Or hot spiced winter wine?”
“The spiced, please. It was a cold walk here.”
“Rousel always hires a carriage when he and Remaya visit.” That was from Culthyn, who had slipped down the front main staircase from the upstairs sitting room.
“He’s a factor,” I pointed out. “I’m an artist.”
“Master Caliostrus has a carriage,” Culthyn pointed out. “Why don’t you?”
Culthyn clearly took after Rousel, but I only said, “Because I’m not a master yet, and don’t have my own studio. It takes longer when you’re an artist.”
“Father could help with the studio.”
“He can’t,” I pointed out. “You can’t open a studio unless you’re a junior master artist, and that takes at least five years as a journeyman, and you have to be approved by your master and by the guild board.” That approval required either great talent, or a certain amount of quiet “gifting,” but the five-year requirement was absolute.
“That’s awful when you’re as good as you are,” Culthyn declared.
“That’s the way it is, and I can’t change it.”
Nellica reappeared with a tray holding a goblet and two mugs, offering the tray to Father first. He took the goblet. I took the one of the mugs, and Mother the other.
“We’re having stuffed and sauced fowl,” she said. “With all the wind and chill, it seemed a good hearty meal.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Especially since my board at Master Caliostrus’s didn’t include dinner on either Samedi or Solayi nights, although I could have bread and cheese from the kitchen. I took a sip of the spiced wine, far better than that at Lapinina, not surprisingly, since Father always had a good cellar and Mother could make the best use of it.
“I even have a hot winter pudding for desert,” Mother added.
“Which all of us have had to keep Culthyn out of,” said Khethila.
“There was more than enough,” muttered my youngest brother.
“There wouldn’t have been,” noted Khethila.
Before long we had gathered in the dining chamber, where Father did allow me the grace of sitting at his right and motioning me to offer the blessing.
“For the grace and warmth from above, for the bounty of the earth below, for all beauty and artistry in the world, for your justice, and for your manifold and great mercies, we offer our thanks and gratitude, both now and evermore, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged . . .”
“In peace and harmony.”
“That’s the artists’ blessing, isn’t it?” said Khethila. “I like it.”
“A blessing’s a blessing,” Father said dryly, gesturing for everyone to sit down. “So long as we respect the Nameless, the words can change a bit.”
Personally, I preferred the artists’ version, but then, I hadn’t heard the crafters’ version, or that of the imagers, assuming that they had a version.
After carving and serving the fowl, then settling into his chair, Father politely asked me, “How is the portraiture business coming?” He always referred to portraiture as “business.”
“I’ve had three commissions in the last month or so, that is, commissions where the patron asked for me to do the work. The one I just finished was of Masgayl Factorius.”
“Ah, yes, the rope factor. Does cables and hawsers as well. Turns a shiny silver or two on the heavy cabling.”
“You and he see many things in the same way.” That was fair enough, although I had the sense that Masgayl Factorius was far more ruthless than Father.
“Did he pay well?”
“After costs, my share was a gold.” I didn’t have to mention the charge for the ruined brush. “Master Caliostrus gets half the fee, before costs.”
“You’d . . .” He stopped at the glance from Mother. “Do you have other commissions?”
“I’m doing a portrait of Mistress Thelya D’Scheorzyl. That one will be done in about two weeks, because she can only sit for one glass, once a week.”
“Scheorzyl . . . Scheorzyl . . . Oh . . . he’s the principal advocate-advisor to the Council.”
I hadn’t known that, only that young Thelya’s parents were well connected and well off, since she had a governess and a special feline.
“Her mother was a beauty,” added Mother. “I suppose she still is, but she usually stays at their estate in Tiens. Something about the air in L’Excelsis. What about the daughter?”
“She’s but nine, and very polite. She’s pretty enough now and looks to be the kind who will turn heads in a few years. She might be too sweet, though.”
“That’s always a problem,” suggested Khethila.
“And exactly why might that be a difficulty, daughter?” asked Father.
Khethila ignored the glare and smiled politely. “You wouldn’t be half so well off or half so happy, Father, if Mother didn’t occasionally suggest that matters might be better handled in another fashion. Girls who are too sweet often merely agree.”
“I doubt that will ever be a difficulty for you.” Father did manage a rueful smile before turning to me. “What do you think about the threats that the Caenenan envoy made last week?”
“I hadn’t heard about them,” I had to admit after swallowing a mouthful of the juicy fowl. “What did he say?”
“You hadn’t heard?” asked Culthyn. “How could you not have heard?”
“I was working, unlike some young people,” I replied.
“He uttered some nonsense about our belief in the Nameless being blasphemy and then went on to say that, if any of our people in Caenen tried to blaspheme against their Duodeus god/goddess, they’d be burned alive.”
“What did the Council do?” In spite of myself, I was a bit interested.
“As usual, they dithered. We ship hundreds of tonnes of the fine woods from there-mahogany, ebony, rosewood, not to mention cotton and . . .”
“And elveweed,” added Khethila.
“That’s not a subject for dinner,” Father said firmly.
“Why not?” she demanded. “When the carriage takes me to grammaire, I can see some of the sansespoirs smoking or chewing it. Some of them just lie there-”
“Where?” asked Mother.
“On the stoops of the taudis below South Middle. The wall’s low enough to see over it.”
“I’ll have Charlsyn take you a longer way from now on,” Mother announced in a hard tone that brooked no argument.
“They’ll still be smoking it, and it comes from Caenen. The civic patrollers don’t do anything, either. They just ignore it.”
“Khethila . . . I cannot do anything about the degenerates of L’Excelsis, but I can do something about what you see. You are not being raised like a taudischild . . . or a . . .”
“A Pharsi?” Khethila suggested.
Father cleared his throat, loudly.
“Why does the Council let them sell elveweed here?” asked Culthyn, abruptly.
“They don’t,” replied Father. “It’s prohibited.”
“Then why do the sansespoirs have it to smoke?”
“That’s because sailors and smugglers sneak it in. They can get golds for small amounts,” I pointed out.
“Have you ever smoked any, Rhenn?” asked Culthyn.
“No. I wouldn’t want to.” Why spend golds on pleasure that was gone before you even knew it? Besides, I’d seen what the addicts looked like, and I never wanted to end up like that.
“Don’t some artists?”
