L. Modesitt - Imager

755 A.L.

The fire brigade arrived, but all that they and we could do was to pump water over the rest of the courtyard to keep the fire from spreading. The fire consumed everything so quickly that, well before sunset, only the blackened stone walls stood, the bare remnants of what had once been Master Caliostrus’s studio, dwelling, gallery, and apprentice and journeyman quarters. Madame Caliostrus had lost her husband and eldest son, all the paintings, and possibly all the coins in the strongbox. Compared to them, I’d lost nearly nothing-my clothing, what brushes and paints were mine, and close to two golds in coin.

I’d thought about paraffin exploding all over Ostrius and consuming him in fire . . . but . . . how could I have imaged that? All I’d ever done in the way of imaging were tiny things like changing the position of a few brushstrokes of oil on a canvas. It didn’t seem possible that I’d done that. How could I have done it? Paraffin and wax could explode into fire if not watched closely-and Ostrius was seldom as careful as he should have been. Yet . . . there had been the lamp I’d found burning on the dressing chest. But what about that second explosion? What had been up in the studio that could have exploded so quickly?

In the twilight, colder than usual for early Maris, the water on the courtyard stones was beginning to freeze in corners that had been shaded, and I had to step carefully as I approached Madame Caliostrus. Her face was more lined than I recalled, and her eyes were focused somewhere else.

“I’m so sorry.”

She shook herself. “You did what you could. I don’t know if I could have gotten Marcyl out without your help.” She paused. “What will you do? There’s nothing . . . nothing here.”

“I can live with my parents for a little while. Perhaps I can find another portraiture master. Or . . .” I didn’t know what else I might do, because I’d have to start over as a journeyman with someone else-if they’d even have me. But I didn’t really want to go into the wool trade. I’d end up working for Rousel, because he was better at it. That just would have been too much. “What about you?” I had to ask.

“My sister . . . she can help. They have space.” Tears began to well in the corners of her eyes. “Caliostrus . . . Ostrius . . . how could it have happened? Caliostrus was so careful.”

I didn’t want to point out that Ostrius wasn’t, not because her son had been careful, because he seldom was, but because . . . had it really been his doing? I had a hard time believing that a wishful, if hateful, mental image of mine had created a fire and then an explosion, but I also had an equally difficult time thinking paraffin could explode so violently and quickly without Master Caliostrus noticing something before it happened.

“I don’t know. I was down in the shed grinding ochre, and I had been almost all day.”

In the end, I said good-bye and slipped away, walking through the cold twilight, shivering as I did, because my warm coat had also gone up in smoke. Spots on the back of my neck offered hot and painful twinges.

My ears and fingers and nose were numb by the time I used the knocker at my parents’ house. Even the burns on my neck were numb.

Nellica opened the door. “Young sir.” She looked askance at me. “Ah . . . were you . . . there is a dinner.”

“Just tell my parents that I’m here because of unexpected circumstances . . . very unexpected.” I didn’t ask to come in. I was too cold to ask. I just stepped into the front foyer.

“Yes, sir.” She eased back toward the dining chamber, where I could hear laughter.

Almost immediately, Father bustled out, and I could sense his glare even before I could see it. Mother trailed him, her brows knit in worry.

“Rhennthyl! What are you doing here?” demanded Father. “Did Master Caliostrus throw you out? I told you-”

“Chenkyr . . . let him speak. He’s shivering, and he’s not even wearing a jacket. And his clothes are covered in soot.”

I hadn’t even really noticed that. “There was a fire. I was in the courtyard grinding and powdering pigments. There was an explosion and the entire second level-that was the studio level-exploded in flames. Master Caliostrus and Ostrius died in the fire or the explosion. The whole building was destroyed, the studio, the quarters, the family spaces. I helped the family escape the flames, and tried to assist the fire brigade.” I shrugged. “I have what you see.”

Father, for once, was taken aback enough that he was silent for a moment. “I see.”

“If you would not mind my sleeping somewhere here . . .”

“Culthyn has your old room. You knew that,” Mother said quickly, “but the chambers where Rousel and Remaya stayed are available. They’re a bit musty . . . because we weren’t expecting them until the first week in Avryl. Rousel doesn’t want to leave her alone while she is expecting, and he has to come back to work out the rest of the year’s shipments.”

“Musty is fine,” I said. Anything was fine at the moment.

She turned to Father. “You take care of the guests. I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Ah . . . yes.” He nodded to me. “I’m glad to see you’re all right. We’ll talk later.”

Mother waited a moment, until Father had closed the door off the hallway into the dining chamber. “Are you all right?” She looked intently at me.

“As right as I can be.” Considering that I might have imaged the explosion that killed my master and his son, considering I’d lost everything I had personally-except for the clothes on my back and a wedding suit-and considering that I had no idea whether I could find a place with another master artist . . . or what I might do, given the fact that, if I had imaged the explosion, what I had done was effectively murder, as well as an offense against the Collegium Imago.

“You’re freezing. I’ll have Nellica get you a plate and some hot food, and some spiced wine. You can eat in the family parlor, right in front of the stove. It’s still warm, and I’ll have her find you some dry and warm clothes. We’ll see you after our guests leave. They’re most important for your father. He’s interested in a large contract for the Navy.”

“You’d better see to them.”

“After I make sure you get fed and warm.”

Before long I was wrapped in a heavy wool robe in front of the parlor stove with a platter of chicken naranje and basamatic rice with orange sauce. I ate slowly, trying to think matters through.

Even if I had imaged the fire into being, I had not really meant to kill Master Caliostrus, but I could not say that of Ostrius. Yet intended or not, the deed had been done, and I needed to discover what else I might image, for I was not about to travel the Bridge of Hopes and make my case to the imagers that I should be considered for their Collegium on the basis of an image that had killed two men.

“Here is some more of the hot spiced wine, sir . . .” offered Nellica, pouring some into the mug on the side table.

“Oh . . . thank you.”

“Was it a terrible fire, sir?”

“I’m afraid it was, Nellica. Master Caliostrus and his son Ostrius died. I was working down in the grinding shed when it happened, or I might have been burned or injured.”

“Sir . . . there’s a burn or two, little ones, it looks like, on the back of your neck. After I serve the dessert, I can get some ointment . . . and some warm water.”

“Thank you. That would be good.”

When she left, I took another sip of the hot spiced wine.

My parents would house me for a few weeks, but certainly not longer, not unless I had something firm in mind, and not without more than a few questions, and more than a little pressure to return to the fold, so to speak.