Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  Quaeryt blotted his forehead, not necessarily from the heat. Still, he’d found no other comparatively voluminous history of Tilbor in the library, nor one so handsomely bound. It had to be written by the third son of a wealthy High Holder … or the fourth or fifth.

  He kept reading for another three glasses, before he returned to his small cubby on the second floor of the house. There he imaged a hole in the false wall he’d imaged into place in the nook that held his bed pallet, removed the strongbox and unlocked it, placed the tome inside, and then locked and replaced the strongbox. After imaging away the hole in the wall, he descended to the main floor, from where he made his way out into another sweltering day and down the hill to Vinara, one of the tavernas he frequented when he wanted neither to spend many coppers nor to risk severe indigestion.

  He nodded politely to the civic patroller he passed. The patroller barely nodded in return.

  While some cafés and tavernas closed from second glass to fourth glass, especially in summer, Vinara was not one of them, perhaps because it was located in an old thick-walled dwelling that had a small fountain in its shaded courtyard. Or it might have been that Celina and her husband simply saw an opportunity. Either way, Quaeryt was glad the taverna was one of those that fit his habits.

  He had no more than stepped into the dimness of the front entry when Celina appeared, flashing a coquettish smile for all that her figure was definitely excessively matronly. “There is a small table by the fountain, scholar.” Her Tellan was that of old Solis, softer and recalling a vanished time.

  “I would like that.” He returned the smile. “And you will serve me?”

  “Who else would dare with all your words and improper behavior?” The proprietress did not quite flounce out into the courtyard, where she pointed to the circular table so close to the fountain that one edge held a sheen of dampness.

  “Thank you, gracious mistress.” Quaeryt grinned.

  “Would that you would ever be that fortunate.” Her tone was severe, but there was a glint in her eyes.

  “A man can dream…”

  “A man’s dreams are often a maiden’s nightmares.”

  “I’m far kinder than that.” He paused. “Is the cucumber sauce fresh?”

  “Less than a glass ago, scholar.”

  “Then I’ll have the lamb flatbread with it and the mild rice fries.”

  “And the pale lager?”

  “That, too.”

  Celina hurried off, and Quaeryt followed her steps for a moment. Sitting in the shade by the courtyard fountain was the most comfortable he’d felt in days. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting with Bhayar again, and especially not to what likely awaited him in Tilbora, but unless the weather was truly unseasonal, the voyage to Nacliano would be more pleasant than sweltering through the summer in Solis—or riding along the dusty and all too winding roads that led to the eastern coast of Telaryn.

  The lager and lamb-filled flatbread arrived quickly, and Quaeryt took his time, enjoying both … as well as bantering with Celina. The extra pair of coppers he left were worth it, and he reminded himself that they had taken only a bit of effort.

  He was reluctant to depart Vinara, but well aware of the dangers of being late to the palace. Bhayar might keep him waiting, but the Lord of Telaryn got more than testy with those who were not available at his beck and call—and that was another reason why going to Tilbora was a good idea, since Bhayar had been testier than usual of late.

  Quaeryt arrived at the private gate to the palace at a quarter to fourth glass. After a few pleasantries with Fherad, another of the guards he knew in passing, he made his way through the gate and up the steps to the second guard. After he passed the man, as he was walking along the colonnaded passage toward the locked interior staircase, a woman addressed him.

  “Scholar?” The voice was somewhere between girlish and womanly, yet slightly husky.

  Quaeryt debated not halting, but courtesy, caution, and curiosity won out. He stopped and looked past the marble column and through the lacy screen of ferns, some of which had browned edges despite their nearness to the fountains.

  Beyond the ferns, the not-quite-gangly girl-woman who wore riding pants and a woman’s light riding jacket to conceal her figure sat in the shade of a tall fern less than three yards from the fountain that supposedly depicted a sea sprite, with water geysering from its blowhole and from its barbed tail. A riding hat with a veil rested on a well-shaped leg. Her light brown hair held natural waves, but not excessive curls. Beside her sat a gray-haired duenna, who turned and regarded Quaeryt with a disapproving expression.

  “You can enter the gardens. Take the next archway.” Her words were offered in formal Bovarian, rather than Tellan or far less common Pharsi, and the language and the light honeyed shade to her clear skin suggested not only her background but who she happened to be.

  “As you wish, mistress,” replied Quaeryt.

  “It is my wish, scholar.”

  He bowed his head, then turned and walked the ten yards or so to the first archway.

  Two guards stood there.

  “The young mistress requested my presence.”

  “Wait,” said one.

  The other turned and disappeared past another bank of ferns. In moments he returned and nodded. Both stepped aside, but as Quaeryt walked past, he could feel their eyes on his back.

  He kept walking until he reached the young woman. “You requested my presence, mistress?” Quaeryt avoided looking directly into her eyes, as required when addressing a woman of stature.

  “You’re going to see my brother, aren’t you?” Her voice was pleasant, with that hint of huskiness he found attractive. Her face was also well-shaped, neither too long nor too round.

  “My presence has been requested by Lord Bhayar. I could not presume your position. Many women have brothers,” he replied. “I only know that you are favored to be here in the fountain gardens.”

