L. Modesitt - Imager

“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 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.