Academic Exercises (64 page)

Well, you see all sorts of weird stuff, and mostly it doesn’t mean a damn thing. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

I tried not to stare. “I want an icon,” I said.

“Of course you do.” He was still smiling in that awkward, anxious-to-please way I really wish I could grow out of some day. “What’ve you got in mind? Any particular category?”

“One,” I said. 

He nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. How big?”

I always ask that; because people never tell you unless you ask, and if it’s not the size they wanted, you get the blame. “About so big,” I said, doing the hand movement my Scrivener friends had done two hours earlier. “Gilded, of course.”

“Naturally.” Of course gilded. Icons are always gilded, but customers keep telling me like I don’t know my own business. “When do you need it by?”

“Soon as possible.” I looked at him. He was making notes, in my tiny, neat-looking-but-very-hard-to-read handwriting;
Cat 1, m, gld’d, asap
. Nobody on earth writes like me. Nobody else can read what I’ve written. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Who are you?” I said.

It’s the one question you don’t ask. He gave me a slightly hungry expression. “You want to know my name?”

Trick question, of course. “You’re Epistemius.”

“That’s right.” He nodded happily. “An assumed name, of course, the name used by whoever it is who paints Epistemius’ paintings. Was that the answer you wanted?”

I got the feeling I was being let off the hook, given a second chance. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly.

“Not at all.” His smile faded. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d get out of here, right now. And I don’t think I’d come back.”

“If you were me.”

He smiled feebly and nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it’s good advice. You’d do well to follow it.”

I took a step back, then hesitated. “My icon,” I said.

“What? Oh.” He nodded and handed it to me. “You do know what’ll happen, don’t you?” he said sadly.

“No.”

“Ah well.”

“What? What’ll happen?”

“It won’t be your fault.” He looked straight at me. I looked away. “It’s an interesting idea,” he went on. “Supposing you knew there was something you could do, and it’d lead to something bad, but nobody would ever blame you for it. It’s better than the perfect crime, because even if there was such a thing, there’s always the possibility that you could confess, and then they’d take you away and hang you. But if this something couldn’t possibly be your fault, even if you confessed, nobody would listen.”

“What? What something?”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said. “Please bear that in mind. You’re not responsible.”

The room was getting dark. I looked past him, and saw that the window was closed and shuttered. One of the few things I learned at the Studium was, don’t hang around in dark Rooms.

“Goodbye,” he called out after me as I opened the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

It was a beautiful icon, though I do say so myself. Into it, someone had poured all the sins and sorrows of the world, above which the Invincible Sun rose in glory, rising from them but completely unsullied and untouched, pure triumphant innocence, His face perfectly serene, the absence of expression that includes all possible expressions, just as rivers drain into the sea. I wish I’d painted that, I said to myself, and I signed it. In passing I noticed that the window in the tower in the background (my own unique touch; my sole contribution to iconography) was closed and shuttered; also, that all the light in the picture was coming from the front.

I waited, and nothing happened. I waited two days, two weeks, two months, still nothing. Finally I couldn’t bear it any longer, so I went to the Scriveners’ Guildhouse and asked if I could see my icon.

They were delighted to show it to me. The great hall smelt new; drying plaster, a faint sweet smell of new wood, a hint of mustiness from the priceless antique tapestries on the walls. My icon hung in the nave, where the light of three tall, narrow stained glass windows met. The gold burned on a plain white wall. The colours rose up to meet me. “Far be it from me,” the President whispered to me, “but I really do think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

I wasn’t looking at the icon. I was examining the interior of the chapel for obvious fire risks, flaws in the masonry, architects’ miscalculations. It all looked safe and solid enough, but you can never be sure, can you?

Three months, and it was tearing me apart. Nothing. Meanwhile, the Scriveners had been showing off their new treasure to anybody they could catch. Seventeen commissions I was offered; name your own price, money no object. They looked stunned when I refused, and offered me more money, still more money, which I declined with a nauseated look on my face, as though they were offering to pay me in worms and sheeps’ guts. I’m terribly sorry, I told them, but I’ve retired. No, really. The genius has left me, I told them; I was only ever a mere vessel for the clarity of the Invincible Sun, which He saw fit to bestow on me for a short time, and which He had now seen fit to withdraw. Not for me to argue, I told them; blessed be His name. And they looked at me, and thought of a number, and doubled it.

