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by L. E. Modesitt

  Gingerly, I eased out from under the now-warm blankets and comforter. The chill, especially from the ancient cold tiles on my bare feet, assured me that I was awake as I crossed the short distance to the chest. The topmost part of the lamp mantle was not that warm, but the lamp had been wicked up.

  Had I lit it in my sleep?

  The chill of the floor tiles certainly would have awakened me. I’d been dreaming about needing light, needing a lamp, but just dreaming about light didn’t light lamps. I made sure I wicked down the lamp before blowing it out and hurrying back under my blankets. Then I watched the lamp, but it did not light itself.

  Again, I slept.

  9

  755 A.L.

  Reality is an illusion based on the understanding of the perceiver.

  The walk to my parents’ dwelling felt even farther than to the Guild Square, although the distance was about the same, except I had to walk east, rather than south, but that might have been because Solayi was even colder than Samedi had been, with a wind that howled and sucked every bit of heat out the paving stones and buildings along the Midroad. The angled pale white light of the sun, even in midafternoon, seemed to radiate chill rather than warmth. I finally thumped the bronze knocker on the door, and Nellica, the new servant, opened the door. As I handed her my coat and scarf, I was more than happy to be out of the cold.

  Mother scurried into the foyer. “You’re looking well, Rhenn, if a bit chilled.” She wrapped her arms around me for a moment. “Come in and warm yourself by the parlor stove.”

  I didn’t need a second invitation and followed her through the left archway and into the family parlor, not the formal parlor.

  Khethila was curled up on the corner of the settee closest to the large ceramic stove, a thin book in her hand. She looked up and smiled. “Rhenn!”

  “Khethila.” I eased around to put my back to the stove. “What are you reading?”

  “Madame D’Shendael’s Poetic Discourse.”

  I’d heard of her. She had gathered a group of High Holders’ wives and even some assistants to the Council to her evening salon, where all manner of topics were discussed, many of which reputedly suggested a certain lack of prudence in dealing with the Council. “She’s rather controversial, isn’t she?”

  “She does ask questions. Lots of them.”

  “Such as?”

  Khethila bounded to her feet, the book still in hand. “Listen to this.” She cleared her throat and began to read in a husky voice that reminded me that she was no longer a child.

  “At hearth, in bed, with feet near bare,

  agree with smile demure and fair,

  our position’s home; is that where

  our spirits, our role, and place declare?”

  Just at that point, Father stepped into the parlor through the doorway from the lower study. “You’re not reading that trash again, are you, Khethila?” His eyes flashed, and I could sense he was even more angry than he’d been when I’d told him I’d never be a factor.

  “She’s only telling Rhenn what’s in the book, dear.” Mother shot a warning glance to Khethila, before stepping forward and taking Father’s hands. “Besides, we don’t get Rhenn here that often anymore, and we’d all like a pleasant dinner.”

  Father glared at Khethila, and she lowered her eyes, but her jaw was firm.

  “Let me have Nellica bring you your wine,” Mother continued. “Would you like some of the Dhuensa, Rhenn? Or hot spiced winter wine?”

  “The spiced, please. It was a cold walk here.”

  “Rousel always hires a carriage when he and Remaya visit.” That was from Culthyn, who had slipped down the front main staircase from the upstairs sitting room.

  “He’s a factor,” I pointed out. “I’m an artist.”

  “Master Caliostrus has a carriage,” Culthyn pointed out. “Why don’t you?”

  Culthyn clearly took after Rousel, but I only said, “Because I’m not a master yet, and don’t have my own studio. It takes longer when you’re an artist.”

  “Father could help with the studio.”

  “He can’t,” I pointed out. “You can’t open a studio unless you’re a junior master artist, and that takes at least five years as a journeyman, and you have to be approved by your master and by the guild board.” That approval required either great talent, or a certain amount of quiet “gifting,” but the five-year requirement was absolute.

