Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  “You understand, I see.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Quaeryt admitted.

  “No one cares if pirate vessels vanish, and we just hoist the Jewel ensign if privateers get too close. If they ignore it … well, then they’re pirates.”

  “I imagine the jewel fleet is profitable.”

  “Rather our losses are far less, and we keep good crews that way.”

  “Do you see pirates on every voyage in or out of Solis?”

  “Namer’s demons, no. One passage in ten is more like it, but we could see two on a single transit, and not another for years.” Shuld turned to the bosun. “You can handle it from here, Zoeryl. If you would excuse me, scholar?”

  “Oh … I didn’t mean to get in the way, Captain. Thank you.” Quaeryt inclined his head and stepped back.

  Then he eased his way to the railing just forward of midships and looked back to the west. Only a rapidly dispersing plume of mixed gray and black smoke remained of the pirate vessel.

  9

  The sun on Jeudi—the second Jeudi Quaeryt had spent on board—had been blistering hot, especially in the late afternoon, so hot that the fantail locker was still radiating heat well after sundown. That was only one of the reasons why Quaeryt stood on the poop, just short of where the two railings met on the forward port corner, looking out into a darkness little relieved by the reddish crescent of Erion. The other reason was that the captain had asked him to stand a watch as the port lookout and offer navigation calculations.

  So far, over the past glass, he’d seen no other vessels and no inclement weather creeping up from any horizon, not that he would have expected that, not on a cloudless night with a mild following wind and only moderate swells.

  According to the tables, at the longitude of Cape Sud, on Jeudi, the twenty-sixth of Juyn, Artiema should rise at two quints past eighth glass. By checking the deck glass, illuminated by a shielded lantern, Quaeryt could then determine how far west the Diamond was from the cape. That was only an approximation, of course, because even in a stabilized box, the glass sands did not run smoothly, but it was a start. Then, by sighting both moons, he could get an idea of their latitude.

  “Scholar … I thought you might be here.” Ghoryn’s voice was barely audible above the sound of the ship cutting through the increasingly larger swells that the Diamond was encountering as the ship neared Cape Sud.

  “It should be a bit before Artiema rises, but I wanted to sight Erion first.…” Quaeryt glanced toward the horizon again.

  “Where do you feel we are?”

  “I’d say we’re seventy to eighty milles west of Cape Sud, and twenty south. I’ll know better when I see Artiema.”

  “Oh? And why do you think that?”

  “The captain wants to be far enough offshore for us not to be seen, but not too far, just beyond sight from the cliffs. He’d be holding a course a half point north of southeast to keep us even with the coast.…”

  Ghoryn chuckled. “We’ll see in a bit, won’t we?”

  “That we will.”

  “Don’t see many scholars at sea,” offered the first mate.

  “I’ve never run across another scholar who went to sea,” admitted Quaeryt. Or much of anywhere if they didn’t have to. “Then there are more sailors than scholars.” He grinned in the darkness. “Why do you think that might be?”

  Ghoryn laughed. “Most folk would say that there’s need of more sailors, and perhaps a need for fewer scholars.”

  “Well put,” agreed Quaeryt. “There’s a need for scholars, but too many scholars in one place are like too many cooks in the kitchen.”

  “You never did say much about why you needed to get to Tilbora. Not that I heard, anyways.”

  “No. I didn’t. I think I told you I had a patron who commissioned a more recent history of Tilbor.” Quaeryt kept scanning the sea to port. He was still supposed to be a lookout.

  “He’d pay for that?”

  “Of course. Why do you think the frontispieces of so many books give the name of the patron who commissioned the work? That’s so that everyone who reads it for generations to come will see his name.”

  “Sounds sort of like Naming,” mused Ghoryn.

  “Ah … but he can claim that he is merely advancing human knowledge. A patron isn’t erecting a huge stone monument that everyone would immediately see as evidence of selling one’s integrity to the Namer.”

  “A clever way of Naming, then. And you’d do it?”

