I shook my head. “I wanted to try something else.” I saw no point in painting a portrait for which I would likely not get paid. It was better to try something else and stretch my abilities.
Staela reappeared and set the hot wine on the table in passing. I cupped my hands around the mug, letting the heat warm chill fingers, before I took a first sip. Then I held it at chin level and let the warmth coming from the mug caress my face.
“Cold out there, even for mid-Ianus,” observed Rogaris.
“Cold enough,” I admitted. “Are you going back over to the Festival Hall?”
Rogaris shook his head. “Master Jacquerl said there wasn’t much point in my entering any studies this year.” He smiled. “Besides, Aemalye has the night off, and the governess’s quarters to herself.” He stood a last swallow from his mug, then set it on the table.
“That sounds promising.”
“Most promising. We’re saving for the bond to open my own studio, and we’ll wed once I make master, a year from this coming Agostos.” Rogaris stood. “Until later, Rhenn, and best of fortune this evening.”
“Thank you.” I slipped around the table and took the narrow chair, just before Staela returned with the chipped brown crockery platter on which was my croissant, along with three fat rice-fries drizzled with balsamic vinegar.
“Eat hearty,” offered Staela as she hurried away.
I took a small bite. I wasn’t in any hurry. The judging results wouldn’t be announced until the sixth glass, and the bells of the fifth glass hadn’t yet rung. I couldn’t help but think about Rogaris. He was less than three years older than I was. I couldn’t conceive of being married soon, not after growing up with Rousel, and then Khethila and Culthyn.
I savored the golden-brown fried ham croissant, alternating with bites from the crunchy fried sticky rice. Then I sat at the tiny table and sipped the warm winter wine, enjoying the melded taste of wine and spices- cinnamon, cloves, and shaeric.
Eventually, I finally finished the last of the winter wine, as much because Staela kept glaring at me as because I was in any haste, and rose, leaving a copper for her and making my way back out into the cold and across the tightly set paving stones of the avenue to the square itself. Festival Hall dominated the Guild Square. Properly speaking, they were the Artisans’ Festival Hall and the Artisans’ Guild Square. Each of the four main artisans’ guilds had a wing of the building, and in the center was the Festival Hall proper. The north wing was the province of the masons’, stonemasons’, and sculptors’ guilds; the west wing was that of the cabinetmakers’ and woodcrafters’ guilds; the south wing belonged to the various representative artists’ guilds, including the portraiturists’ guild; and the east wing was that of the glassblowers’ and various metalcrafters’ guilds.
The guild wings were closed and locked, and I entered the hall through the door between the east and the south wing, nodding at the guard in gray just inside. The four huge ceramic stoves-one for each wing, so to speak-kept my breath from steaming, but the cavernous space was cold enough that I wasn’t about to loosen my jacket.
The display works were hung by guild, and I walked to where mine had been placed, on the far left end of those submitted, one of three-out of nineteen-that didn’t have a portrait component. My painting-a study, really- depicted a chessboard seen from an angle. In addition to the pieces still in play, one could see two goblets of wine, one on each end of the board. The goblet at the end with the fewest pieces taken off the board was more than half full and held a dark red wine, a claret almost as black as the pieces beside it. On the white end of the board, the goblet held but a trace of white wine, a grisio, in my mind. The white imager had been laid on its side, signifying resignation, because in three moves, black would have won by checkmate.
As I stepped back, someone coughed, politely, and I turned.
A tall figure, wearing a solid dark green woolen coat and scuffed but sturdy brown boots, looked at me. His face was thin, accentuated by a wispy white goatee and high cheekbones. His eyes looked to be watery gray in the fading light that sifted through the high clerestory windows. Only half the brass wall lanterns had been lit, but the lamplighter was making his way around the outer walls of the hall. “Ah . . . you’d be Rhennthyl, young Caliostrus’s journeyman.”
“I’m Rhenn.” Young Caliostrus? He was older than my own father, if not by much.
“Good work there. It won’t win, though.”
“Why do you say that?” I had my own ideas, but I wanted to hear what the old artisan might offer-if he was an artisan at all.
“It’s understated. Symbolic, too, and the symbol is the one that no one wants to face.”
“Defeat? A setback? The favor of the Namer?” Like it or not, we all faced setbacks, sooner or later.
“No . . . being forced to resign in the face of superior ability. Don’t you know that’s the greatest fear of any artist? It’s not the fear of death, but the fear of being forced to admit someone else is better. The mark of the Namer is nothing compared to that.” The old artisan laughed. “You’ll see, young fellow. That you will.” Then he turned and walked away.
I couldn’t say that I disagreed with his words, but why had he even bothered to speak to me? And who was he?
A rotund man walked toward me, and it took a moment to recognize Master Estafen. I’d been introduced to him once before, and I’d seen him from a distance upon several occasions. I didn’t know any of his journeymen or apprentices, but he had several of each, and perhaps the most successful portrait studio in L’Excelsis, with the possible exception of Jacquerl. Although the judges were never revealed, I wondered if he might be one of them.
I inclined my head in respect. “Master Estafen.”
“Journeyman Rhennthyl. I saw old Grisarius talking to you.”
“Was that who it was?”
“Oh . . . Grisarius is just the name everyone calls him. Once, he was Emanus D’Arte, and considered one of the best portraiturists in L’Excelsis. But he did a seascape of a beach near Erlescue. Nothing wrong with that, so long as he didn’t sell it. He not only sold it, but he sold it to one of the master imagers, a Maitre D’Esprit, no less, and then told everyone.” Master Estafen shrugged. “After that, the guild had no choice. He was expelled. He had enough put by, I guess, to keep some rooms off the Boulevard D’Imagers. He comes every year to look at the works entered by the journeymen.”
“I thought he might be an artisan of some sort, but . . .”
“He was one of the greatest, but, like many who are great or close to greatness, he thought he was above the rules that govern a guild. Or a city.” He paused, then added, “Or a land.”
“Rules are necessary,” I admitted.
“I saw your work, Rhennthyl. It is good. You could be an outstanding portraiturist. Do not make life harder for yourself than it has to be. A good artist has enough difficulty becoming both great and secure in his position.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded most politely.
With a warm smile whose depth was more than a little suspect to me, Master Estafen nodded and moved away.
In turn, I nodded to some of the other journeymen walking around. Be-lius was a landscape artist, but his studies were too gray. Morgad had a piece that wasn’t bad, but it was a portrait of an older man that suggested both corpulence and greed, and accurate as it was, I doubted it would be considered for an award. Aurelean, as always, strutted around and avoided mingling with anyone who toiled for one of the “lesser” masters, such as Caliostrus, even though his master, Kocteault, wasn’t always considered among the “greater.”
On the other hand, Elphens, who was by far the best-dressed and most stylish of all the journeymen, smiled broadly and insincerely and even spoke. “It’s good to see you, Rhenn. I enjoyed your study piece. It was most thought-provoking.”
“Thank you. Your gardens were most intriguing.” That was the best I could do.
Before long, Arasmes, the scrivener for the Portraiture Guild, stepped up before the middle of the displayed works. He didn’t shout or yell. He just waited until the handful of journeymen standing around stopped talking and looked in his direction. I remained well in the back, in the shadows, doubting my work would be considered, but hoping nonetheless.
“The judges have decided on the prizes for this year’s journeyman competition.” Arasmes took a long
