Imager ip-1

by L. E. Modesitt

  “That doesn’t sound terribly dangerous.” Her voice was thin and bright, the kind that could be heard across a room.

  “I hope not. Time will tell.”

  “It always does.”

  I just nodded to that.

  “Do you like being an imager?”

  I hadn’t really thought about that, unlike being a portraiturist. I’d wanted to paint, but since I’d never considered being an imager until I discovered I had the talent, it hadn’t been a question of liking, but of doing the best I could. “I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not an occupation you dream about as a child.”

  “But do you like it? Father’s always saying that you cannot be good at something unless you like doing it.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I do. That’s why Uncle Weidyn is so good a cabinetmaker.”

  “I haven’t met him. I’ve only met Aeylana.”

  “Oh . . . yes. You did the portrait, didn’t you? It’s very pleasant.”

  I couldn’t help but bristle inside. When someone refers to a work of art, even one that is not superb, as “nice” or “pleasant,” it means that they don’t know art or that they think it’s terrible. “She seemed to like it.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “She was very good at the sittings.”

  “She’s very good, and very well mannered.”

  Before long, Nellica rang the dinner chimes, and we repaired to the dining chamber, where we stood behind our chairs. The dinner settings were not strictly formal, because Father was flanked by Madame Tomaz and Zerlenya, while Mother was flanked by Tomaz and me, but with just six it really didn’t matter. Anyone could converse with anyone else.

  Father rested his hands on the back of his chair and offered the blessing.

  “In peace and harmony,” we all murmured when he finished, then seated ourselves.

  Father carved the side of beef with his usual dispatch and efficiency, and before long, plates and goblets were full.

  “How is the produce business these days?”

  “Slow . . . so slow, Chenkyr. We’re almost through our stored stocks of root vegetables and the like. The spring vegetables and fruits from the South won’t be in for another month, three weeks if we’re fortunate. You can sell cloth at any time.”

  “Ah . . . my friend . . . I can sell at any time, but I have to buy the wool and arrange the weaving almost a year in advance, and pay much in advance, and if I judge wrong . . .” Father shrugged expressively. He always showed more emotion when he talked about business.

  “You can always sell wool; it does not spoil.”

  “The price. It is always the price at which one buys, not the price at which one sells.”

  I looked at Zerlenya and offered a helpless shrug.

  A ghost of a smile was her reply.

  “Father is most at home talking business,” I added, “wherever he is.”

  “Business is what supports the home,” said Tomaz enthusiastically. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We’re not High Holders who talk about music no one can understand or books no one has read.”

  Khethila would have disputed that, but I doubted that Tomaz had ever seen a copy of Madame D’Schendael’s book. I looked to Zerlenya. “Do you follow the produce business?”

  “It would be difficult not to. Father insists we know everything.”

  “And why not?” replied Tomaz. “If anything happened to me, the Nameless forbid, if you didn’t know the business, how would you all get by? Even you, Zerlenya, know more than I did at your age, and a good thing it is, too.”

  “Are all of your children following in the business?” asked Mother.

  “All but Thurlyn,” answered Madame Tomaz. “He’s an ensign in the Navy. He’s stationed on the Rex Charyn. He’s always loved the water . . .”

  From there the conversation remained firmly fixed in the areas of the mundane, and no one said anything about imagers and Imagisle.

  Once the guests had left, nearly two glasses later, Mother closed the front door and turned to me. “What did you think of Zerlenya?”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “You didn’t like her, then.”

  “She is pretty, in an ethereal way. I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”

  “That’s not the question,” interjected Father. “Could you be happy with her?”

  “It is the question, Father. Imagers cannot marry those who are not happy with them.”

  “Marriage isn’t just about lust.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that it’s very important that an imager and his or her spouse get along well. More important than with other couples.”

  There must have been something in my voice. They exchanged glances.

  After a moment, Mother said, “You know best.”

  Her tone suggested that I knew anything but. “It’s something that all the senior imagers have stressed, Mother. I might not know, but I have to trust that they do.”

  “I see.” This time, there was resignation in her voice. “I hope you find someone.”

  So did I, I reflected as I left.

  At least they provided Charlsyn and the coach for the ride back to the Bridge of Hopes. For better or worse, Artiema had set and Erion-the grayish red lesser hunter-stood almost at its zenith, ruling the night sky.

  38

  One cannot love truly without loving truly the words

  of one’s lover.

  The second week with Maitre Dyana was even more rigorous than the first, but I felt that I was learning a great deal, especially in how to focus imagery and to use the least amount necessary. But she still kept demanding more and more finesse.

  “Dear boy, you are but one imager, and at times, you could face far more than a ruffian or two. Without precision and finesse, you will be lost.”

  Precision and finesse! How often I heard those words, but I could take consolation in the results, even if my performance was seldom to the level she demanded. The same was true of my work with Clovyl. I could feel my skills improving, steadily, if not dramatically.

  With Master Jhulian, I had no such consolation. As soon as I learned one aspect of the law, we pressed on to the next. The assignment that had concerned me the most had been on murder, as defined in the Juristic Code. Master Jhulian had examined me in great detail on that. When I had asked why, his response had been direct.

