Imager

For some reason, Samedi mornings in Ianus seemed colder than other winter mornings. The ceramic stove in the center of the studio did radiate warmth, but the windowpanes sucked that heat out of the room. The corner windows and those at the other end of the studio were covered with thick hangings, but not the others, because I needed as much light as I could get in order to paint the girl seated on the chair.

“Mistress Thelya . . . if you would please keep looking toward the vase on that table . . . that’s it.”

Her governess refrained from uttering a word.

“Yes, Master Rhennthyl.”

I didn’t correct her this time. There wasn’t any point to it. Mistress Thelya D’Scheorzyl was all of nine years old. She was sweet and had the manners of a much older girl, thankfully, and the attention span of a gnat, not-so-thankfully. She stroked the cat in her arms gently. The cat had yellow-green eyes and a long silky white coat with tortoiseshell accents. Given that Thelya’s mother had insisted that her daughter be painted in a silver-gray dress, I’d had to find a blue-gray-shaded pillow on which the cat could rest in order to get enough contrast between the cat’s coat, Thelya’s pale complexion, and the dress. Even so, I’d had to change the shade of the pillow in the portrait to get those colors and contrasts so that they enhanced her prettiness rather than clashed with it. I still worried about the eyes . . . there was something there I didn’t have quite the way it should be.

“You’ll make Remsi look good, won’t you?”

“You and Remsi will look good together,” I replied, working on Thelya’s jawline.

In some ways, depicting her cat, the rather languorous Remsi, was the easiest part of the commission, because Remsi was almost totally white with the exception of tortoiseshell paws, tail, and ears.

The jawline still wasn’t quite the way I wanted it. I looked to Thelya, fixing the side of her face in my mind, then at the canvas, and the brushstrokes. The oils on the canvas shimmered, then shifted, ever so slightly. The brushstrokes were still mine, but the jawline was cleaner-and right. I’d only been able to do that recently, but I knew what I was doing bordered on imaging. Yet it was only with oils, and it was cleaner and faster than scraping and repainting and certainly better than overpainting. For all that, I wasn’t about to try it often, only when I had a very clear image in my mind-and definitely not when Master Caliostrus was around.

I worked to get the rest of the left side of her face finished before the ten bells of noon chimed-and managed to do so as well as finish the cat’s face as well, setting down the brush just as the first bell rang.

“Can I see?” asked Thelya, scampering off the chair, but still holding the cat.

“We still need two more sittings,” I said to the governess.

“Then . . . next Mardi afternoon, at the third glass of the afternoon, and next Samedi, at the ninth glass of morning.” She nodded brusquely.

Thelya scurried past me to look at the canvas. “That’s Remsi! It looks just like her.”

I forbore to mention that was the point of a portrait and just smiled.

Once I saw them off, I put in another glass of work on details for the portrait that did not require their presence. I used what little of the oils I had left on a small work, a still life, which I could not do for hire or sale, but only for open exhibit at the annual festival-the only venue where an artist could exhibit or sell out of his discipline-although it would be next year’s festival, since the final judging on this year’s submissions would be later in the evening.

Not more than a quarter of a glass had passed, just after I’d finished cleaning the fine-tipped brush that was my own, when Master Caliostrus entered the studio. “Don’t forget to bank the stove before you leave. I’ll not be using the studio this afternoon. Nor will Ostrius.”

Of course, the most honored heir and junior master wouldn’t be working on a Samedi afternoon. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“When will you finish the Mistress Scheorzyl portrait, Rhennthyl?”

“Two more sittings and then a few days of fine work after that, Master Caliostrus. She’ll be here on Mardi and next Samedi.”

“I suppose the delay can’t be helped.”

“Her parents have limited the sittings to once a week, and no more than a glass a time.”

He extended a thin cloth bag. “Factor Masgayl finally paid for the portrait, and here’s your share, Rhennthyl. Go out and celebrate.”

I eased the coins from the bag-eight silvers. I just looked at Caliostrus.

“Half of the fee goes to the master outright. You know that. Then there are the costs for the framing and canvas, not to mention the pigments and oils. There was that one brush you forgot to clean, and replacing it was two silvers.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” All I could do was nod and agree. Masgayl Factorius had paid five golds for the portrait I’d done, and out of that I’d gotten eight silvers. Not only that, but I knew he’d paid Caliostrus on Lundi, and Caliostrus had waited almost a week to pay me. Charging me for the brush was mostly fair. Mostly. I’d mislaid it when Caliostrus had dragged me away from cleaning for some chore he’d thought important and I couldn’t even recall. And it had been an old brush. It seemed to me that after painting portraits for close to three years, while still doing almost all the chores for the studio, I ought to be receiving more than one part in five of the commission, especially since I received nothing else except room, board, and training.

