“I don’t recall saying exactly that.”
More word games from Dyana? “Or are you saying that one can only use information after conveying a sense of power?”
“That can be effective, but as you’ve already discovered, being perceived as powerful can also make one a target.”
I managed a smile, then took several bites of the ribs, slightly overcooked, followed by seasoned yellow rice that was moist and savory. I took another sip of hot tea before I spoke. “You have great experience, Maitre Dyana, and I’m afraid that you have the better of me, because, upon considering your words, I seem to be able to come to no other conclusion than the fact that information is effectively useless without power, and yet having power makes one a target, and being a target will eventually destroy one’s power, because targets usually do get destroyed in time.”
“Your logic is good, Rhennthyl, but you are missing one point. I’m not going to tell you what that is, not tonight anyway, because you need to think it through.” She smiled again. “How are you finding the Civic Patrol?”
“As it is, I trust. So far, from what I have seen, some patrollers are dedicated. Others do their job, and a handful shouldn’t be patrollers at all.”
“That is true in all fields.”
“That is my impression, maitre, and I suppose that it applies to High Holders as well.”
“Very much so, although High Holders tend to be less tolerant of those who squander their heritage or whose actions threaten other High Holders for no worthwhile reason.”
“That makes sense.” For all that it did, I didn’t think that she had said it as a pleasant observation.
“It does indeed. Oh . . . I must congratulate you on the portrait that you did of Maitre Poincaryt. I saw it in the receiving hall earlier this week. It’s not only an excellent likeness and lifelike, but it also conveys a sense of power.”
“Thank you.”
After that, the most interesting topics were the weather and the decline of portraiture in Solidar. When I left the dining hall, I picked up a copy of Tableta and read the lead stories, but in the first paragraphs there was little real news about the war, except that the last elements of the “northern fleet” had steamed out of Westisle on Jeudi. Not until I reached the end of the story did I come across an interesting section.
. . . to increase the Army and to assure greater safety in the cities of Solidar, the Council approved a measure, effective immediately, to allow increased conscription levels of young men without permanent trades, positions, or advanced education.
I didn’t like that implication at all, especially since it appeared I’d be working out of Third District station for a time yet.
In fact, I didn’t like the implications of most matters affecting me. High Holder Ryel was clearly trying to squeeze my family, and while I had my own qualms about Rousel’s overall competence, his shortcomings and Ryel’s machinations, unless stopped, would ruin my father and my family. And, like it or not, either Mardoyt or Harraf, if not both, seemed to want to have most unfortunate difficulties befall me.
My efforts to date, based on my observing during the official “working day” of the Patrol, weren’t resolving that problem, and I had yet to put anything in action to deal effectively with High Holder Ryel.
I was going to have to spend a lot more time on the problems facing me . . . before they overwhelmed me and everyone for whom I cared.
27
Samedi morning was foggy, and it had rained during the night, leaving the grass and the walkways damp when I headed out for the obligatory exercise and sparring session. None of the older masters was there except for Schorzat. That left less than half of the normal complement-Baratyn, Dartazn, Martyl, and me. I ended up sparring with Baratyn and getting bruises that would turn sore indeed by the end of the day.
“Not bad, Rhenn,” he told me.
If I hadn’t done badly, I certainly didn’t want to do worse. But then, Baratyn had a good ten years’ experience on me.
With so few older imagers undergoing Clovyl’s exercise session, I wasn’t exactly surprised to find myself alone at breakfast with Heisbyl, a Maitre D’Aspect far older and grayer than I, who almost never ate in the dining hall unless he was the duty imager, but I had to wonder because Samedi wasn’t usually a duty day.
“Good morning,” I offered politely as I poured my tea.
“Good morning, Rhennthyl. A mite cool outside, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s not too bad, not if you keep moving.”
“That’s fine for you young fellows.” He frowned. “You were a portraitist for a time, weren’t you? For Caliostrus?”
“I was, and that was when he did the portrait of your daughter.”
“A good work, if dear. I saw your portrait of Maitre Poincaryt for the first time this morning. Rather fine, I fancy, and I daresay it cost the Collegium far less than what I paid Caliostrus for Verinya’s portrait.” He laughed.
“Far less, at least in coin,” I replied lightly.
“Oh, all of you young masters think you’ve cost the Collegium dearly, and so you have, but so has anyone who’s made master. One cannot make master without self-confidence, and self-confidence combines with youth and ability to make mistakes, and those are costly both in coin and blood.”
I couldn’t argue that . . . and didn’t. I just offered an exaggerated shrug and set to eating the fried cakes dowsed in syrup along with the slab of bacon.
After I excused myself and rose to leave, Heisbyl smiled faintly and said, “It remains to be seen whether you’ll be a greater master imager than you could have been as a master portraiturist. Ability, self-confidence, and dedication suffice for a master portraiturist. They aren’t enough for an imager.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied politely.
“I hope you do.” The smile faded. “I did not.”
“Thank you,” I added.
As I walked northward along the west side of the quadrangle in the cool and still air, Heisbyl’s last words still echoed in my thoughts, as did the sadness behind them. Especially after those words, I didn’t mind getting to the studio early. I’d already wanted to look over what I’d done on both Master Rholyn’s portrait and the one of Seliora that I’d barely begun.
When I walked into the studio, I saw a small iron coal stove that sat almost against the outside wall. An iron chimney had also been installed, with new brickwork around where it went through the wall. A full coal scuttle stood on the stone floor. After opening the stove door to load it, I realized that the ashes were warm and that the studio, while not warm, was certainly not as cold as it had been. That meant Grandisyn, or someone, had been fueling and watching the stove while I was working with the Patrol. After loading the stove, I did manage to image some of the coal into flame.
After that, not only did I get everything set up, but I worked for more than a glass on the background of Master Rholyn’s portrait before he arrived in the studio. By then, the air was far warmer than when I’d first entered the studio, so much so that Master Rholyn had his heavy winter cloak off even before he closed the door behind him.
“Rhennthyl . . . this morning I can only sit for half a glass. I’ve a meeting with Master Poincaryt.”
“If that would press you, sir . . .” I offered.
“No . . . a half glass will allow me more than enough time.”
“I imagine that the events between Ferrum and Jariola-and the Council-have created more than a few problems,” I offered, gesturing toward the crate. “If you don’t mind taking the standing position . . .”
“That’s fine. I’ll be sitting for a good long time after I leave you, I expect.”
I touched the oils on the tray with the brush tip and began to work on an unfinished section where his neck met the collar of his gray shirt. “What will happen now that the Council has declared war on Ferrum, sir? Besides the northern fleet attacking Ferran warships and merchanters, I mean.”