  “Contrary to your unstated belief, I am not trying to make a nomologist out of you. I am trying to instill the knowledge you may need to survive. Because any unexplained death in these times tends to be laid at the feet of the imagers, it is important for every imager to understand what murder is, in both real and legal terms, and to make sure that he or she is never involved in something that could be termed murder, either by the newsheets or the civic patrollers.”

  Because I felt every word meant something, I committed the phrase to memory and wrote it down as soon as I returned to my room that Vendrei. “Never involved in something that could be termed murder” was a phrase that could cover a myriad of meanings-and sins.

  By the time I returned from the dining hall after lunch on Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle. I’d been looking forward to that afternoon and evening, particularly after the long evening the week before at my parents’ house. I had written them a short note thanking them for their thoughtfulness and kindness, and the wonderful food-which it had been. I doubted that would much appease my mother, who definitely wanted her eldest son married to someone from the “right” background, certainly not another Pharsi girl, and before all that long . . . and never mind the imager business.

  Ready as I was to depart Imagisle right after lunch . . . I didn’t. Instead, I sat down and attempted to organize my thoughts on my final essay for Master Jhulian-an analysis of the applicability of the Juristic Code to imagers. Two glasses later I had three pages of notes and an outline-as well as a profound desire to leave Imagisle
as soon as possible. Since I had the feeling that I might be meeting Seliora’s parents, I did wear my best uniform and make sure that my boots were well blacked and shining. I had also squeezed in another haircut on Jeudi.

  Outside, the day was pleasant, if overcast, with a slight breeze out of the northwest. I did have to wait almost a quarter of a glass before a hacker stopped to pick me up.

  “Nordroad and Hagahl Lane, on the east side.”

  He nodded, and I stepped up into the cab. The inside was clean, but threadbare.

  When I descended onto the pavement close to a half glass later, I found that the building that served Seliora and her family as factory, factorage, and dwelling was far larger and more impressive in the daylight than in the lamplit gloom of late evening. The walls rose three stories, and the yellow brick was trimmed with gray granite cornerstones. Even the wood of the loading docks at the south end was stained with a brown oil and well kept, and the loading yard itself was stone-paved. The entrance on the side street to the north was the private family entrance, and it had a square and pillared covered porch that shielded a stone archway.

  The hacker looked at me, and my grays, then at the stone entryway, but he said nothing. I gave him two coppers extra, then made my way up the steps. In the middle of the wide eight-panel door was an ancient and ornate brass knocker. Both the knocker and the plate had seen much wear, but both were brightly polished. I gave the knocker one hefty blow, then prepared to wait, but the door opened immediately.

  Odelia stood there in the modest foyer, dressed in a pale green dress and darker green shawl that set off her coloring well. “Do come in, Master Rhennthyl.” She grinned at me.

  “Thank you, Odelia, but I won’t be a master for some time.”

  The only exit to the foyer was the polished oak staircase behind Odelia, and she turned and gestured toward it. “Everyone’s waiting upstairs.”

  “Then I’ll let you lead me.” I added, “Who’s everyone?”

  “Besides Seliora? Uncle Shelim and Aunt Betara, of course, and there’s Hanahra and Hestya-they’re the twins, my sisters-and Methyr, Seliora’s younger brother. Bhenyt’s off somewhere. Then, there’s my mother. You’ll recognize her.”

  “She’s Aegina?”

  Odelia nodded, adding, “And there’s Shomyr. He’s Seliora’s older brother, and he very much wants to meet you.”

  I found myself squaring my shoulders as I followed Odelia up the steps.

  The staircase, ample as it was, with its carved balustrades and shimmering brass fixtures, opened at the top into a large foyer or entry hall, a space a good eight yards wide and ten deep. The walls were paneled in light golden oak, and the floor was an intricate parquet, mostly covered with a lush carpet of deep maroon, with a border of intertwined golden chains and brilliant green leafy vines. Set around the foyer were various chairs and settees of dark wood, upholstered in various fabric designs. At the far end was a pianoforte.

  The group standing in a rough circle at the edge of the carpet, beside a long settee, all turned as Odelia announced, “Rhennthyl D’Imagisle.”

  I had barely picked out Seliora, in a crimson dress with a black jacket, when a broad-shouldered, black-bearded young man a half head shorter than I was stepped forward. “I’m Shomyr. I’m Seliora’s brother, and she’s said so little about you that I wanted to meet you.”

  Said so little?

  “Now, now, Shomyr, you’ll have confused him totally.” A dark-haired and wiry woman in green silk trousers and a matching jacket, who could easily have been Seliora’s older sister, moved toward us. “The less my daughter says to us, generally the more she’s interested, and the less we know.” Her smile was identical to Seliora’s.

  I inclined my head. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Madame D’Shelim.”

  “Betara, please. Please. We’re not that formal here.”

  They could have fooled me, given the furnishings in that grand upper entrance hall.