  “That’s awful when you’re as good as you are,” Culthyn declared.

  “That’s the way it is, and I can’t change it.”

  Nellica reappeared with a tray holding a goblet and two mugs, offering the tray to Father first. He took the goblet. I took the one of the mugs, and Mother the other.

  “We’re having stuffed and sauced fowl,” she said. “With all the wind and chill, it seemed a good hearty meal.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” Especially since my board at Master Caliostrus’s didn’t include dinner on either Samedi or Solayi nights, although I could have bread and cheese from the kitchen. I took a sip of the spiced wine, far better than that at Lapinina, not surprisingly, since Father always had a good cellar and Mother could make the best use of it.

  “I even have a hot winter pudding for desert,” Mother added.

  “Which all of us have had to keep Culthyn out of,” said Khethila.

  “There was more than enough,” muttered my youngest brother.

  “There wouldn’t have been,” noted Khethila.

  Before long we had gathered in the dining chamber, where Father did allow me the grace of sitting at his right and motioning me to offer the blessing.

  “For the grace and warmth from above, for the bounty of the earth below, for all beauty and artistry in the world, for your justice, and for your manifold and great mercies, we offer our thanks and gratitude, both now and evermore, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged . . .”

  “In peace and harmony.”

  “That’s the artists’ blessing, isn’t it?” said Khethila. “I like it.”

  “A blessing’s a blessing,” Father said dryly, gesturing for everyone to sit down. “So long as we respect the Nameless, the words can change a bit.”

  Personally, I preferred the artists’ version, but then, I hadn’t heard the crafters’ version, or that of the imagers, assuming that they had a version.

  After carving and serving the fowl, then settling into his chair, Father politely asked me, “How is the portraiture business coming?” He always referred to portraiture as “business.”

  “I’ve had three commissions in the last month or so, that is, commissions where the patron asked for me to do the work. The one I just finished was of Masgayl Factorius.”

  “Ah, yes, the rope factor. Does cables and hawsers as well. Turns a shiny silver or two on the heavy cabling.”

  “You and he see many things in the same way.” That was fair enough, although I had the sense that Masgayl Factorius was far more ruthless than Father.

  “Did he pay well?”

  “After costs, my share was a gold.” I didn’t have to mention the charge for the ruined brush. “Master Caliostrus gets half the fee, before costs.”

  “You’d . . .” He stopped at the glance from Mother. “Do you have other commissions?”

  “I’m doing a portrait of Mistress Thelya D’Scheorzyl. That one will be done in about two weeks, because she can only sit for one glass, once a week.”

  “Scheorzyl . . . Scheorzyl . . . Oh . . . he’s the principal advocate-advisor to the Council.”

  I hadn’t known that, only that young Thelya’s parents were well connected and well off, since she had a governess and a special feline.

  “Her mother was a beauty,” added Mother. “I suppose she still is, but she usually stays at their estate in Tiens. Something about the air in L’Excelsis. What about the daughter?”

  “She’s but nine, and very polite. She’s pretty enough now and looks to be the kind who will turn heads in a fe
w years. She might be too sweet, though.”

  “That’s always a problem,” suggested Khethila.

  “And exactly why might that be a difficulty, daughter?” asked Father.

  Khethila ignored the glare and smiled politely. “You wouldn’t be half so well off or half so happy, Father, if Mother didn’t occasionally suggest that matters might be better handled in another fashion. Girls who are too sweet often merely agree.”

  “I doubt that will ever be a difficulty for you.” Father did manage a rueful smile before turning to me. “What do you think about the threats that the Caenenan envoy made last week?”

  “I hadn’t heard about them,” I had to admit after swallowing a mouthful of the juicy fowl. “What did he say?”

  “You hadn’t heard?” asked Culthyn. “How could you not have heard?”

  “I was working, unlike some young people,” I replied.

