A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 11 (Part 1 of 2)

PART 2

Chapter 11

Imlon

*

“‘I give you life, I give you bounty, I give you all the fruits of the earth,’” said the little boy.  The men around the dining table bowed their heads.  “This was His promise, and thus we thank Him for his goodness.”

“The Word of the wings,” said Imlon along with the other scholars.  The man at the head of the table, in a green doublet beneath his black college gown, ruffled the boy’s hair as the servants began to bring out steaming bowls of soup.

“Well spoken!  Your reading is coming on wonderfully, is it not, gentlemen?”

There was a murmuring of happy agreement – “Yes, wonderful,” “Very well spoken,” “Marvellous for his age!” – and the host smiled broadly at the boy, gesturing towards the learned gathering.

“You see?  You’ll be sat here soon enough.  Now, a kiss for your father, then to bed with you.”

The boy did as he was told, staring wide-eyed at the men around the room as his nurse led him away.  Imlon smiled, picked up his spoon, and the earnest discourse of a college gathering began. 

It had been two months since he had arrived in Monruath.  Summer had made way for autumn and over the shortening days his research was advancing apace.  He had tested new lenses of different shapes and experimented with glass prisms, observing the movement of light, of refraction and reflection, of colour.  He had redrawn from memory the complex diagrams explaining the workings of his creations, burnt by the legionaries back at Crown’s, and had since moved on to new designs, constantly theorising how to remove the strange imperfections produced by the instruments and using mathematics to measure the power of his lenses.

As word of his work had spread, invitations from around the College had begun coming his way.  At first he had been reluctant, but recently he had begun to accept them.  Tonight he was at House St Cato, just north of Bosterley Bar, as a guest of Edrus Harp, Dean of the House.  They dined in his spacious personal quarters overlooking the Greengrave, though the shutters were now closed to keep out the dark.  It lent an intimate air to the room, with its low wooden ceiling punctuated by blooming bosses, the crackling fire in the elegant stone hearth and the smell of spices and roasting meat hovering in the air, flavourful without being overpowering.

Conversation flowed on the latest goings-on at the College, until, after a brief silence, one of the guests turned to Imlon.  He was a clergyman, a pectoral wing around his neck.

“How goes your work, Master Held?” he said.  “I hear you have been having difficulties in procuring the right materials.”

All those present waited for the answer.  Imlon had become used to his role at these gatherings.  He would not feed the rumours, certainly not with a churchman in earshot.

“Procuring them is not the true difficulty,” he said, using the words he always did.  “There are many such craftsmen in the city, but it’s finding those capable of the workmanship that’s hard.”

“You could inquire with Master Matthis, behind the Hillsmarket,” said a man in the robe of a doctor of medicine, indicating the eyepiece balanced on his nose.  “I purchased these there a year ago.  They are most reliable.”

“If you can map the craters of the moon with them I may have to,” said Imlon, to gentle laughter.  “The lenses I need are far stronger than the ones Matthis deals in.  You could make ten, twenty like yours in the time it takes to fashion even one for the purposes of astronomy.  The lens must be perfectly formed and entirely free of aberration, on the surface and within the glass itself.”