Both Factor Masgayl and Factor Scheorzyl had come seeking my work, not that of Master Caliostrus. Yet . . . even though I did my best to save my coins, I certainly did not have enough to open my own studio-and that did not include the ten golds necessary for the bond to be posted with the Artists’ Guild, not to mention Master Caliostrus’s recommendation and the concurrence of the Portraiture Guild.

“Don’t forget the stove, Rhennthyl,” Caliostrus added before he left, climbing the steps up to the family quarters.

After finishing my cleanup and washing up, later on Samedi afternoon I made my way down toward the Festival Hall, walking out Brayer Lane to North Middle and then southwest on the Midroad.

I stopped at Lapinina. I did deserve a bit of a treat. It was little more than a tiny bistro, tucked between a coppersmith’s on one side and a cooper’s on the other, on the southeast side of Guild Square, between Midroad and Sudroad, just a little place with three windows and a half score of tiny tables. But they knew me.

A trace of rime ice clung to the outer doorframe, but when I opened the door and stepped inside, careful to close it quickly, the warmth and smells of cooking-garlic, baked bread, roasted fowl-enfolded me. All the tables were taken. They usually were.

“Rhenn! Over here!” At the smallest of the tables, squeezed in beside the brick casement separating two windows, sat Rogaris. No one else had such an elegant black spade beard, especially not another journeyman artist, but I supposed that came from working in the studio of Jacquerl, one of the most esteemed of portraiturists in L’Excelsis.

The table where Rogaris sat was so small that on the side across from him was only a stool. It was empty, and I eased onto it. “Thank you.”

“You’ve done the same for me more than a few times.” He grinned, then raised his mug. I could see the faint steam of the hot spiced wine.

“What will you have, Rhenn?” asked Staela, the wife of Ruscol, who owned Lapinina.

“The special fried ham croissant and the better spiced hot wine.”

“That’ll be half a silver.”

I extracted the five coppers from my wallet and handed them over-and she was gone.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Getting warm. I was over at the exhibit. I saw your study. You didn’t enter a portrait?”

I shook my head. “I wanted to try something else.” I saw no point in painting a portrait for which I would likely not get paid. It was better to try something else and stretch my abilities.

Staela reappeared and set the hot wine on the table in passing. I cupped my hands around the mug, letting the heat warm chill fingers, before I took a first sip. Then I held it at chin level and let the warmth coming from the mug caress my face.

“Cold out there, even for mid-Ianus,” observed Rogaris.

“Cold enough,” I admitted. “Are you going back over to the Festival Hall?”

Rogaris shook his head. “Master Jacquerl said there wasn’t much point in my entering any studies this year.” He smiled. “Besides, Aemalye has the night off, and the governess’s quarters to herself.” He stood a last swallow from his mug, then set it on the table.

“That sounds promising.”

“Most promising. We’re saving for the bond to open my own studio, and we’ll wed once I make master, a year from this coming Agostos.” Rogaris stood. “Until later, Rhenn, and best of fortune this evening.”

“Thank you.” I slipped around the table and took the narrow chair, just before Staela returned with the chipped brown crockery platter on which was my croissant, along with three fat rice-fries drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

“Eat hearty,” offered Staela as she hurried away.

I took a small bite. I wasn’t in any hurry. The judging results wouldn’t be announced until the sixth glass, and the bells of the fifth glass hadn’t yet rung. I couldn’t help but think about Rogaris. He was less than three years older than I was. I couldn’t conceive of being married soon, not after growing up with Rousel, and then Khethila and Culthyn.

I savored the golden-brown fried ham croissant, alternating with bites from the crunchy fried sticky rice. Then I sat at the tiny table and sipped the warm winter wine, enjoying the melded taste of wine and spices-cinnamon, cloves, and shaeric.

Eventually, I finally finished the last of the winter wine, as much because Staela kept glaring at me as because I was in any haste, and rose, leaving a copper for her and making my way back out into the cold and across the tightly set paving stones of the avenue to the square itself. Festival Hall dominated the Guild Square. Properly speaking, they were the Artisans’ Festival Hall and the Artisans’ Guild Square. Each of the four main artisans’ guilds had a wing of the building, and in the center was the Festival Hall proper. The north wing was the province of the masons’, stonemasons’, and sculptors’ guilds; the west wing was that of the cabinetmakers’ and woodcrafters’ guilds; the south wing belonged to the various representative artists’ guilds, including the portraiturists’ guild; and the east wing was that of the glassblowers’ and various metalcrafters’ guilds.