  “Favored? One might say that. You are a scholar. Tell me something.”

  “About what, mistress?”

  “Aunt Nerya”—the girl-woman nodded to the duenna—“claims that for an unmarried woman to ride in public without her parents or a male relative is as bad a sin as Naming. Is it? Are there any writings that declare that? Has any high chorister of the Nameless proclaimed it?” Her light brown eyes studied him with an intensity he found unsettling, yet oddly pleasing.

  “I have read none, mistress, yet I am not a scholar of the Nameless, but of history and of the physical world. You would do better to ask a high chorister.”

  Nerya nodded.

  “Are you a coward to refuse an opinion?” The young woman’s voice remained pleasant, a tone more suited to asking about the weather or the time to dine, but with the slightest undertone of amusement.

  “Any man is a fool to offer advice on how a woman behaves with regard to her family, unless he is her husband. In that case, he might still be foolhardy. I would far rather be called a coward than to be a fool.”

  “So you’re afraid of Bhayar?”

  “I respect Lord Bhayar, and only a fool would not have a healthy respect for a lord as accomplished and powerful as he is. I also respect his willingness to learn and to listen.” Even if his lack of patience limits both.

  “Do you ride, scholar?”

  “At times, mistress. There is little call for scholars to ride.”

  “I had heard differently.” She offered a smile, one not quite inviting, nor yet dismissive. “In time, perhaps I can persuade my brother to have you accompany us on a ride somewhere … suitable.” There was a slight pause before she extended a sealed missive. “Since you are a scholar of history, you might find this of some amusement. If you do, I will take your comments. You may return them to me, directly, if we happen to encounter each other, or you may pass them to Nerya.”

  Historical comments from her? Quaeryt took the sealed document and inclined his head. “I will do so.”

  After a moment, she
added, “You may go.”

  “By your leave, mistress.”

  “You didn’t use my name,” she said.

  Quaeryt smiled. “It’s not my place to presume.” Although doing so would be a pleasure … if most dangerous.

  “Go.” The single word held a tone of amusement … and perhaps something more.

  He bowed and then turned, slipping the document inside his tunic and making his way from the fountain gardens, wondering exactly what Vaelora had really wanted … and even more of concern, what was in the missive or document. He hadn’t seen her in years, and then only a handful of times from a distance, but Bhayar’s other three surviving sisters were all much older—and married. The oldest, Chaerila, had been married to the Autarch of Antiago and had died in childbirth a year after the wedding. The autarch had promptly remarried—a niece of Rex Kharst, another matter of continuing concern to Bhayar.

  Still … there was definitely something about Vaelora … far beyond mere attractiveness, although she was certainly good-looking. She might have been raised to be married off for political purposes, but whoever married her would have his hands full, and then some, Quaeryt suspected.

  Enough … you’d best not even dream about her.

  He concentrated on what he would say to Bhayar as he approached the private staircase.

  Savaityl was not there, but the guard nodded politely. “Lord Bhayar is currently occupied.”

  Still thinking about Vaelora and what she wanted, and wondering why on Terahnar she had reached out to him, Quaeryt waited for a good half glass before the bell beside the grille gate rang and the guard unlocked it. He nodded politely and started up the staircase, seemingly as hot as an oven. When he reached the third level, he was drenched in his own sweat. He stopped and blotted his forehead before he walked slowly to where an assistant steward stood outside the open study door.

  “The scholar is here, Lord.”

  “Send him in.”

  Quaeryt stepped past the man and walked toward the desk Bhayar stood behind, looking down and examining a musket laid out on the wooden surface.

  “There ought to be a better way of making these,” mused Bhayar. “Do you think they could be imaged?”

  “I would doubt it. A good imager might be able to image each piece perfectly, but they’d still have to be put together, and if any piece happened to be the slightest bit out of true…”

  “It wouldn’t work. Or worse, would misfire.” Bhayar shook his head. “It must have taken Kharst’s smiths years to hammer out the parts for the muskets he supposedly used at Khel. They take forever to load, and they’re not very accurate. I’d wager that they were mostly for effect, and that his cavalry was what routed the Pharsi.”

  “It could be.”

  “You don’t sound convinced, scholar.”

  “The Pharsi won most of the battles where cavalry were important. Rex Kharst had to have done something different at Khel.”

  “Maybe he just had more cavalry by then. Or imagers.”

  “That’s very possible.”

  “I understand my sister summoned you,” Bhayar said evenly, “and gave you a document detailing her thoughts on history.”

  “She did. I thought it unwise to refuse it.”

  Bhayar laughed. “I have found it unwise to refuse her more reasonable requests as well. Yet you were most proper. Even Savaityl thought so, and he is not generous in his judgments. Most proper. Were it not for your reputation, scholar, one might think that your interests did not lie in women.”

  “I have great interests in women, and your sister is most attractive. Most attractive. It is not my place to make advances to her or to respond to such.”