  “He uttered some nonsense about our belief in the Nameless being blasphemy and then went on to say that, if any of our people in Caenen tried to blaspheme against their Duodeus god/goddess, they’d be burned alive.”

  “What did the Council do?” In spite of myself, I was a bit interested.

  “As usual, they dithered. We ship hundreds of tonnes of the fine woods from there-mahogany, ebony, rosewood, not to mention cotton and . . .”

  “And elveweed,” added Khethila.

  “That’s not a subject for dinner,” Father said firmly.

  “Why not?” she demanded. “When the carriage takes me to grammaire, I can see some of the sansespoirs smoking or chewing it. Some of them just lie there-”

  “Where?” asked Mother.

  “On the stoops of the taudis below South Middle. The wall’s low enough to see over it.”

  “I’ll have Charlsyn take you a longer way from now on,” Mother announced in a hard tone that brooked no argument.

  “They’ll still be smoking it, and it comes from Caenen. The civic patrollers don’t do anything, either. They just ignore it.”

  “Khethila . . . I cannot do anything about the degenerates of L’Excelsis, but I can do something about what you see. You are not being raised like a taudischild . . . or a . . .”

  “A Pharsi?” Khethila suggested.

  Father cleared his throat, loudly.

  “Why does the Council let them sell elveweed here?” asked Culthyn, abruptly.

  “They don’t,” replied Father. “It’s prohibited.”

  “Then why do the sansespoirs have it to smoke?”

  “That’s because sailors and smugglers sneak it in. They can get golds for small amounts,” I pointed out.

  “Have you ever smoked any, Rhenn?” asked Culthyn.

  “No. I wouldn’t want to.” Why spend golds on pleasure that was gone before you even knew it? Besides, I’d seen what the addicts looked like, and I never wanted to end up like that.

  “Don’t some artists?”

  “Some of the abstractionists do, but they’re not part of the guilds, and no one buys their works.” No one respectable, anyway.

  “I think we’ve discussed this . . . filthy . . . subject enough,” Mother interjected.

  After a moment of silence, I turned to Father. “How is the wool business?”

  “We’re doing well. You know Rousel is doing well with the branch factorage in Kherseilles. That makes it easier to ship the heavier woolens to the north of Jariola and to the Abierto Isles. He’s already increased our shipments by a third.”

  That sounded like Rousel. He could talk anyone into anything-anyone but me, at least. “He’s doing well, then.”

  “Enough that our profits are up by a quarter.”

  “And he and Remaya are expecting,” Mother interjected, “in early Juyn, they think.”

  “I’m happy for them,” I replied, “and it’s good that Rousel is doing so well.” For now, I thought, hoping that Rousel was not sprinting the edge of the precipice. I was spared having to say more because Nellica cleared away the dinner platters, and then returned to set the winter pudding and dessert plates before Mother.

  The pudding was as good as she had promised, and I did take seconds, but then, so did Culthyn. After he finished his second helping, he stared at the remaining pudding.

  “Seconds are acceptable at times, Culthyn,” Mother stated. “Thirds are merely greed. Don’t act like a Pharsi.”

  Culthyn counterfeited a disconsolate expression, then said. “Remaya’s not greedy.”

  Khethila hid a smile.

  “She’s different,” Mother said, turning to me. “Did you know that Armynd D’Sholdchild has offered a proposal to Khethila? For when she’s older, of course.” She smiled broadly.

  “Mother!” exclaimed Khethila.

  “Armynd has?” We’d been at the grammaire together, but he’d gone on to the university. His father held thousands of hectares of grainlands and vineyards out in the westlands. “He’s even older than I am.”

  “An older husband is always better. He’s more established. And you’re not getting any younger, Rhenn. It wouldn’t hurt for you to keep an eye out for a likely wife.”

  “As an artist?” murmured Father.

  “Wealthy women have been known to prefer artists, dear. Look at Madame D’Shendael. She’s a High Holder in her own right.”

