L. Modesitt - Imager

“It’s not that I couldn’t use another journeyman, especially one with your skills, but . . . we’ve barely got enough work these days for Sagaryn and me. I haven’t seen so little work in maybe ten-twelve years, and it’s not just me. Jacquerl and Teibyn were saying the same.”

That didn’t surprise me, because Sagaryn had mentioned that times were sometimes tight, but I had to start somewhere. “Is there a master you might suggest?”

Chasys cocked his head, then frowned. “I don’t know about Estafen or Kocteault.”

“I’ve seen Kocteault’s place, but not Master Estafen’s . . .”

“Estafen . . . you walked within fifty yards of his place coming here. He’s on Beidalt-the short place just beyond the end of Bakers’ Lane.”

Since Estafen was nearer, that was where I went next, a far shorter walk.

An apprentice opened the side door to the studio, painted white and trimmed with the thinnest line of green-zinc green, but green, nonetheless. Most doors in L’Excelsis were either stained and oiled or painted one color. “Might I say who’s seeking the master?”

“Rhennthyl, from Master Caliostrus.”

“If you would wait in the foyer . . . sir.”

“Thank you.” I stepped inside and looked around while the apprentice scurried through another door. Estafen’s studio had a foyer, bare, except for a single portrait hung there on the wall facing the door. It was a most flattering image of a redheaded young woman, a subtle but direct indication that he could indeed portray redheads with skill. Still, I didn’t think it was that much better than the ones I’d done.

“Yes, Rhennthyl, you do portray redheads well. It’s one of your many talents.” Master Estafen had slipped into the foyer so silently that I had not even noticed him, far more quietly than I would have expected from such a rotund figure.

“If I might ask, sir, how did you know?”

“I was privileged to see the one you did last year of Mistress D’Whaelyn. High Factor Whelatyn, the brother of the girl’s father, asked my opinion. I told him that he could not have done better, except if he had commissioned one from a master.”

I smiled politely. The portrait had been better than some of the masters’ works with redheads, although I had to admit that the one Estafen had hung was quite good. “Thank you, sir. I imagine you know why I’m here.”

“I could pretend to be dense and quite solicitous . . . but I won’t.” Estafen’s smile was pleasant and cool. “I understand Master Caliostrus perished in a fire. Why no one suspects you of any part in it is, first, you were nowhere near where the fire started for half a day and, second, you have so much to lose, and nothing to gain. You, of course, could be my gain, but, alas, I already have two journeymen and two apprentices. None of them are quite so good as you, but they’re most competent, and even I do not have enough work for them . . . and you as well.” His smile turned apologetic. “Times are difficult, and with a possible war looming and trade and commerce profits being threatened, fewer of those with coins are likely to spend them on portraits.” He shrugged. “I wish I could offer you more encouragement, Rhennthyl, but that is how it must be. I trust you understand.”

“I understand your situation, sir, and I respect and appreciate your kind directness. You must understand that I must attempt to find a position. Do you have any suggestions, sir?”

“Would that I could suggest a master, Rhennthyl, but I cannot, and I fear that what you seek may prove most difficult. Because of your talent and aspirations, I would hope otherwise.”

“As would I, sir.” I inclined my head. “I thank you for your time, sir.”

“The best of fortune to you, and I would be the first to hope that you find the proper master for your abilities.”

I bowed again and took my leave.

As I walked back along the Boulevard D’Este, toward Jacquerl’s studio, I thought over Master Estafen’s words. They bore an ominous similarity to what my father had said. Estafen had as much as said that he wasn’t about to have someone as good as I was as a journeyman.

It was early afternoon, and my feet were getting sore, when I reached Jacquerl’s establishment on Sloedyr Way. I wished I’d had the coins for a hack, or the wealth for my own carriage, but if I’d had that, I wouldn’t have been trudging from master portraiturist to master portraiturist.

Rogaris met me outside, even before I could knock at the door. “You can talk to him if you want to . . .” He raised his eyebrows.

“But he’ll say no.”

Rogaris nodded.

“I’ll talk to him. I’d like to hear how he turns me down.”

“I thought so.” Rogaris shook his head, then opened the door-painted a dark brown-and stepped inside, waiting for me and closing it behind me. The wooden floors could have graced the foyer of many dwellings, far finer they were than most studios in which I had been.

Jacquerl stepped away from the easel, setting down a brush, and walked toward me. He was short and dapper, and even his leather apron was almost spotless. “Rhennthyl.” He smiled politely. “Rogaris said you would wish to speak to me. I was so sorry to hear about poor Caliostrus. He was a good man, and we’ll all miss him.” He paused. “I assume you are here to see if there is any possibility of becoming one of my journeymen.”

“That was my thought, sir.”

“Directly said, as might your father have put it, a direct man, as factors must often be.”

“He can be very direct, sir, more so than I.”

“That well may be, Rhennthyl, but you never did strike me as a young man amenable to the subtle. That can be both a strength and a weakness in Solidar. That’s particularly true here in L’Excelsis, where, at times, one must be subtle and perceptive enough to see what is and why no one will mention it, and yet strong enough to pursue what is necessary without seeming to do so.” Jacquerl paused. “Then, there are other times, such as these. Much as I would like to support an artist of your ability, I cannot. The commissions would not be there, and we would all suffer. You will pardon me, I trust, if after all the years I have been a master, I would prefer not to suffer.”

“I can appreciate that, sir.”

The dapper portraiturist smiled, if sadly. “I wish it were otherwise, but we artists do not make the times. We only live in them and portray others who do.” After a pause, he added, “My best to you.”

Rogaris followed me out onto the front stoop. “I told you . . .”

“Who told them not to take me on?”

“What?”

“I’m not stupid, Rogaris. I may not be subtle, and I’m certainly not very good at being indirect, but your master as much as said he was told he’d never get another commission, or not many, if he took me on as a journeyman.”

Rogaris shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t even say as much to me as he just said to you. I think it’s a measure of respect to you that he said as much as he did.”

That kind of respect I could do without, especially if it kept me from being a portraiturist. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“You’re still going to try others?”

“There aren’t that many more left, but I will.”

Rogaris nodded. “I thought you might. Best of fortune.”

He watched as I walked off down toward the corner and the winding lane that would take me back out to the boulevard. I thought about stopping at the confectioner’s on the corner, until I realized I had but a single silver and three coppers in my wallet-and no way to get more, except through the charity of my parents. That grated on my sensibilities, and I could feel more than a little anger churning inside me. Could it be that I was going to be forced to choose between being an ineffective wool factor or chancing the unknown world of Imagisle?