  “What’s a name in a book compared to saving knowledge that would otherwise be lost?” asked Quaeryt. “We all have to do things that aren’t ideal. Don’t you think that there were probably some crewmen on that pirate vessel that had little choice if they wanted to survive? But didn’t the good of saving the Diamond and her crew and cargo outweigh the evil of killing a handful of comparative innocents among the guilty?”

  “You scholars … you could argue that Erion was the spirit of mercy, and not the great red hunter, and then you’d make out Artiema to be the evil moon.”

  “I could,” replied Quaeryt with a laugh, “but I wouldn’t. There’s a big difference between light gray and black, and sometimes there’s an even bigger difference between those who claim to follow pure white and those who prefer slightly grayed white.”

  “I have the feeling you’re not a follower of the Nameless, then.”

  “Oh … but I am.” At least of the tenets, even if you’re unsure if there even is a Nameless. “Life is shades of gray. Those who claim to follow the absolute of pure white are disciples of the Namer, because insisting on absolutes in an imperfect world is another form of Naming.” He glanced eastward again, catching a glimmer of pearly white on the horizon, just about where he expected it. He’d have to approximate, because moonrise was calculated as that time when the highest limb of the moon’s orb cleared the plane of the horizon, and that was almost impossible to determine precisely from a ship’s deck, even one pitching so comparatively slightly as was the Diamond.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Ghoryn before hurrying across the deck to the lantern-lit glass.

  He checked the time—two and a quarter quints past.

  “Where are we, scholar?” asked the mate, who had followed Quaeryt across the deck to stand behind the helm.

  “If the glass is correct, we’re closer to Cape Sud than I’d thought, more like sixty milles, and I’d judge we’re closer to thirty south of the cape.” Quaeryt shrugged. “That’s an approximation, though.”

  Ghoryn nodded. “We both have us close to the same position.”

  “We don’t seem to be traveling that fast.”

  “Captain knows the currents.”

  Quaeryt had to admit he hadn’t thought about currents. He just laughed softly.

  “Glad to see there are some things you don’t know, scholar.”

  “There are more than a few.” Far more than a few. Quaeryt walked back to his position as lookout.

  The mate did not follow, but retreated belowdecks, as if the only reason he’d come up had been to check moonrise. But then, it probably had been.

  10

  Once the Diamond Naclia rounded Cape Sud, she faced heavy seas and headwinds, day in and day out. Quaeryt had to lash himself into his bunk every night, waking up frequently, and rising with bruises in places he hadn’t had bruises since his last voyage, some ten years earlier. By the end of every day his clothes were damp, if not soaked, and nothing seemed to dry completely. The fare was salted mutton and hard biscuits, with occasional dried lemon and orange rinds. All in all, sailing the three hundred milles from Cape Sud to the calmer waters off Estisle took over a week. During that time, Quaeryt reflected more than a few times on the reasons behind his trip … and upon Vaelora’s missive, clearly an expression of interest of some sort. But what? And why?

  The skies were gray as Shuld guided the Diamond around the northern tip of Estisle and toward the harbor at Nacliano, but the early-afternoon air was warm and dry,
for which Quaeryt was thankful.

  Nacliano was the oldest port on the east coast of Lydar. Even before Shuld eased the Diamond into place at the end of a pier that creaked with every swell that rolled under it, Quaeryt was reminded of that antiquity by not only the odors, but by aged brown and gray stone buildings that jumbled themselves across the hills on the north side of the River Acliano. From the pier, the patchwork of roof tiles was all too obvious. There also seemed to be little rhyme or reason as to what ship was moored where on what pier. Inshore from the Diamond was a fishing craft, little more than fifteen yards from stem to stern, and opposite was a broad-beamed three-masted square-rigger.

  Quaeryt waited until the Diamond was doubled up and the gangway was down before carrying his duffel over to the base of the forward ladder where Ghoryn stood.

