Imager

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I had to agree. It was indeed an example of tradition. There wasn’t a single item of originality or true artistry anywhere, and I hadn’t seen an original brushstroke in the entire painting. It didn’t hurt that Master Kocteault was the previous guildmaster of the Portraiture Guild and that the portrait had been a flattering image of Kocteault’s elder daughter, who did not look anywhere near so fair as Aurelean had depicted her.

  “First recognition goes to Elphens D’Rhenius, along with the prize of five golds. The judges would like to commend journeyman Elphens for his creative use of light in his study of the lower gardens on Council Hill.”

  I managed not to snort. Creative use of light was appropriate—since the indirect light he’d depicted in his view of the gardens through a fall mist would have required the sun to be in three places—or that there be three suns in the sky. But Elphens was the journeyman for Master Rhenius D’Arte, considered by some as an equal of Estafen or Jacquerl.

  For all that I had expected something like that, the walk back to Master Caliostrus’s in the chill and the dark was less than pleasant. The wind had picked up, and tiny flakes of ice pelted my exposed face, head, and neck. Many of the lanterns outside doors had blown out, and with the storm above, the rays of neither moon penetrated the clouds to offer light.

  When I finally reached my small room, my feet were close to numb, and I could not feel the tip of my nose. Even as a journeyman, my quarters were on the street level, between the storerooms and the gallery, where the noises, the odors, and the cold were always the greatest. It took me two tries to slide the door bolt into place. My fingers were so cold that I had to fumble with the striker for several moments before I finally lit the small lamp on the chest.

  I pulled off shoes that were both cold and damp, undressed down to my drawers quickly, hung my shirt and trousers on the pegs beside the tall and narrow chest, then wicked down the lamp and blew out the last flicker of flame before clambering into bed. Fortunately, when I’d left home to apprentice to Master Caliostrus, Father had sent me off with heavy blankets and even an old but serviceable comforter. Occasionally, when I visited, Mother slipped me silvers, reminding me that they came from Father, but that he was too proud to hand them to me personally. I had the feeling she was telling the truth about that.

  As I lay there in the cold in my narrow bed, slowly warming up, I tried not to think too hard about the patent unfairness of the Festival Hall judging. I’d known it wouldn’t be any different from what had happened, because it had been that way for the previous years, ever since I’d first been an apprentice. Even in the chill of my chamber, before long I was more than warm enough, even in the depths of a cold Ianus, and eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

  I woke somewhere in the darkness, so black that I could see nothing. Had the freezing flakes of the night before piled up so high that they had covered and blocked all light from my single narrow window? I felt around, but my blankets and comforter were gone, not that I felt cold, and I sat up, only to discover that I’d been lying on a bench of some sort.

  How could that have been? Where was I? Why was it so dark? I knew I’d gone to sleep in my own bed. I needed light. I needed a lamp, one that was lit!

  Suddenly, there was light, and I was back under my blankets, peering at the bright glow of the lamp on the chest across from the bed. I just looked at it for a long moment, then to the door, but the bolt was still in place. The window hangings were also shut.

  I knew I’d blown out the lamp. I’d even checked it, and I’d never turned the wick up that high because it burned oil too quickly. Was I dreaming?

  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 f
ive-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 few 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 cou
nterfeited 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.