  “You’re right. You also have good judgment in that and in many other matters.” Bhayar picked a leather pouch off the desk and extended it. “Your silvers and golds for travel.” He then handed Quaeryt a thin leather folder. “That holds your appointment as scholar assistant to the princeps. I thought an easily concealed case would be more suitable.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt bowed his head. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “I also have sent a dispatch telling both Rescalyn and Straesyr to expect you. Upon your return, I want a detailed report on the state of matters in Tilbor. An honest report.” A chuckle followed. “Knowing you, that is doubtless an unnecessary warning. I still felt compelled to make it.”

  “You’ve never left much to chance.”

  “With you around, how could I?” Bhayar shook his head again. “Go. Go and pester my governor and princeps with your questions.”

  Sensing both exasperation and humor in Bhayar’s words, Quaeryt bowed. “At your command, Lord.”

  Quaeryt was almost to the study door when Bhayar added in a low voice, “And take care of yourself. If you think it necessary—and it had better be—I will come to Tilbor.”

  “Thank you … and don’t be too hard on those who ask questions while I’m gone.”

  “Only those who ask stupid ones.”

  Quaeryt smiled, but kept walking. He still had to meet with Ghoryn … and he wanted to read whatever it was Vaelora had written—if only to be able to protect himself.

  Are you certain that’s the only reason? He didn’t laugh softly to himself until he was walking down the private staircase.

  6

  Once he left the palace, Quaeryt immediately made his way back to his chamber in the Scholarium, where he could read Vaelora’s missive without interruption. Before he met with the mate of the Diamond Naclia, and parted with silvers, he wanted to know why Bhayar’s sister was sending him a missive … and what she had in mind. While it might be exactly what she had claimed, he had more than casual doubts—far more. Vaelora might be only nineteen, going on twenty, but not a one of that family was lacking in brains and cunning, and for a mere scholar to get drawn into whatever might be on the young woman’s mind was bound to be risky.

  But she definitely is attractive. He pushed that thought away.

  Once he closed the door and slid the lock plate, just for practice, he imaged the seal from where it joined the edges of the paper to a point slightly lower, then opened the two sheets and began to read.

  Dear Scholar Quaeryt—

  Many, including Lord Bhayar himself, have noted that you possess a quiet but pervasive understanding of both history and those who would make it, whether those persons be men or women. It is said that history is written by those who have triumphed. That is often so, but it is also true that, at times, it is written by those who have not. They are the ones who have survived others’ triumphs and then their decline.

  What then is triumph? The momentary accession to power, followed by a constant struggle to increase or maintain that power? Or is such triumph always followed by an inevitable loss of power, whether such a decline is visible to observers at the time? Can power be merely maintained by a wise ruler? Or is that a fiction created by such rulers? Or must it always be increased, or lost? Are the wisest of rulers those who quietly surround themselves with men and women of ability, and listen to them, choosing what serves their ends most judiciously? Yet how is this possible, when so many men of ability seek to further their own ends, rather than those of another?

  Quaeryt stopped and reread the clear and graceful writing of the previous paragraph once again.

  “‘Men and women of ability,’” he murmured, “yet ‘so many men of ability seek to further their own ends.’” An accidental choice of words? Not likely. Not at all.

  A woman of ability must subordinate herself to a man, if indirectly, in order to obtain her ends, while a man may seek to make his own destiny. Thus, a ruler must always ask of a man who ostensibly serves him whose ends that underling truly works for and in what circumstances, while the ruler can ask with which man a woman is allied and how her acts and requests might benefit the man in question.

  “I don’t know about that … a woman can flatter one man while serving another.” But that’s what’s she’s say
ing.

  This is not as simple as it may appear, for a mother may have desires for her husband or her lover or her children. The honest woman is the one who is direct with the one she loves the most, but do men respect such honesty?

  Another good question. Quaeryt kept reading.

  In historical tomes, one often reads of how effectively a ruler must treat with allies and enemies. Seldom is there ever reference to the effectiveness in dealing with those closest to a ruler, save when a ruler cold-bloodedly removes all those whose bloodlines might supplant his own. Yet Lord Chayar was most successful in not resorting to such familial bloodletting, as was his father and as has been his son. Why do those who study history not remark upon such?

  Because Chayar had only a single son and because his father Lhayar sent all his sons into battle against the descendants of Hengyst until but one son remained.

  Or is it because they use circumstances in quiet ways to limit familial rivalries before they can threaten the internal harmonies necessary for a successful ruler?

  These are mere thoughts, offered for your consideration.

  The signature was a single letter—“V.”

  When he had finished, Quaeryt folded the missive carefully, then slipped it inside the document case Bhayar had given him.

  What exactly did Vaelora have in mind? What she had written wasn’t a flattering treatise on his intellect or insight. Nor was it seductive—except in the sense of showing that she could indeed think … and raise issues without revealing, at least directly, even who she was. The document was unlike anything he had ever read, and it was incredible, so incredible that he had to wonder if Vaelora had composed it herself.

  Yet … who else could have? From the brief meeting, he had doubts that Nerya had, and none of Vaelora’s sisters had been in residence in Solis in years. That meant that the document reflected either Vaelora or the presence in the palace of another woman of intellect and perception. Perhaps Aelina?

  Quaeryt nodded. That was possible. Was the document suggesting that some of the better of Bhayar’s decisions had come from his Lady?