one fears the
destination.
By noon on Samedi, I had visited every portraiturist master in L’Excelsis, and not a single one had an opening for a journeyman, or at least not for me. Then I did some inquiries about the possibilities in the Representationalists’ Guild, and the indications there were even less encouraging, because the guild rules required a full apprenticeship under one of their masters.
On Solayi, I kept mostly to myself, except for a short time when Khethila slipped into the guest chamber. She was concerned, but I had the feeling her concerns were not totally about me, and I wondered if she were having second thoughts about the proposal from Armynd, but she didn’t say, and, the way I felt, I didn’t ask.
After she left, I tried imaging more small things, such as the comb, and encountered more than a few difficulties. Anything metal was difficult, if small, and impossible, for me, if large. Familiar items were the easiest, but only those not too familiar, perhaps because really familiar objects I had taken too much for granted and not really studied. I did convince myself that I had some small imaging talent, but I still wasn’t certain how I could have imaged a fire and explosion when I had such trouble in imaging small household objects.
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
destination.
By noon on Samedi, I had visited every portraiturist master in L’Excelsis, and not a single one had an opening for a journeyman, or at least not for me. Then I did some inquiries about the possibilities in the Representationalists’ Guild, and the indications there were even less encouraging, because the guild rules required a full apprenticeship under one of their masters.
On Solayi, I kept mostly to myself, except for a short time when Khethila slipped into the guest chamber. She was concerned, but I had the feeling her concerns were not totally about me, and I wondered if she were having second thoughts about the proposal from Armynd, but she didn’t say, and, the way I felt, I didn’t ask.
After she left, I tried imaging more small things, such as the comb, and encountered more than a few difficulties. Anything metal was difficult, if small, and impossible, for me, if large. Familiar items were the easiest, but only those not too familiar, perhaps because really familiar objects I had taken too much for granted and not really studied. I did convince myself that I had some small imaging talent, but I still wasn’t certain how I could have imaged a fire and explosion when I had such trouble in imaging small household objects.
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
Similar Books
