Imager's Challenge (3 page)

“I’ll let you know,” Clovyl added before turning away and addressing Dartazn. “You’re slowing down there.”

“Late night last night, sir.” Dartazn smiled apologetically.

I couldn’t help grinning as I walked back toward my quarters in the building that housed single imagers tertius and a few single junior masters like me.

After showering and shaving, I dressed and headed for the dining hall. Once there, I still felt strange taking a seat at the masters’ table, the smaller table at one end of the hall, set perpendicular to the two long tables, one for imagers primus, and the other for imagers secondus and tertius. My lack of ease came from the fact that I’d only been a master for a little over two weeks, and I was by far the youngest at the table. Ferlyn was the only master who was close to my age—the only officially revealed master, at least, because some of the field and covert operatives, such as Baratyn, who headed security at the Council Chateau, held the hidden rank and pay of Maitre D’Aspect. I sat next to Ferlyn, and we were joined by Isola who, although technically a tertius, was granted master privileges as the chorister of the Nameless at the Anomen D’Imagisle.

“Good morning, Rhenn, Ferlyn.”

“Good morning,” I replied. Isola was always cheerful, and while we were generally expected to attend services on Solayi evening, for me that had been no real problem, because her homilies were usually so good that it didn’t bother me that I wasn’t even sure whether I believed in the Nameless.

“Did either of you see
Veritum
this morning?” asked Ferlyn.

“I’m part of Clovyl’s morning torture group. I usually don’t get a chance to pick up the newsheets until after breakfast. What’s happened now?”

“The Oligarch of Jariola claims that the Ferrans are massing forces on the border next to the coal mines, and Chief Councilor Suyrien has sent a communiqué to Ferrial suggesting that Solidar regards that as a hostile and provocative act.”

“Is our southern fleet heading north from Caenen and Tiempre?” asked Isola as she passed the flatcakes and berry syrup to me.

“There’s nothing in either
Tableta
or
Veritum
,” Ferlyn replied. “The First Speaker of Tiempre issued another warning about our trade agreement with Caenen, though.”

“Their implied surrender,” I said dryly. “What did he say?”

“Something about now Solidar would pay deeply and in its heart for the treachery of its agreement with the demons of Caenen, that sort of thing.” Ferlyn snorted.

“They’re unhappy we didn’t declare war on Caenen over their killings of
our envoy’s staff members,” I suggested. “Then they could have had an excuse to invade and grab land.”

“Submissive treaties are a less expensive way for the Council to get cheaper raw materials.”

“The Abiertan Assembly is debating a declaration of neutrality, or they were last week,” offered Isola. “If war breaks out, that would deny us use of the ports in the Abierto Isles for recoaling and resupply, wouldn’t it?”

“If they pass such a measure,” Ferlyn replied, “but I’d judge that they’re stalling to keep Ferrum from declaring war on them, while they wait to see what we’ll do.”

That seemed more likely to me, but I concentrated on the corn flatcakes and sausage and syrup, along with the mug of hot tea that I’d poured.

“Does Ferrum have that large a navy?” asked Isola.

“Only ours is larger, and not by much, but our ships are newer and better. They have a larger army and more troop transports. If we didn’t stop them on the high seas, they could certainly overrun the Isles.”

I didn’t pretend to understand the hostility of the Ferrans, especially since both Ferrum and Solidar tended to emphasize freedom of commerce, and neither was controlled by a hereditary ruler, despot, or oligarchy in the way lands like Jariola, Caenen, or Tiempre were. My own experiences with the late and less than honorable Klauzvol Vhillar suggested that they were every bit as ruthless as the Collegium was reputed to be.

I just listened as Isola and Ferlyn talked.