The guild wings were closed and locked, and I entered the hall through the door between the east and the south wing, nodding at the guard in gray just inside. The four huge ceramic stoves-one for each wing, so to speak-kept my breath from steaming, but the cavernous space was cold enough that I wasn’t about to loosen my jacket.

The display works were hung by guild, and I walked to where mine had been placed, on the far left end of those submitted, one of three-out of nineteen-that didn’t have a portrait component. My painting-a study, really-depicted a chessboard seen from an angle. In addition to the pieces still in play, one could see two goblets of wine, one on each end of the board. The goblet at the end with the fewest pieces taken off the board was more than half full and held a dark red wine, a claret almost as black as the pieces beside it. On the white end of the board, the goblet held but a trace of white wine, a grisio, in my mind. The white imager had been laid on its side, signifying resignation, because in three moves, black would have won by checkmate.

As I stepped back, someone coughed, politely, and I turned.

A tall figure, wearing a solid dark green woolen coat and scuffed but sturdy brown boots, looked at me. His face was thin, accentuated by a wispy white goatee and high cheekbones. His eyes looked to be watery gray in the fading light that sifted through the high clerestory windows. Only half the brass wall lanterns had been lit, but the lamplighter was making his way around the outer walls of the hall. “Ah . . . you’d be Rhennthyl, young Caliostrus’s journeyman.”

“I’m Rhenn.” Young Caliostrus? He was older than my own father, if not by much.

“Good work there. It won’t win, though.”

“Why do you say that?” I had my own ideas, but I wanted to hear what the old artisan might offer-if he was an artisan at all.

“It’s understated. Symbolic, too, and the symbol is the one that no one wants to face.”

“Defeat? A setback? The favor of the Namer?” Like it or not, we all faced setbacks, sooner or later.

“No . . . being forced to resign in the face of superior ability. Don’t you know that’s the greatest fear of any artist? It’s not the fear of death, but the fear of being forced to admit someone else is better. The mark of the Namer is nothing compared to that.” The old artisan laughed. “You’ll see, young fellow. That you will.” Then he turned and walked away.

I couldn’t say that I disagreed with his words, but why had he even bothered to speak to me? And who was he?

A rotund man walked toward me, and it took a moment to recognize Master Estafen. I’d been introduced to him once before, and I’d seen him from a distance upon several occasions. I didn’t know any of his journeymen or apprentices, but he had several of each, and perhaps the most successful portrait studio in L’Excelsis, with the possible exception of Jacquerl. Although the judges were never revealed, I wondered if he might be one of them.

I inclined my head in respect. “Master Estafen.”

“Journeyman Rhennthyl. I saw old Grisarius talking to you.”

“Was that who it was?”

“Oh . . . Grisarius is just the name everyone calls him. Once, he was Emanus D’Arte, and considered one of the best portraiturists in L’Excelsis. But he did a seascape of a beach near Erlescue. Nothing wrong with that, so long as he didn’t sell it. He not only sold it, but he sold it to one of the master imagers, a Maitre D’Esprit, no less, and then told everyone.” Master Estafen shrugged. “After that, the guild had no choice. He was expelled. He had enough put by, I guess, to keep some rooms off the Boulevard D’Imagers. He comes every year to look at the works entered by the journeymen.”

“I thought he might be an artisan of some sort, but . . .”

“He was one of the greatest, but, like many who are great or close to greatness, he thought he was above the rules that govern a guild. Or a city.” He paused, then added, “Or a land.”

“Rules are necessary,” I admitted.

“I saw your work, Rhennthyl. It is good. You could be an outstanding portraiturist. Do not make life harder for yourself than it has to be. A good artist has enough difficulty becoming both great and secure in his position.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded most politely.

With a warm smile whose depth was more than a little suspect to me, Master Estafen nodded and moved away.

In turn, I nodded to some of the other journeymen walking around. Be-lius was a landscape artist, but his studies were too gray. Morgad had a piece that wasn’t bad, but it was a portrait of an older man that suggested both corpulence and greed, and accurate as it was, I doubted it would be considered for an award. Aurelean, as always, strutted around and avoided mingling with anyone who toiled for one of the “lesser” masters, such as Caliostrus, even though his master, Kocteault, wasn’t always considered among the “greater.”

