Imager (9 page)

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.

In truth lies falsity, in falsity truth.

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.”

“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?

A half glass later, I stepped up to Master Kocteault’s studio door.

Aurelean opened it. “Ah . . . dear Rhennthyl. After I heard the news about Master Caliostrus, I’d thought you might make an appearance at Master Kocteault’s studio door. Alas, he simply has no position for a journeyman and is unlikely to have one for at least two years.”

“Oh? Two years? That’s rather precise, isn’t it, Aurelean?”

“His very words were that one journeyman was more than enough difficulty and obligation, and since you—he was referring to me, of course—have two years before I’ll recommend you for master, there’s no point in talking to the poor fellow.”

“Is he in?”

“Alas, he is not. He is doing a sitting at High Factor Zatoryn’s—his wife. She is striking, quite beautiful, you know?”

“When will he be back?”

“I couldn’t say, dear Rhennthyl, and I doubt that he would be able to tell you any more than I have. He might say it more diplomatically, but the message would be the same.” His smile was oily, supercilious, and simpering. “We all wish you the very best.”

He closed the door as I stood there.

There were still some of the lesser masters I could talk to, but I was getting a very strong feeling that my father had been all too accurate in his assessment of my prospects.

Still . . . there was no point in leaving any stone unturned.

I took a deep breath and began to walk the three blocks to the Boulevard D’Este. I had several milles to go along the Nordroad and then the Sudroad toward the Avenue of Artisans in order to reach the other cluster of master portraiturists.

Collegium Imago

The longest journeys are the ones where one fears the
destination.

By noon on Samedi, I had visited every portraiturist master in L’Excelsis, and not a single one had an opening for a journeyman, or at least not for me. Then I did some inquiries about the possibilities in the Representationalists’ Guild, and the indications there were even less encouraging, because the guild rules required a full apprenticeship under one of their masters.

On Solayi, I kept mostly to myself, except for a short time when Khethila slipped into the guest chamber. She was concerned, but I had the feeling her concerns were not totally about me, and I wondered if she were having second thoughts about the proposal from Armynd, but she didn’t say, and, the way I felt, I didn’t ask.

After she left, I tried imaging more small things, such as the comb, and encountered more than a few difficulties. Anything metal was difficult, if small, and impossible, for me, if large. Familiar items were the easiest, but only those not too familiar, perhaps because really familiar objects I had taken too much for granted and not really studied. I did convince myself that I had some small imaging talent, but I still wasn’t certain how I could have imaged a fire and explosion when I had such trouble in imaging small household objects.

But then . . . whether I had or not wasn’t the question. The question was what I would do.

On Lundi morning, well before breakfast, I gathered together the few belongings I had and slipped out the side door of the house when no one was looking. I couldn’t pretend that I wanted to be a wool factor, or any other kind of factor, and at twenty-four, I was already too old to enter the Military Institute or Marine Academy, even if I had wanted to be an Army or Navy officer—which I most certainly didn’t. The craft at which I was best was painting, and that didn’t seem to offer much future, at least in L’Excelsis. While I
might
be able to find a position in another city, I didn’t have the coins to travel anywhere, and I doubted I could get the references I needed, not after what had just happened. Even if I could, I was looking at another five years as a journeyman, assuming I could find someone willing to take me on in cities I didn’t even know, and most other cities couldn’t support nearly so many portraiturists from what I’d heard. On top of that, I’d doubtless need Father’s support, again, and I didn’t want to ask more. I also doubted that he’d give it, not the way he’d been talking over the end of the week.

Yet . . . did I really want to go to Imagisle? Did I have a choice, really?

The air was chill, but the sun rose and warmed my back before I’d gone more than half a mille. Thankfully, the air was so still that it felt warmer than it really was. The stretch from the house to the Plaza D’Este wasn’t bad, nor was the walk down the Midroad to the Guild Hall, but my feet and legs were getting sore by the time I was on the Boulevard D’Imagers heading toward the Bridge of Hopes, and I sat down on a stone bench a half mille short of the bridge and looked at the gray granite towers of the Collegium Imago rising above the bare limbs of the oaks that lined the riverside park on the east side of the River Aluse. In another month, they might be showing traces of green.

I’d always wondered why the Collegium had used gray granite for buildings, while the buildings on the Council Hill were hardened white alabaster. The imagers had been responsible for building both. As I sat at the edge of the parkway that bordered the boulevard, the wind began to rise, and the marginal warmth provided by the white light of the winter sun disappeared.

I stood, stretched, and resumed my progress toward the Bridge of Hopes along the wide stone walkway paralleling the Boulevard D’Imagers. Just before the boulevard reached the river and the bridge, it intersected East River Road, and all the wagons and carriages and the handful of riders took East River Road north or south.

I darted across the road and stood on the causeway approaching the Bridge of Hopes, a granite span over the eastern channel of the River Aluse only slightly wider than necessary to accommodate a large wagon or a stately carriage. There were no stone markers announcing its name, nor any guardhouses. The roadbed, paved with smooth granite stones, arched slightly upward, so that the middle of the bridge, some fifteen yards out, was about a yard higher than the causeway at each end. At each side of the span was a wall a good yard high. There were no sidewalks, and the roadbed ran flat from wall to wall.