After breakfast, I hurried north along the west side of the quadrangle toward the large, oblong, gray granite building that held workrooms of various sizes, as well as some of the specialized manufacturing chambers—all lead-lined so that one imager’s work didn’t affect another’s, the same reason why we all had separate quarters with lead-lined walls and leaded glass windows—because imagers’ dreams and thoughtless desires could have most unfortunate consequences—as I well knew. After I’d become an imager tertius, Master Dichartyn had arranged for one of the smallest workrooms with northern light to be turned into a portraiture studio, and one of my additional duties, as possible, was to paint the portraits of senior imagers. I’d only just completed the first—that of Master Poincaryt—not only the head of the Collegium, but also a Maitre D’Esprit, one of but two, the other being Master Dichartyn. Master Poincaryt was supposed to come by the studio to see it sometime after eighth glass. He hadn’t seen the finished version, and I was more than a bit nervous about showing it to him.

Because I reached my workroom-studio with a good quarter glass to spare, I spent the time sketching an alternative design for the portrait of Seliora. While the convention was to paint most portraits—especially of women—in a sitting position, I’d decided to do Seliora standing. I’d seen the miniature that Emanus had done of his unacknowledged daughter—Madame Juniae D’Shendael—and that had been done with her standing, and it had a power that a sitting portrait seldom possessed.

Absently, I still wondered exactly what the connection had been between Vhillar and Madame D’Shendael. They hadn’t been lovers. Political allies, perhaps, since Vhillar had represented Ferrum—which opposed all blood-based hereditary nobility, such as the High Holders of Solidar or the Oligarchy of Jariola—and since Madame D’Shendael had been writing and pressing for a Council of Solidar with at least some councilors being directly elected, rather than being appointed by their guilds or associations or by a vote among High Holders.

Just as the first bells of eighth glass began to chime from the anomen tower, Master Poincaryt stepped through the open studio door. “Good morning, Rhennthyl.”

“Good morning, sir.”

Master Poincaryt frowned, ever so slightly, an expression that lent severity to a lined and squarish face softened but a touch by a chin that was slightly pointed and rounded. Under jet-black hair and heavy eyebrows, also jet-black, his pale gray eyes took in everything, as always. He wore exactly the same gray garb as did every imager, with the addition of a small silver four-pointed star circled in silver and worn high on the left breast of his waistcoat, seemingly identical to the one Master Dichartyn had given me the day before. “Do I want to see the final version of the portrait?”

“I would hope so, sir. But it’s not framed, and that will improve the setting.”

“Is it that unflattering?” His words were offered with a smile.

“No, sir, but since it’s your portrait, in the end you’re the one who has to judge.”

He laughed. “You flatter me, Rhenn. In the end, the artist is always the judge, for the portrait always outlasts the person painted.” He walked over to the easel and studied the image. “It’s accurate, and not too unflattering. It’s a good work.” He paused. “You didn’t sign it, Rhenn, not fully.”

“According to the Portaiturist Guild, only paintings which are commissioned and sold through the guild can be signed. So I just used my initials—‘R D’I.’ That seemed the best compromise. Since it’s acceptable, I’ll arrange with the cabinetmakers to get it framed.”

Master Poincaryt nodded. “Whom do you think you should paint next?”

The person I really wanted to paint next was Seliora, but I’d have to work out how to pay for the paints and supplies for that, since the Collegium had equipped the studio fully, but I didn’t want to bring that up with Master Dichartyn. Not yet, anyway. “I hadn’t thought about that, sir, but shouldn’t it be Master Dichartyn, Master Rholyn, or Master Jhulian?”

“Those would be good choices, but of the three I would suggest Master Rholyn . . . for a number of reasons. I will discuss it with others. Whoever it is will be here next Samedi.”

After Master Poincaryt left, I worked more on the design for Seliora’s portrait and then tried a rough sketch of Master Rholyn from memory, setting him in the Council chamber at the Chateau, standing below the upper dais where the High Council sat.

Ferlyn and I were the only masters at lunch, unsurprisingly on a sunny Samedi, since there were perhaps a score and a half of Maitres D’Aspect across all of Solidar, only a handful of Maitres D’Structure, and just two Maitres D’Esprit. At present, the Collegium had no Maitre D’Image, and there had been but a handful of imagers that accomplished in the entire history of the Collegium. Most of the masters were married, and seldom took meals in the dining hall, except the noon meal during the week or when they had duties that kept them near the quadrangle.

