sell cloth at any time.”
“Ah . . . my friend . . . I can sell at any time, but I have to buy the wool and arrange the weaving almost a year in advance, and pay much in advance, and if I judge wrong . . .” Father shrugged expressively. He always showed more emotion when he talked about business.
“You can always sell wool; it does not spoil.”
“The price. It is always the price at which one buys, not the price at which one sells.”
I looked at Zerlenya and offered a helpless shrug.
A ghost of a smile was her reply.
“Father is most at home talking business,” I added, “wherever he is.”
“Business is what supports the home,” said Tomaz enthusiastically. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We’re not High Holders who talk about music no one can understand or books no one has read.”
Khethila would have disputed that, but I doubted that Tomaz had ever seen a copy of Madame D’Schendael’s book. I looked to Zerlenya. “Do you follow the produce business?”
“It would be difficult not to. Father insists we know everything.”
“And why not?” replied Tomaz. “If anything happened to me, the Nameless forbid, if you didn’t know the business, how would you all get by? Even you, Zerlenya, know more than I did at your age, and a good thing it is, too.”
“Are all of your children following in the business?” asked Mother.
“All but Thurlyn,” answered Madame Tomaz. “He’s an ensign in the Navy. He’s stationed on the
From there the conversation remained firmly fixed in the areas of the mundane, and no one said anything about imagers and Imagisle.
Once the guests had left, nearly two glasses later, Mother closed the front door and turned to me. “What did you think of Zerlenya?”
“She’s very nice.”
“You didn’t like her, then.”
“She is pretty, in an ethereal way. I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”
“That’s not the question,” interjected Father. “Could you be happy with her?”
“It is the question, Father. Imagers cannot marry those who are not happy with them.”
“Marriage isn’t just about lust.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that it’s very important that an imager and his or her spouse get along well. More important than with other couples.”
There must have been something in my voice. They exchanged glances.
After a moment, Mother said, “You know best.”
Her tone suggested that I knew anything but. “It’s something that all the senior imagers have stressed, Mother. I might not know, but I have to trust that they do.”
“I see.” This time, there was resignation in her voice. “I hope you find someone.”
So did I, I reflected as I left.
At least they provided Charlsyn and the coach for the ride back to the Bridge of Hopes. For better or worse, Artiema had set and Erion-the grayish red lesser hunter-stood almost at its zenith, ruling the night sky.
38
One cannot love truly without loving truly the words
of one’s lover.
The second week with Maitre Dyana was even more rigorous than the first, but I felt that I was learning a great deal, especially in how to focus imagery and to use the least amount necessary. But she still kept demanding more and more finesse.
“Dear boy, you are but one imager, and at times, you could face far more than a ruffian or two. Without precision and finesse, you will be lost.”
Precision and finesse! How often I heard those words, but I could take consolation in the results, even if my performance was seldom to the level she demanded. The same was true of my work with Clovyl. I could feel my skills improving, steadily, if not dramatically.
With Master Jhulian, I had no such consolation. As soon as I learned one aspect of the law, we pressed on to the next. The assignment that had concerned me the most had been on murder, as defined in the Juristic Code. Master Jhulian had examined me in great detail on that. When I had asked why, his response had been direct.
“Contrary to your unstated belief, I am not trying to make a nomologist out of you. I am trying to instill the knowledge you may need to survive. Because any unexplained death in these times tends to be laid at the feet of the imagers, it is important for every imager to understand what murder is, in both real and legal terms, and to make sure that he or she is never involved in something that could be termed murder, either by the newsheets or the civic patrollers.”
Because I felt every word meant something, I committed the phrase to memory and wrote it down as soon as I returned to my room that Vendrei. “Never involved in something that could be termed murder” was a phrase that could cover a myriad of meanings-and sins.
By the time I returned from the dining hall after lunch on Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle. I’d been looking forward to that afternoon and evening, particularly after the long evening the week before at my parents’ house. I had written them a short note thanking them for their thoughtfulness and kindness, and the wonderful food-which it had been. I doubted that would much appease my mother, who definitely wanted her eldest son married to someone from the “right” background, certainly not another Pharsi girl, and before all that long . . . and never mind the imager business.
Ready as I was to depart Imagisle right after lunch . . . I didn’t. Instead, I sat down and attempted to organize my thoughts on my final essay for Master Jhulian-an analysis of the applicability of the Juristic Code to imagers. Two glasses later I had three pages of notes and an outline-as well as a profound desire to leave Imagisle as soon as possible. Since I had the feeling that I might be meeting Seliora’s parents, I did wear my best uniform and make sure that my boots were well blacked and shining. I had also squeezed in another haircut on Jeudi.
Outside, the day was pleasant, if overcast, with a slight breeze out of the northwest. I did have to wait almost a quarter of a glass before a hacker stopped to pick me up.
“Nordroad and Hagahl Lane, on the east side.”
He nodded, and I stepped up into the cab. The inside was clean, but threadbare.
When I descended onto the pavement close to a half glass later, I found that the building that served Seliora and her family as factory, factorage, and dwelling was far larger and more impressive in the daylight than in the lamplit gloom of late evening. The walls rose three stories, and the yellow brick was trimmed with gray granite cornerstones. Even the wood of the loading docks at the south end was stained with a brown oil and well kept, and the loading yard itself was stone-paved. The entrance on the side street to the north was the private family entrance, and it had a square and pillared covered porch that shielded a stone archway.
The hacker looked at me, and my grays, then at the stone entryway, but he said nothing. I gave him two coppers extra, then made my way up the steps. In the middle of the wide eight-panel door was an ancient and ornate brass knocker. Both the knocker and the plate had seen much wear, but both were brightly polished. I gave the knocker one hefty blow, then prepared to wait, but the door opened immediately.
Odelia stood there in the modest foyer, dressed in a pale green dress and darker green shawl that set off her coloring well. “Do come in, Master Rhennthyl.” She grinned at me.
“Thank you, Odelia, but I won’t be a master for some time.”