  “Do you have any thoughts on ships that will get me to Tilbora?” Quaeryt looked to the first mate as he handed over the last silvers he owed.

  Ghoryn smiled wryly. “Depends on how you want to get there, scholar.”

  “Safely, but without stopping at every little coastal port along the way.”

  “You could start by talking to Caarlon. He’s the first on the Azurite Naclia. Saw them a pier over, and they were just winding up loading out. Odds are that they’ll be heading north. Captain Whuylor does a lot of iron runs.”

  Iron runs? “And you don’t?”

  “That’s heavy gear. Sawmill blades, axes, crosscut saws, even iron pigs. They’re hard on a ship, and harder on the crew. Captain Shuld prefers cargoes that have more … value for their weight.”

  “Scented oils, perfumes…?” ventured Quaeryt.

  “Medicinals from Antiago, worked silver from Eshtora … Anyway, if the Azurite’s not headed north, you might try Fhular. He’s been taking the Regia Nord that way for years. More of a coaster, but he’s a solid master. Doesn’t stop at more than a port or two each way. Then … if you’re really desperate, there’s always Chexar on the Moon’s Son.”

  The way Ghoryn mentioned Chexar, Quaeryt hoped he wasn’t ever desperate enough to have to rely on the Moon’s Son to get to Tilbora. Even the ship’s name was worrisome, at least if one believed in folktales. The Pharsi believed that certain women—daughters of Artiema, the greater moon—were specially gifted, but Quaeryt had never heard of a son of the moon, except in muttered terms, and no tales about the lesser moon—Erion, the hunter—mentioned either sons or daughters.

  Since Ghoryn had no other suggestions, and a well-meant but short “Good fortune,” Quaeryt hoisted his duffel and headed down the gangway, turning toward the foot of the pier. He glanced at the big square-rigger, flying a Tiempran ensign from the stern staff above a nameplate that was unreadable, at least to him.

  Beyond the Tiempran vessel was one flying an ensign that Quaeryt thought was Caenenan. The crew was unloading barrels and kegs, and a mixture of scents drifted across the pier, suggesting that the cargo was largely spices … and that at least one keg had broken or cracked.

  As he neared the inshore end of the pier, he began to angle his way southward in order to make his way back onto the adjoining pier where the Azurite was purported to be tied up.

  “You there! What do you think you’re doing? Get over here.” A heavyset figure in a washed-out green uniform, with a black leather harness and belt, a black-billed visored green cap, and scuffed black boots, gestured with an iron-tipped truncheon for Quaeryt to move toward him. He spoke in the harsh Tellan of the east.

  Quaeryt recognized the uniform as that of the local patrol, the colors dating back to the time of Hengyst and the Ryntarian despots. The scholar moved carefully, leaving his hands exposed, stopping a yard short of the patroller. He set the duffel on the worn wood of the pier, holding the strap loosely.

  “How did you get here?” The patroller’s voice was deep, but cuttingly nasal.

  “I was a passenger on the Diamond. She just ported.”

  “With that duffel? Likely as not, you’ve jumped ship. We don’t need people like you here with your fancy words and your pretty way of trying to talk like real people.”

  Quaeryt could see the problems ahead. If he showed coin, then the patroller would mark him for a confederate not on the Patrol to deprive him of coin and possibly life. If he didn’t, he’d likely end up in gaol for some trumped-up reason. “I’m a scholar, patroller. All scholars wear brown, you might recall.”

  “Don’t get fancy with me, fellow. Scholars can’t afford ship passage unless they’re up to no good.”

  “Why don’t we walk back to the ship? You can ask the captain or the mate if what I said was true.” Quaeryt turned just slightly, noting that another, even larger patroller was moving toward him, also with a truncheon.

  “We don’t need to do that to deal with trash like you.”

  The loaders and the four vendors on the northern side of the pier edged away from the three. That told Quaeryt more than he wanted to know, but what to expect.

  “You’re going to come with us, scholar.” The patroller emphasized the already derogatory Tellan term for scholar.