  “But she had to marry another to keep her rights,” Khethila interjected.

  “Do I have to hear her name all the time?” asked Father.

  “You asked.”

  “Her husband is a landscape architect, not an artist, and he designs grand gardens.”

  “He’s still an artist,” Mother affirmed, “and Rhenn is going to be a great artist.”

  “He’d better hurry, then,” Father replied with a laugh, pushing back his chair.

  As Father rose, Mother looked to me. “Will you go to services with us?” Her voice was not quite pleading.

  Solayi night was when most families in L’Excelsis went to services, those who respected the Nameless, that is. I supposed I did, in my own way. I had nothing better to do, and Mother had never asked that much unreasonable of me, unlike Father. “Yes, but I’ll have to leave right afterward. Master Caliostrus . . .” I shrugged without completing the explanation.

  “We understand.” Mother beamed.

  Once everyone was bundled into their coats, we stepped out the side door where Charlsyn had pulled up, and I squeezed into the coach on the rear-facing seat with Khethila and Culthyn. At least, once the service was over, and it was never that long, I’d be much closer to Master Caliostrus’s dwelling.

  “Isn’t this almost like old times? Now, if Rousel were just here,” Mother said.

  “If Rousel were here, none of us would be able to move,” Culthyn observed.

  Even Father smiled at Culthyn’s wry tone.

  We arrived at the anomen early enough, a good quarter before the sixth glass, so that we didn’t have to hurry, but that also meant we had to stand in the cold until the service began with the small choir singing the choral invocation-“Paean to the Nameless,” I thought.

  Chorister Aknotyn had been at the Anomen D’Este since I could remember. His high tenor pierced the gloom as it always had in the wordless ululating invocation. Then he spoke.

  “We are gathered here together this evening in the spirit of the Nameless and in affirmation of the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”

  The opening hymn was “Pride Leadeth to a Fall.” I merely mouthed the words, mainly because I was in fact proud and unwilling to have others hear just how badly I did sing.

  After that was the Confession.

  “We do not name You, for naming is a presumption, and we would not presume upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We do not pray to You, nor ask favors or recognition from You, for requesting such asks You to favor us over others who are also Your creations. Rather we confess that we always risk the sins of pride and presumption and that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for
we too often strive to arrogate our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our petty plans and arid achievements have meaning beyond those whom we love or over whom we have influence and power. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your nameless magnificence and that all that we are is a gift to be cherished and treasured, and that we must also respect and cherish the gifts of others, in celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”

  “In peace and harmony,” we all chorused.

  Then came the offertory baskets, followed by Chorister Aknotyn’s ascension to the pulpit for the homily. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” came the reply.

  “And it is a good evening, for under the Nameless all evenings are good, even those that seem less than marvelous . . . and we all know that there are many of those . . .”

  Aknotyn’s dry aside brought low murmurs of laughter to the congregation.

  “The other day a youngster asked me why we do not name the Nameless, and I almost repeated the Confession to him, but I realized that he was asking what really was behind the Confession. While our meeting place, the anomen, means place of no name, in fact we name everything, and so often when we name it, we assume that we know it. The name becomes the identity, and it is always a limited identity. Look at it in this fashion. You have a friend. Let’s call him Fieryn, and we’ll say that he has red hair and a certain lack of patience. Each time that you encounter Fieryn or talk to him or watch him, you build a more complete picture in your mind, and when Fieryn is not around, in effect, to you, that picture is Fieryn. But is the picture really Fieryn? Does it include the time he spends with his crippled cousin, whom you do not know? Does it include the glasses he has spent telling stories to his failing aunt who cannot leave her bed? Or the time he drank too much and kicked a poor simpleton? Yet, by calling up his name, we think we know Fieryn. But do we?

  “Using names to excess and thinking that the name is the individual is often called the mark of the Namer, because one of the great sins in life is to accept that a name is all that there is of reality . . .