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.