On the other hand, Elphens, who was by far the best-dressed and most stylish of all the journeymen, smiled broadly and insincerely and even spoke. “It’s good to see you, Rhenn. I enjoyed your study piece. It was most thought-provoking.”

“Thank you. Your gardens were most intriguing.” That was the best I could do.

Before long, Arasmes, the scrivener for the Portraiture Guild, stepped up before the middle of the displayed works. He didn’t shout or yell. He just waited until the handful of journeymen standing around stopped talking and looked in his direction. I remained well in the back, in the shadows, doubting my work would be considered, but hoping nonetheless.

“The judges have decided on the prizes for this year’s journeyman competition.” Arasmes took a long pause, then announced, “Second recognition-and the prize of two golds-goes to Aurelean D’Kocteault for his portrait of Mistress Karlana D’Kocteault. The judges would note that this study is a fine example of a traditional portrait.”

I had to agree. It was indeed an example of tradition. There wasn’t a single item of originality or true artistry anywhere, and I hadn’t seen an original brushstroke in the entire painting. It didn’t hurt that Master Kocteault was the previous guildmaster of the Portraiture Guild and that the portrait had been a flattering image of Kocteault’s elder daughter, who did not look anywhere near so fair as Aurelean had depicted her.

“First recognition goes to Elphens D’Rhenius, along with the prize of five golds. The judges would like to commend journeyman Elphens for his creative use of light in his study of the lower gardens on Council Hill.”

I managed not to snort. Creative use of light was appropriate-since the indirect light he’d depicted in his view of the gardens through a fall mist would have required the sun to be in three places-or that there be three suns in the sky. But Elphens was the journeyman for Master Rhenius D’Arte, considered by some as an equal of Estafen or Jacquerl.

For all that I had expected something like that, the walk back to Master Caliostrus’s in the chill and the dark was less than pleasant. The wind had picked up, and tiny flakes of ice pelted my exposed face, head, and neck. Many of the lanterns outside doors had blown out, and with the storm above, the rays of neither moon penetrated the clouds to offer light.

When I finally reached my small room, my feet were close to numb, and I could not feel the tip of my nose. Even as a journeyman, my quarters were on the street level, between the storerooms and the gallery, where the noises, the odors, and the cold were always the greatest. It took me two tries to slide the door bolt into place. My fingers were so cold that I had to fumble with the striker for several moments before I finally lit the small lamp on the chest.

I pulled off shoes that were both cold and damp, undressed down to my drawers quickly, hung my shirt and trousers on the pegs beside the tall and narrow chest, then wicked down the lamp and blew out the last flicker of flame before clambering into bed. Fortunately, when I’d left home to apprentice to Master Caliostrus, Father had sent me off with heavy blankets and even an old but serviceable comforter. Occasionally, when I visited, Mother slipped me silvers, reminding me that they came from Father, but that he was too proud to hand them to me personally. I had the feeling she was telling the truth about that.

As I lay there in the cold in my narrow bed, slowly warming up, I tried not to think too hard about the patent unfairness of the Festival Hall judging. I’d known it wouldn’t be any different from what had happened, because it had been that way for the previous years, ever since I’d first been an apprentice. Even in the chill of my chamber, before long I was more than warm enough, even in the depths of a cold Ianus, and eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke somewhere in the darkness, so black that I could see nothing. Had the freezing flakes of the night before piled up so high that they had covered and blocked all light from my single narrow window? I felt around, but my blankets and comforter were gone, not that I felt cold, and I sat up, only to discover that I’d been lying on a bench of some sort.

How could that have been? Where was I? Why was it so dark? I knew I’d gone to sleep in my own bed. I needed light. I needed a lamp, one that was lit!

Suddenly, there was light, and I was back under my blankets, peering at the bright glow of the lamp on the chest across from the bed. I just looked at it for a long moment, then to the door, but the bolt was still in place. The window hangings were also shut.

I knew I’d blown out the lamp. I’d even checked it, and I’d never turned the wick up that high because it burned oil too quickly. Was I dreaming?

Gingerly, I eased out from under the now-warm blankets and comforter. The chill, especially from the ancient cold tiles on my bare feet, assured me that I was awake as I crossed the short distance to the chest. The topmost part of the lamp mantle was not that warm, but the lamp had been wicked up.

Had I lit it in my sleep?

The chill of the floor tiles certainly would have awakened me. I’d been dreaming about needing light, needing a lamp, but just dreaming about light didn’t light lamps. I made sure I wicked down the lamp before blowing it out and hurrying back under my blankets. Then I watched the lamp, but it did not light itself.

Again, I slept.