L. Modesitt - Imager

“Cut off his head for laughing?” asked Rogaris. “You can’t be serious.”

“What do you expect from people who are arrogant enough to name their god?” I had more than a little scorn for people who thought a god cared whether they ate certain foods on certain days or who believed that people would be blessed or cursed or live forever or be tortured for eternity if they didn’t follow a set of rules laid down by some dead prophet or another. If there happened to be an all-powerful and almighty deity-and I had my doubts-he or she or it or whatever wasn’t about to care about who followed what dogma.

“Everyone’s not like us,” Rogaris said. “Most of them are stupider, and that’s not giving us Solidarans much credit.”

“You think the Council will send imagers?” asked Dolemis.

How would I know that? I didn’t even know what an imager could really do in a war, except I knew no one much wanted a strong one against them-but there hadn’t ever been that many war imagers, not from what I’d read in the histories, not since Rex Regis, when his unknown imager had done strange things with walls. I had no idea if there were any at the Collegium Imago now. I supposed that wasn’t something anyone would want to reveal.

“Rhenn! Come dance with me!” called Seliora. She had jet-black hair and eyes to match, and she wore a black jacket with crimson trim above a crimson skirt and black dancing boots. I’d heard that she worked as an upholsterer and embroiderer for one of the furniture crafters in the artisans’ area off Nordroad north of the Boulevard D’Este, but she’d never said, and I hadn’t asked. “You’ve talked long enough.”

“If you would excuse me,” I said, “I’m being summoned by a pretty woman, and that doesn’t happen that often.”

“It would if you’d let it,” quipped Rogaris.

“You never said what you thought would happen in Caenen,” protested Dolemis.

“We’ll send ships and troops, and people will fight and die, and they’ll still lop off heads, and then we’ll either kill enough of them that they’ll stop doing it, or they won’t, and then we’ll lose more troops until we quit and declare victory.” I called the last words over my shoulder as I hurried toward Seliora.

“Declare victory about what?” Seliora asked as I slipped my arm around her waist and began to dance with her, ignoring the fact that the waltz seemed a bit fast to me.

“The Caenenans . . . politics, again.” I really didn’t want to talk about it. I supposed I could be conscripted if the Council declared war, but they usually didn’t conscript journeymen artisans or crafters. Apprentices were often conscripted, as were journeymen without masters.

“Dolemis always talks politics. Yvette said he even mumbled about them in his sleep.”

“She actually listened?”

“I think that was the trouble.”

“Well, he can’t do anything about it, not unless he works and becomes a craftmaster, because the Council is elected from the guilds, the factors’ associations, and the High Holders, and you have to be a craftmaster to be eligible, and he never will be because he spends too much time talking about politics rather than crafting cabinets for Sasol,” I added with a laugh.

For a time, I did not speak, just enjoyed dancing and holding Seliora. She wasn’t slender, but certainly not heavy, rather muscular. I enjoyed seeing her smile. Over the past year, we had talked and danced occasionally, and I knew she was interested in me . . . at least a little bit.

When the musicians stopped, so did we, but she didn’t move away, and neither did I.

She looked up at me. “Everyone says you think you’re too good to have a girl who might have actually lived within a few streets of the taudis or the Pharsis.”

I had to laugh. “The first girl that I fell in love with was a Pharsi.”

“How old were you? Five?” Seliora quipped back.

“More like thirteen.”

“And I suppose you threw her over for some factor’s twit?”

“No. She threw me over for some factor’s twit, rather quickly. She married my younger brother almost two years ago. She said that when she saw him, it had to be.”

Seliora looked hard at me. “Is that a joke?”

“No. They’re expecting their first child this summer. They live in Kherseilles now.”

The musicians began again, this time a fast variana, and Seliora took my hand. “Another dance.” Her words weren’t a request, but I was happy to comply, and she said nothing more as we moved to the beat of the music.

When the musicians stopped, I was breathing a little faster than usual.

“You shouldn’t let that spoil things,” she said. “You’re good-looking. Rogaris says your work is good enough that before all that long you’ll be a master artist with your own studio.”

“At least three more years, and he’s being kind.”

“Rogaris?” Seliora laughed.

She had a point, but I shook my head. “It’s not just that. I’m just beginning to get commissions, and they’re still not all that frequent. How could I support a wife or a family?”

“Some women do make more than a few coins in honest work.” She smiled warmly.

“I’m most certain you do.”

“And being married doesn’t mean you have to have a family right away.”

“That’s true.” I grinned at her. “Are you asking me to propose to you?”

Seliora actually lowered her eyes, if only for a moment. “I am part Pharsi, if that helps. My grandmother was one. She came to L’Excelsis as a servant.”

“If you take after her, I doubt she stayed one very long.”

“No, she didn’t. She was the one who started the business.”

“You . . . your family . . .?” I hadn’t realized that.

“Papa and Aunt Aegina are the master crafters. They make the chairs and the settees. Mama and I choose the fabrics and do the additional embroidery designs.”

I had wondered about the fact that Seliora was usually better dressed than the other young women, but I’d learned that some women spent every last copper on clothes.

I inclined my head. “I’m-”

“Please don’t tell anyone, especially Dolemis. He’s a terrible gossip.”

The music resumed, another waltz, a slower one, and I turned to her. “I still would have asked for another dance.”

She smiled. “I know. I do foretell more than I say.”

We spent most of the evening dancing, and I did walk her and two of her friends home, even if it meant an even longer and colder walk back out the Boulevard D’Este to Master Caliostrus’s establishment. The entire way, I wondered what she had foretold that she hadn’t said.

755 A.L.

On Jeudi afternoon, I was in the work shed powdering red ochre, using the ancient mortar and pestle that looked as though they had been in Master Caliostrus’s family for generations. Despite the sunlight outside, a chill breeze seeped through the bare plank walls. Powdering hard red ochre was sweaty work. The chill made it even less pleasant, especially if I crushed it and twisted the pestle too hard, because then some of the powder seeped into the air and then stuck to my sweat. Later, it got cold and itchy, and scratching just made it worse.

I consoled myself that the situation was only temporary because Stanus had finally run off, after throwing a bucket of hot ivory-black scraps at Ostrius. The scraps had burned holes in Ostrius’s shirt and given him several welts on his neck, but it would have been worse had not Ostrius been wearing a leather working vest. If the civic patrollers caught poor Stanus, he’d spend at least a year in the mines, but, in the interim, assuming that Master Caliostrus could find and accept another apprentice, everyone expected me to do all the apprentice chores as well as my own, not to mention painting whatever commissions might come my way, not that I had any at the moment.