“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.
14
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.”