So I went to the Studium. It was the first time I’d been back. The porter recognised me, hesitated, remembered that I was now respectable and famous, and gave me a polite smile. Delighted to see me, and would I just wait there while he fetched the Dean and Chapter?

I didn’t want to see the Dean and Chapter. “Father Methodius,” I told him. “If he’s not too busy.”

It’s the tradition that former students who don’t make the grade as adepts but who then go on to make a fortune in the mundane world express their gratitude to the Studium by way of huge cash endowments. Father Methodius wasn’t too busy. Not at all.

“I expect you’re glad you followed my advice,” he said. He hadn’t changed at all. He was still round, circle-faced, still the thin white wreath hopelessly besieging the citadel of his tonsure. Was it possible, I wondered, as I sat down in the same chair I’d occupied for my careers interview, that no time at all had passed, and that everything I thought had happened had been an illusion or a dream? Obviously not; Father Methodius was pleased to see me. Therefore something must have happened. “We’ve been following your career with great interest,” he went on. “The foremost man in your field. We’re very proud of you.”

I can’t read minds (
lex mentis
, a seventh-year Form, though in theory it’s restricted. Father Methodius was an expert in
lex mentis
) but I knew precisely what he was thinking. A genuine Epistemius would go very nicely in the Dawn chapel, just to the right of the big silver-gilt lectern. Naturally the Studium could afford to pay, but it hadn’t got to be offensively rich by paying for things it could get for free. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “The fact is, I have a confession to make.”

He wasn’t reading my mind. It’s one of those things you just don’t do, except in extreme circumstances. “Really?”

I nodded. I’d been dreading this moment, but now it had come, I felt curiously joyful. I’ve long suspected that I’ll feel that way when I’m on the point of death, though I’m in no great hurry to prove myself right. “I don’t actually paint icons,” I said. “I make them using an illegal Form.” I waited. He just looked at me. “
Talis artifex.
”

He blinked. “Talis what?”

Now that was one possibility that simply hadn’t occurred to me; that
talis artifex
was so restricted, so secret, so deadly in its effects and consequences that even a Father and member of Inner Chapter hadn’t heard of it. The thought was terrifying. “I read it in a restricted book,” I told him. “I broke into the library, shortly before I left here. I found it there and I’ve been using it ever since.” I was about to add
I’m sorry
or something like that, but it would’ve been ridiculous to apologise for a crime of such magnitude. I waited.

Eventually he frowned. “
Talis—
”

“
Artifex
. It enables you to create objects; works of art, handicrafts, the very best quality. You go to fifth east and tell the man there what you want, and when you get back, there it is, real and material. It’s in the fifth volume of the Appendix to the Universal Concordat.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids, as if he’d got dust in them. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t remember it, and I’m quite familiar with the Appendix. In fact, the current edition is mostly my work. If there was a such a Form, I’d know about it.”

“It’s there all right,” I said.

“It’s impossible.” He was looking straight at me. “The process you describe. It can’t be done. People have tried, over the years, but it’s a direct breach of Anastasius’ fifth law of Matter and Energy. It’s—
conjuring
,” he said, pulling a slight face. “The sort of thing we like people to think we can do, but of course we can’t. I’m sorry, but—”

“Take me to the library,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

He took a great deal of convincing, but eventually we went to the library and stood where I’d been before, in the South Hall of the New building. It looked quite different in daylight, of course, with the light pouring in through the great Scylitzes window. Now that did look familiar. It took me a moment to realise why. Someone had copied it to create the triptych effect in the Scriveners’ chapel, where my latest icon was hanging.

Father Methodius reached up onto a shelf and took down a book. “Here we are,” he said. “Now, you’re not allowed to look at this, so you’ll have to direct me to the place.”

“Right between
ducis meliora
and
ruat caelum
,” I told him. “About a third of the way through, on the right hand side.”

He gave me a ferocious look; I wasn’t supposed to know about
ducis meliora
or
ruat caelum,
both of which are heavy duty military Forms and horribly dangerous. “We’re going to have to do something about security in this building,” he said. “Now then, let me see.”

He turned a few pages, found the place, looked at me. “Well?” I said.