Afterward, I reread sections of the patroller procedures for a while in the study of my personal chambers. I had mixed feelings about the evening ahead. I knew I’d be glad to be with Seliora, but I couldn’t say that I was totally looking forward to a dinner with my parents and two other couples who were their friends.

I walked across the Bridge of Hopes at just before fourth glass, glancing down at the lower than usual gray waters of the River Aluse. I was holding full imager shields, as I’d had to do for months now, although I had doubts that High Holder Ryel would resort to something as direct as assassination, not after he’d had Taudischef Artazt garroted for attempting to have me assassinated. Still, matters couldn’t have gotten any better, either, not since the High Holder’s daughter had asked me to dance at the Council’s Harvest Ball, and flaunted the fact before her younger brother, the heir to his father.

Once across the bridge, I looked for a flower seller, but I didn’t see one. Then, no one had taken the place of the woman who had been shot when the Ferran had tried to kill me. In a strange way, I missed her and her faded green and yellow umbrella.

Before I had stood at the corner of East River Road and the Boulevard
D’Imagers all that long, I saw the familiar brass-trimmed brown coach that belonged to my parents. Charlsyn spotted me at close to the same time and eased the coach over to the curb, just in front of the west end of the narrow gardens that flanked the boulevard—behind the low stone wall at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Master Rhennthyl.” He nodded.

“Charlsyn, thank you for picking me up.” Although Charlsyn had never said a word, I had the feeling that he was as pleased as my mother had been about my becoming an imager master.

“You’re most welcome, sir. NordEste Design?”

I nodded, trying not to smile too broadly, then climbed into the coach. Normally, I’d have used a hack to pick up Seliora, but when Mother discovered that, she’d insisted that the family coachman pick both of us up, declaring that it was unseemly that a master imager arrive in a coach for hire. Unseemly, anyway, if certain guests might be there.

From the east side of the Bridge of Hopes, the drive took only about a third of a glass before Charlsyn brought the coach to a halt before the north entrance of NordEste Design on Hagahl Lane. That was the private family entrance, with gray stone steps up to a small square and pillared covered porch that shielded a stone archway, and a polished oak door. NordEste Design was manufactory/crafting hall/home, all in one, to Seliora’s family. The yellow brick building with its gray cornerstones rose three stories. All the casements and wooden trim—even the wood of the loading docks at the south end—were stained with a brown oil.

I clambered out and looked up. “If you’d just wait, Charlsyn. She’s usually ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

I continued to carry full shields all the way to the door, but I didn’t have a chance to even lift the brass knocker before Bhenyt—Seliora’s young cousin—opened the door.

“Master Rhennthyl.” He grinned at me. “She’s already waiting.”

“Thank you, Bhenyt. Lead on.”

I followed him up the stairs toward the second level, which held the more public rooms of the two living levels, the second and third levels of the building, since the ground-floor level was given over to workrooms and power loom spaces. The carved balustrades and shimmering brass fixtures emphasized the elegance of the staircase, which opened at the top into an entry more than eight yards wide and ten deep. The walls were paneled in light golden oak from carved baseboards to ceiling. Only a yard or so of the intricate
parquet floor was visible, largely covered as it was by a deep maroon carpet, with a border of intertwined golden chains and brilliant green leafy vines. An assortment of various chairs and settees were upholstered in the fabric designs that I now knew had been largely designed by Seliora and her mother. A pianoforte dominated the far end of the hall.

Seliora stood at the front edge of the carpet, wearing a crimson dress, trimmed in black velvet, with a filmy and shimmering black jacket and a matching black scarf. With her black eyes and jet-black hair, the effect was stunning—and not just to me, I’d discovered over the past year. If I could somehow capture that in the portrait . . .

She smiled, and for a moment, all I could do was look. Then I stepped forward and embraced her . . . gently, not wanting to disarrange her, at least not before dealing with my parents and their guests. I did get a warm kiss.