“Oh!” Tomaz turned and gestured. “This is my daughter Zerlenya.” He beckoned again. “Zerlenya, come and meet Rhennthyl. It’s not every day you get to meet an imager that you know personally-or his father, anyway.”
Zerlenya stepped forward, offering a tentative smile. She was thin, almost painfully so, but she had wide cheekbones, and a clear pale complexion, with tight-curled jet-black hair that would have dropped to midshoulder had it not been swept up and curled into a swirl at the back of her long neck. Her eyes were pale gray, and in the off-white gown and shoulder scarf, she gave the impression of a beautiful swan, if one ready to take wing at the slightest danger.
“I’m pleased to meet you.” I offered a smile with my words.
“Father has spoken of you. I’ve never met an imager.”
“You have now. I’m a very recent imager, though.”
“What can you image?”
“So far I’ve managed a copy of my brother’s wife’s comb, a box, and all sorts of small objects in training, including a metal bar or two.”
“That doesn’t sound terribly dangerous.” Her voice was thin and bright, the kind that could be heard across a room.
“I hope not. Time will tell.”
“It always does.”
I just nodded to that.
“Do you like being an imager?”
I hadn’t really thought about that, unlike being a portraiturist. I’d wanted to paint, but since I’d never considered being an imager until I discovered I had the talent, it hadn’t been a question of liking, but of doing the best I could. “I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not an occupation you dream about as a child.”
“But do you like it? Father’s always saying that you cannot be good at something unless you like doing it.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I do. That’s why Uncle Weidyn is so good a cabinetmaker.”
“I haven’t met him. I’ve only met Aeylana.”
“Oh . . . yes. You did the portrait, didn’t you? It’s very pleasant.”
I couldn’t help but bristle inside. When someone refers to a work of art, even one that is not superb, as “nice” or “pleasant,” it means that they don’t know art or that they think it’s terrible. “She seemed to like it.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“She was very good at the sittings.”
“She’s very good, and very well mannered.”
Before long, Nellica rang the dinner chimes, and we repaired to the dining chamber, where we stood behind our chairs. The dinner settings were not strictly formal, because Father was flanked by Madame Tomaz and Zerlenya, while Mother was flanked by Tomaz and me, but with just six it really didn’t matter. Anyone could converse with anyone else.
Father rested his hands on the back of his chair and offered the blessing.
“In peace and harmony,” we all murmured when he finished, then seated ourselves.
Father carved the side of beef with his usual dispatch and efficiency, and before long, plates and goblets were full.
“How is the produce business these days?”
“Slow . . . so slow, Chenkyr. We’re almost through our stored stocks of root vegetables and the like. The spring vegetables and fruits from the South won’t be in for another month, three weeks if we’re fortunate. You can sell cloth at any time.”
“Ah . . . my friend . . . I can sell at any time, but I have to buy the wool and arrange the weaving almost a year in advance, and pay much in advance, and if I judge wrong . . .” Father shrugged expressively. He always showed more emotion when he talked about business.
“You can always sell wool; it does not spoil.”
“The price. It is always the price at which one buys, not the price at which one sells.”
I looked at Zerlenya and offered a helpless shrug.
A ghost of a smile was her reply.
“Father is most at home talking business,” I added, “wherever he is.”
“Business is what supports the home,” said Tomaz enthusiastically. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We’re not High Holders who talk about music no one can understand or books no one has read.”
Khethila would have disputed that, but I doubted that Tomaz had ever seen a copy of Madame D’Schendael’s book. I looked to Zerlenya. “Do you follow the produce business?”
“It would be difficult not to. Father insists we know everything.”
“And why not?” replied Tomaz. “If anything happened to me, the Nameless forbid, if you didn’t know the business, how would you all get by? Even you, Zerlenya, know more than I did at your age, and a good thing it is, too.”
“Are all of your children following in the business?” asked Mother.
“All but Thurlyn,” answered Madame Tomaz. “He’s an ensign in the Navy. He’s stationed on the Rex Charyn. He’s always loved the water . . .”
From there the conversation remained firmly fixed in the areas of the mundane, and no one said anything about imagers and Imagisle.
Once the guests had left, nearly two glasses later, Mother closed the front door and turned to me. “What did you think of Zerlenya?”
“She’s very nice.”
“You didn’t like her, then.”
“She is pretty, in an ethereal way. I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”
“That’s not the question,” interjected Father. “Could you be happy with her?”
“It is the question, Father. Imagers cannot marry those who are not happy with them.”
“Marriage isn’t just about lust.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that it’s very important that an imager and his or her spouse get along well. More important than with other couples.”
There must have been something in my voice. They exchanged glances.
After a moment, Mother said, “You know best.”
Her tone suggested that I knew anything but. “It’s something that all the senior imagers have stressed, Mother. I might not know, but I have to trust that they do.”
“I see.” This time, there was resignation in her voice. “I hope you find someone.”
So did I, I reflected as I left.
At least they provided Charlsyn and the coach for the ride back to the Bridge of Hopes. For better or worse, Artiema had set and Erion-the grayish red lesser hunter-stood almost at its zenith, ruling the night sky.
38
One cannot love truly without loving truly the words
of one’s lover.
The second week with Maitre Dyana was even more rigorous than the first, but I felt that I was learning a great deal, especially in how to focus imagery and to use the least amount necessary. But she still kept demanding more and more finesse.
“Dear boy, you are but one imager, and at times, you could face far more than a ruffian or two. Without precision and finesse, you will be lost.”
Precision and finesse! How often I heard those words, but I could take consolation in the results, even if my performance was seldom to the level she demanded. The same was true of my work with Clovyl. I could feel my skills improving, steadily, if not dramatically.
With Master Jhulian, I had no such consolation. As soon as I learned one aspect of the law, we pressed on to the next. The assignment that had concerned me the most had been on murder, as defined in the Juristic Code. Master Jhulian had examined me in great detail on that. When I had asked why, his response had been direct.
“Contrary to your unstated belief, I am not trying to make a nomologist out of you. I am trying to instill the knowledge you may need to survive. Because any unexplained death in these times tends to be laid at the feet of the imagers, it is important for every imager to understand what murder is, in both real and legal terms, and to make sure that he or she is never involved in something that could be termed murder, either by the newsheets or the civic patrollers.”
Because I felt every word meant something, I committed the phrase to memory and wrote it down as soon as I returned to my room that Vendrei. “Never involved in something that could be termed murder” was a phrase that could cover a myriad of meanings-and sins.