression of distinct displeasure, sighed, and returned my gaze forward.
"Call it coincidence, then — since I'm here, I'd like to buy a painting. Might I take a look at your work?"
I held off on mentioning patronage right away. Honestly, if some strange man walked up out of nowhere and announced he wanted to sponsor me, I'd be suspicious too.
Then why am I bothered about yesterday's rejection? Because I put my family's name — and my own — on the line, and still got turned down. To put it in perspective, it's the difference between a shady stranger walking into a startup with an investment offer and a major corporation doing the same. Unless that painter Rin had some personal grudge against our house, refusing outright was simply incomprehensible.
To find out the reason, I'd need to talk with Rin first. So I'd buy a painting and ease into the conversation, and then —
"Not selling."
"Understoo— I'm sorry, what?"
"I only sell my paintings to people who love art. And you don't even like paintings, yet here you are."
"I'm sorry, what makes you say that?"
"I can see everything with my own eyes. I need to get back to work. Leave."
Making it clear she had nothing more to say to me, Rin turned her back without a shred of hesitation and retreated inside. Her attitude was so cold that I couldn't even bring myself to stop her.
Having been summarily shown the door in the space of a moment, I heard a sigh from behind me.
"Young master, that's the exact same reaction as yesterday. It seems there's no possibility here. Let's go home. Even setting aside that insolent painter, there are plenty of poor artists to choose from."
"Well, sure, but..."
Was she the type to hold an artisan's pride in her work? If so, refusing the patronage wasn't entirely incomprehensible.
Looking at the state of the studio, she was clearly destitute — yet if she kept to her convictions even in those circumstances, no amount of sweet words was likely to persuade her. Of course, "convictions" was the charitable reading; most people would simply call it stubbornness.
Then how on earth did she read my heart? Is she a mage, maybe?
The thought crossed my mind for an instant before I shook my head. Mages were rare and precious — no way one of them would spend her days painting, and even if she did, she wouldn't be broke. A little side work with magic would earn her money in no time.
Maybe I'd just grab one of the street performers we'd passed and try patronizing them, I thought — and just then, Claire, still surveying the studio with that same dissatisfied look, let out a short snort.
"Well, look at this, young master. It seems her skill doesn't quite match her pride."
"What do you mean?"
"This painting, right here."
The painting Claire pointed to showed two people standing face to face, gazing at each other.
The piece itself was vivid and skillfully done, yet I could immediately see why Claire was smirking at it.
"She can paint passably, but it seems her knowledge of human proportions is lacking. Look here — the ratio between the arms and legs is completely off, isn't it?"
"...I mean, it does look that way."
"Even the legs of the table are awkward. Before she goes looking for customers who love art, she ought to learn to paint properly first. This is hardly a painter worth spending so much of your time on, young mast—"
"Hmm, actually, she paints pretty well."
"I beg your pardon?"
"This painting — it doesn't belong hanging here."
"What do you mean by that?"
When Claire shot me a look that plainly asked what nonsense I was spouting, I gripped the easel holding the painting and lifted the whole thing up. Touching the painting felt wrong, but touching the easel was fair game.
I stretched my arms out and hoisted the easel high over my head, raising the painting until it nearly touched the ceiling.
"Well?"
"What... is this?"
"This isn't a painting meant to be viewed straight on. For whatever reason, a client commissioned a piece to be placed high up — high enough to touch the ceiling. That is the result."
"...Viewed from below, the human proportions — and the table legs — are perfectly accurate."
"Exactly. It was a painting meant to be seen from below, not head-on."
To make it look flawless when gazed up at from below, she'd deliberately painted it so that it appeared warped when viewed head-on or from above. And naturally, since Rin would have simply set it on the easel and painted it where it stood, that alone spoke volumes about her skill.
The talent to paint a deliberately distorted image, accounting for where it would hang and the angle from which it would be seen.
She was exactly the kind of painter capable of that same stubbornness and artisan's pride she'd just shown me.
So why is a painter this talented poor?
That was the only remaining question, but surely there was some personal circumstance behind it. I set the easel down carefully and walked toward the door.
"Now let's head out. We've been shown the door, so lingering would be a nuisan—"
"Wait. You there."
"...Miss Rin?"
"Let's... talk."
And then —
Rin rushed out from the back with a startled look on her face and grabbed me by the collar.
A complete transformation from the woman who had turned me away so coldly mere moments before.