L. Modesitt - Imager

I tried to wait for them, but their dinner went on and on. So I decided go back to the main-floor guest chamber. Nellica had set out water and towels, and the water was still warm. I washed up and then sat down in the one armchair. I thought I might try to see if I could image something, but I was so tired that my eyes kept closing, and I finally just stumbled over to the bed and climbed under the covers and went to sleep.

Before I knew it, Nellica was knocking on the chamber door on Vendrei morning.

“Your parents would like to know if you would care to join them for breakfast.”

That was as close to a summons as possible, and I struggled awake, finally mumbling, “If you’d tell them that I’ll be there in just a few moments.”

“That I will, sir.”

I just pulled on the heavy robe and some slippers that had been left and padded down the back hallway. They were both in the breakfast room.

Mother set down her tea. “Are you feeling better this morning, dear?”

“I’m still tired and sleepy,” I admitted, settling into the chair at the side of the oval table.

Nellica immediately set a large mug of steaming tea in front of me, too hot even to sip.

“I can certainly understand, dear, seeing a fire like that and helping fight it, and then walking all the way here in the cold.” Mother sniffed, but sympathetically.

Father finished chewing a mouthful of what looked suspiciously like trout and egg souffle, took a swallow of tea, and cleared his throat.

I put my hands, still cold, around the mug of tea and waited for the onslaught.

“It’s clear the portraiture business wasn’t for you,” Father said briskly. “These sorts of things, tragic as they may be, aren’t to be ignored as portents. I also heard you had the best painting in the journeyman’s competition, but that it wasn’t picked because it was too . . . unconventional.”

The reference to my painting of the chessboard surprised me. I hadn’t mentioned it to him or to Mother or Rousel. “Who told you that?”

“I do have my sources, Rhenn. Merely being good at figures and trade isn’t sufficient to succeed, especially not in L’Excelsis.”

“I take it that your dinner was successful last night?”

“That’s likely, but only time will tell.” He fixed both of his slightly bulbous eyes on me. “Let us not change the subject. What do you plan to do?”

“I could say that I hadn’t thought about it,” I admitted, “but that wouldn’t be true. I have thought about it, but I haven’t come to a decision.”

“What’s to decide?” He snorted. “You don’t have two silvers to rub together, let alone the five golds necessary to pay for another journeyman’s position with a master, and that’s if you could find one willing to take you on.”

“I’m a good portraiturist,” I pointed out.

“No, son . . . you’re better than good. I saw the one you did of Masgayl Factorius. He boasted of what a great portrait it was and how little it cost him. Your ability is your problem. You’re better than many who are masters. Why would they want to raise up someone who could compete against them for patrons as soon as you became a master? You’re good enough that the guild couldn’t possibly turn you down, even now. That means that no one will take you as a journeyman. Those who might will fear retaliation from the others, and I couldn’t afford the gifts required to get you accepted. It was costly enough when you were just a talented student coming out of grammaire. Now . . .” He shook his head.

“I wasn’t asking.”

“I know you weren’t. That wasn’t my point. What I was trying to get across was that if I can’t afford that . . . you couldn’t, either.” He took a deep breath. “But you’ll likely not listen to me, not yet. I’d suggest that you make the rounds of some of the other masters and see what reaction you get. Then, we’ll talk.” He pushed back his chair. “Take your time. You’ll need to be sure, and I need you to understand how matters stand.” Then he stood and smiled, and it wasn’t a cruel smile, but one that was almost sad.

How matters stood? Even with his sources, he hadn’t half the idea of where matters truly stood. Yet . . . what if he were wrong? I was a good artist. What if someone would take me on? How would I know if I didn’t at least ask?

“All of us, all of us, Rhenn, we do what we can. You’ll find that’s true for you as well.”

I just watched as he turned and left.

“He’s just trying to be helpful, Rhenn.”

“I know.” And I did, but I wasn’t finding his attitude as helpful as he thought it was. What was I supposed to do? Come crawling back to the factoring business and work for my younger brother at something for which I had little talent and even less inclination? Or throw myself on the mercy of the imagers of Imagisle? Who knew if they even had mercy?

After finishing breakfast, silently, I washed up, and changed into some older clothes that had been someone’s, possibly my father’s or my late uncle’s. I’d have to get another razor, and more than a few other items, assuming I could beg or borrow the coins from my parents.

Then I sat down in the chair and tried to image a small box. Nothing happened.

I walked over to the dressing table and picked up a polished bone hair comb-probably one of a pair of Remaya’s that she’d left on one of their visits because she’d broken or lost the mate. I set it down and studied it, then concentrated, trying to image its mate, lying on the polished wood of the dressing table beside the first. I didn’t see anything happen, but then, as if it had been there all along, a pair of combs rested on the wood.

I’d leave them, of course, if only to confound Rousel and Remaya, except that they’d probably just assume that someone had found or repaired the broken comb.

That proved to me that I could image something beyond oils on canvas. It also reinforced the likelihood that I’d been guilty of killing two men, even if it had been unintentional.

If I wanted to keep painting, I still needed to talk to some of the other portraiturist masters.

755 A.L.

Chasys’s studio was the closest of any of the portraiturist masters’ studios to my parents, but it was still a long walk to Daravin Way, Thankfully, the morning was sunny, and the blustery wind of the day before had died down. Even so, my feet were cold by the time I stopped outside the small two-story dwelling that held quarters and studio.

I used the bronze knocker on the outside studio door, expecting Sagaryn to be the one to greet me, but Chasys himself appeared. He was a thin figure, slightly taller than I was, but no one would have thought so, because he was always stooped over. His graying brown hair was frizzy all over, but trimmed short. He wore a leather apron.

“Rhennthyl, is it?” He stepped back and held the door open. “Might as well come in and get warmed up.”

“Thank you.”

Chasys closed the door. Beyond him was the studio, a space less than a quarter the size I had worked in with Master Caliostrus. On the easel was a portrait, scarcely begun, but I could tell that it was of a young matron, not that I would have recognized many with the golds to commission such a work.

“After I heard what happened to old Caliostrus . . .” He shook his head. “Always knew he was spoiling that boy . . . man, I guess he was.” Then he looked squarely at me. “Sagaryn thought you might be asking around. I liked that study you entered in the competition, that I did.”

I had the feeling I knew what was coming, but I just said, “Thank you, Master Chasys.”