Imager by L. E. Modesitt Read Free Book Online

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,