  “Might I ask why?”

  “No. Your type doesn’t need answers.”

  “Where do you want me to go?” Too many people had seen him and probably noted the scholar’s browns. That meant he was limited in what he could do in public. Yet he certainly didn’t want to go with the pair of patrollers, not the way they were looking for an excuse to use their truncheons.

  “That’s for us to say. Pick up that duffel.”

  Quaeryt started to lean forward when he saw the second patroller’s truncheon slashing toward him. He jumped back and imaged pepper juice into the man’s eyes, and then into the first patroller’s eyes as well.

  “Sow-sucking bastard!”

  Both patrollers lurched, and the larger man stumbled and sprawled across the duffel.

  “Thief! Killer!” yelled one of them.

  Quaeryt looked beyond the end of the pier, but two more patrollers had appeared there. There was no help for it. He turned and ran back down the pier, dodging around two vendors and alongside a wagon whose wheels were blocked in place opposite an ancient brig.

  “Loaders! Stop him! A silver to anyone who catches him!”

  For a silver they well might hazard tackling him. Quaeryt saw an opening in between two groups of men who had turned at the patrollers’ calls and dashed between them, jumping off the pier in the space between the brig and the square-rigger, just hoping that the water was deep enough.

  He went under, and down perhaps three yards, then struggled underwater back toward the pier—except his hands encountered a rough stone wall. He concentrated, trying to move along the wall underwater until he could find a space between the sections of the pier built on solid stone and rock supports and the patches of water between them and the wooden supports sunk into the harbor bottom.

  His lungs were bursting when he finally surfaced under the pier, but he came up as quietly as he could, immediately creating a slight concealment shield that he hoped just showed water, if anyone tried to look down through the few narrow gaps in the heavy wood of the pier above.

  He’d been in dirtier water before, but not in years, and he had to use one hand to clamp his nose to keep from sneezing. The fingers of the other held to an edge in the rough stone.

  “He went in over there!”

  “More like by the square-rigger.”

  “Go after him, Walthar. It’s a silver.”

  “In that water? Patrollers can keep their silver. ’Sides, he hasn’t even come up. No sight of him. No sounds. You go in if you want.”

  “Where did he go?” demanded a harsh voice.

  “He jumped off the pier. Never came up.”

  “He might be right underneath you, for all you know.”

  “We looked. Don’t see anything.”

  “There’s a silver reward for whoever turns him in.”

  “We get it if we find his body?”

  “Only i
f he’s alive. He has to answer to the Patrol.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Never mind that!”

  Quaeryt kept breathing easily and waiting, but it had to have been close to two quints before the patrollers left. He still had no idea why the patroller and his partner had decided to go after him. He’d been polite, and he hadn’t done a single thing except walk down the pier with a duffel. Years before, he’d never had any trouble in Nacliano. Why now?

  Once the crowd above slowly dispersed, he eased his way to the other side of the pier, still holding shields, and made his way inshore, half-swimming, half-pulling himself hand over hand along the stone foundations, sometimes having to squeeze through the narrow spaces between pier supports and hulls, until he finally found a ladder up the side of one of the stone pier supports. He took his time climbing it because, while his shield might conceal him, he’d still be leaving a trail of water behind.

  He simply rested on the top of the ladder, out of the way, watching and listening, but he saw no patrollers, and the various vendors, loaders, and teamsters traveling the pier appeared to have forgotten the commotion that had occurred half a glass earlier.

  Once his browns had dried enough that water droplets did not leave a trail, Quaeryt climbed from the ladder to the edge of the pier and, still holding his concealment shield, walked slowly toward the base of the pier.

  Two patrollers walked back and forth on the stone causeway beyond the end of the pier, glancing along it, clearly still looking for Quaeryt.

  “Haelan … he drowned.… Even if he didn’t, he’s not going to walk down here toward us.…”

  “Scholars … Duultyn said they were trouble … as bad as Pharsi traders or imagers.”