Imager by L. E. Modesitt Page A

well may be, Rhennthyl, but you never did strike me as a young man amenable to the subtle. That can be both a strength and a weakness in Solidar. That’s particularly true here in L’Excelsis, where, at times, one must be subtle and perceptive enough to see what is and why no one will mention it, and yet strong enough to pursue what is necessary without seeming to do so.” Jacquerl paused. “Then, there are other times, such as these. Much as I would like to support an artist of your ability, I cannot. The commissions would not be there, and we would all suffer. You will pardon me, I trust, if after all the years I have been a master, I would prefer not to suffer.”
    “I can appreciate that, sir.”
    The dapper portraiturist smiled, if sadly. “I wish it were otherwise, but we artists do not make the times. We only live in them and portray others who do.” After a pause, he added, “My best to you.”
    Rogaris followed me out onto the front stoop. “I told you . . .”
    “Who told them not to take me on?”
    “What?”
    “I’m not stupid, Rogaris. I may not be subtle, and I’m certainly not very good at being indirect, but your master as much as said he was told he’d never get another commission, or not many, if he took me on as a journeyman.”
    Rogaris shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t even say as much to me as he just said to you. I think it’s a measure of respect to you that he said as much as he did.”
    That kind of respect I could do without, especially if it kept me from being a portraiturist. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
    “You’re still going to try others?”
    “There aren’t that many more left, but I will.”
    Rogaris nodded. “I thought you might. Best of fortune.”
    He watched as I walked off down toward the corner and the winding lane that would take me back out to the boulevard. I thought about stopping at the confectioner’s on the corner, until I realized I had but a single silver and three coppers in my wallet—and no way to get more, except through the charity of my parents. That grated on my sensibilities, and I could feel more than a little anger churning inside me. Could it be that I was going to be forced to choose between being an ineffective wool factor or chancing the unknown world of Imagisle?
    A half glass later, I stepped up to Master Kocteault’s studio door.
    Aurelean opened it. “Ah . . . dear Rhennthyl. After I heard the news about Master Caliostrus, I’d thought you might make an appearance at Master Kocteault’s studio door. Alas, he simply has no position for a journeyman and is unlikely to have one for at least two years.”
    “Oh? Two years? That’s rather precise, isn’t it, Aurelean?”
    “His very words were that one journeyman was more than enough difficulty and obligation, and since you—he was referring to me, of course—have two years before I’ll recommend you for master, there’s no point in talking to the poor fellow.”
    “Is he in?”
    “Alas, he is not. He is doing a sitting at High Factor Zatoryn’s—his wife. She is striking, quite beautiful, you know?”
    “When will he be back?”
    “I couldn’t say, dear Rhennthyl, and I doubt that he would be able to tell you any more than I have. He might say it more diplomatically, but the message would be the same.” His smile was oily, supercilious, and simpering. “We all wish you the very best.”
    He closed the door as I stood there.
    There were still some of the lesser masters I could talk to, but I was getting a very strong feeling that my father had been all too accurate in his assessment of my prospects.
    Still . . . there was no point in leaving any stone unturned.
    I took a deep breath and began to walk the three blocks to the Boulevard D’Este. I had several milles to go along the Nordroad and then the Sudroad toward the Avenue of Artisans in order to reach the other cluster of master portraiturists.

The longest journeys are the ones where