  Seliora eased forward and around the others. She took my arm gently, as if to suggest a certain restrained possessiveness. “Rhenn is very talented. He’s an outstanding portraiturist as well as an imager, and his family owns Alusine Wool.”

  “Ah . . . you’re Chenkyr’s boy, then?” asked Shelim.

  “He’s my father. My brother Rousel runs the factorage in Kherseilles.” Even as I explained, I wondered how Seliora had known. I’d never said more than my father was a wool factor, and there were more than a few in L’Excelsis, and even more throughout Solidar.

  “How did you get to be an imager?” The question came from the single boy in the group, standing beside the red-haired twins, who looked to be two or three years younger than Khethila.

  “Methyr,” someone murmured.

  “When I discovered I could image, I walked across the Bridge of Hopes and told the imagers. They tested me and decided I was an imager.”

  “It couldn’t have been that simple,” suggested Shomyr.

  I managed a short laugh. “It was just that simple. Everything that came after that wasn’t at all that easy. They didn’t let me leave Imagisle for over a month.”

  “Are there are any girls?” asked one of the twins.

  “Some. One of the maitres I’ve been studying with is a woman, and there are others.”

  “Can imagers marry?” That was Odelia, and the question was delivered with a grin.

  I could feel Seliora stiffen just slightly, and I had a definite sense that the question hadn’t pleased her. “They can. That’s if anyone wants to marry them.”

  That brought smiles to several faces, including to the face of the older and taller redheaded woman who had to be Odelia’s mother.

  “Generally, they usually live on Imagisle after they’re married,” I added.

  “What exactly do imagers do?” pressed Shomyr.

  “Whatever our duties are.” I paused for a moment. “I’ve worked at certain things, but right now I’m being trained for a position at the Council Chateau.”

  “With the Council?” asked Shelim.

  “I haven’t been given all the details, but young as I am, I suspect it’s far more like working for them.” I tried to keep my tone wry.

  “Do imagers make lots of coins?” asked Methyr.

  “More than journeymen, and a great deal less than your father makes.”

  At that, Betara nodded slightly, and there was a quick set of glances between Seliora’s parents. Before anyone else could ask another question, Betara spoke up. “Rhenn came here to take Seliora to dinner, not to see all of us. I think we’d best let them go.”

  Seliora gave her mother a quick glance that I wasn’t about to try to decipher, then turned. Since she was still holding my arm, we turned and moved toward the steps, and then down them.

  More surprising, there was a hack waiting outside, and a youngster standing on the steps. He grinned at Seliora.

  “Thank you, Bhenyt,” she said.

  “My pleasure,” he replied, nodding to us both.

  “Felters, sir?” asked the hacker.

  “If you would,” I replied, looking at Seliora.

  “Bhenyt is Odelia’s younger brother,” she replied, taking my hand as she stepped up into the coach. “I just thought it might be nice not to wait for a coach. You were very gallant,” she added.

  “Thank you.” Had I had any real choice?

  Once we were settled in the coach and moving south on Nordroad, I turned to her. I couldn’t help but notice that, despite the similarity in colors to what she had worn the night we had truly danced for the first time, the dress and the jacket looked fresh-and had probably just been tailored and delivered. “How did you know who my father was?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t. Mama was the one who wanted to know about your family. She had you investigated as soon as Odelia admitted I’d spent all of last Samedi with you.”

  “Is Odelia your guardian?”

  “We’re close, but she likes you.”

  “Yo
u know I’m not likely to ask for money or anything else from my parents. So why do they matter?”

  “The money doesn’t matter, even to Mama. She was impressed that you made journeyman and then became an imager. She says that you come from solid stock.” Seliora squeezed my hand. “I could tell that.”

  “How could you know that from a meeting a journeyman artist a few times?”

  “You were always neat, clean, and with short hair and no beard, and after I saw the study you painted, I could tell you had talent to go with that ambition. I worried that you had too much ambition for a portraiturist.”

  “Too much ambition?”

  “I didn’t say that right.” She tilted her head slightly. “Too much honesty for a portraiturist with that much ambition.”

  A faint scent of flowers emanated from her, not too much, a light scent.

  Before that long, the coach stopped, we stepped out, and I paid and tipped the hacker.

  Felters was ensconced in what had been a graystone row house on the south side of the lane that angled off East River Road. The oversized lamps that flanked the door were already lit, although the sun had not quite set.

  The harried-looking server who greeted us looked at Seliora, then at me.

  I did my best to mentally press friendliness upon her. “For two, please.”

  “Ah . . . this way.”

  We ended up at a small window table, crowded between two much larger tables, one occupied by three older men in suits of a cut I did not recognize, and one empty, but the smaller table was fine with me.

  “What would you like to drink?” asked the server.

  I inclined my head to Seliora.

  “Do you have a white Sanellio?”

  The server nodded.

  “Cambrisio, white,” I added.

  The server left a slate on which the three specialties of the evening had been written in small script-Chicken Asseroiles, Pork Samedi, and Flank Steak Especial.

  “Are any of these favorites of yours?” I asked.

  “I think I’d like the chicken. You?”

  “The steak. I’m partial to both mushrooms and parsley.”