No one crossed any of the three narrow bridges to Imagisle unless they wanted to go to the Collegium, and not that many did. Both the Nord Bridge and the Sud Bridge, so called because one was north of Imagisle and one south, were the main city thoroughfares for those who wished to cross the Aluse.

I stopped once more, just short of the bridge proper. Did I really want to try to become an imager? I swallowed, forcing myself to think about how little I wanted to hear about what great work Rousel was doing in Kherseilles.

I took a deep breath and began to walk slowly and steadily across the bridge. Once I had crossed, I was faced with a choice. The causeway debouched into three stone lanes. One went north, one south, and one directly toward a single-storied granite building with a gray slate tile roof. I followed the lane to the building.

Outside the building I paused before a stone archway of the style called Glacian, supposedly because it was so spare and cold, just like the Monts D’Glace that separated the fertile and prosperous southlands of Solidar from the northern wastelands. Under the arch was a single door of gray-stained oak bound in shimmering brass. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, pressing the door lever down, then opening the door.

Inside was a foyer, square and five yards by five. The walls were smooth sheets of bare gray granite, without a seam in the stone. The floor was of the same seamless granite, and there was no sign of a join or of any mortaring of any sort where the floor and walls met. The ceiling was of featureless white plaster. Two square arches led from the foyer into short hallways—one to the right and one to the left. Directly opposite the entry was a table, also entirely of granite, except the top surface was polished so smooth that it shimmered. Behind the table sat a young man, wearing a light gray collared shirt, with a waistcoat of a darker gray that seemed to match his trousers, from what I could see. His boots were black. His brown hair was cut short, like that of a soldier or sailor. I walked to the table and stopped.

“Might I help you?” he asked.

“I think I need to see if I’m suited to be an imager.”

“What makes you think you might be an imager? You’re . . . rather older . . . than most who come across the bridge.” He looked younger than I did.

I managed a shrug. “Because I can image small things.”

“Oh? Would you mind showing me?”

I thought for a moment, then decided that a replica of the comb I had done the first time wouldn’t be too difficult. I concentrated, creating the mental image of Remaya’s comb. It appeared on the flat surface, just short of his hand.

For some reason, he seemed surprised, especially after he picked it up. “That’s a rather good comb.” He paused. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting here for just a moment, I think Gherard Secondus might wish to speak with you.”

Taking the comb, he stood and slipped away from the table, walking quickly across the foyer and through the archway to my left. After a short time, he returned. “If you would come this way . . .”

I followed him less than ten yards along the corridor—walled and floored in the same seamless granite—before we came to an open door. He stood back and gestured for me to enter.

I did.

Gherard Secondus stood beside the end of a long conference table in a chamber that held nothing besides the table and the ten chairs that flanked it, four on each side and one at each end. He stood beside the chair at one end, and he was attired in the same gray garb as the first imager, insofar as I could tell, but he did look somewhat older, perhaps almost as old as I was, and his short-cut hair was limp and blond.

He gestured to the chair closest to the one behind which he stood. “If you would like to sit down . . .”

I was more than happy to seat myself. My feet were sore.

“Petryn showed me the comb you imaged. It’s fine work. What have you been doing?”

“Doing, sir?”

“You’re too old to still be in the grammaire, and you don’t look like an Institute or university student.”

“Oh . . . I’ve been a journeyman portraiturist, with Master Caliostrus.”

He stiffened, just slightly. “Rhennthyl D’Caliostrus? Is that you?”

“Not anymore. I’m just Rhennthyl.” I certainly was too old to claim myself as Rhennthyl D’Chenkyr. “Master Caliostrus died in a fire last Jeudi.”

He nodded. “Actually, you need to see Master Dichartyn. I’ll be right back.” He rose and left me sitting there.

A cold shiver went down my spine. Gherard hadn’t known me, but he had known my name, and he had been given some instructions. Yet . . . I hadn’t told anyone of my intentions to seek out the imagers.

Gherard did not return. Instead another man came. He was, not unsurprisingly, attired in exactly the same fashion as the other two imagers. Unlike them, however, he was older, graying, and radiated a certain sense of power. He also did not sit down. “I’m Master Dichartyn. You’re Rhennthyl, formerly Rhennthyl D’Caliostrus?”

“Yes, sir.” I stood quickly.

“Gherard said that you imaged a comb. I’d appreciate it if you would attempt to image this.” He set a small topless box on the flat table, almost small enough to rest on my palm.

“Might I examine it, sir?”

“Please do.”

I picked it up. It was cast or formed from some sort of metal, but none that I knew, for although it was silvery in color, it was far lighter than either iron or silver or even tin, I thought. All I could do was hold it, try to feel it, before setting it on the table and then concentrating on its shape and size and the feeling of lightness. Visualizing the box was somehow both easy . . . and difficult. Even so, another box appeared on the table beside the first. To me, they looked the same, but I was so light-headed that I had to put out a hand to the back of the nearest chair and steady myself. I’d never felt weak before when I’d imaged things.

Master Dichartyn looked at both boxes, then picked up the one I had imaged, then the other, weighing them in his hands. After a moment, he shook his head.

I wondered what I’d done wrong.

“You’re an imager, and you could be a very good one. Given your background, Rhennthyl, I can’t say that you’ll like it, but you don’t have much choice.”

I already knew that.