Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  As he saw the gesture, Quaeryt also noted that the bookseller wore tightly fitted gray gloves that ran from his fingertips up under the sleeves of the pale gray shirt and that there were whitish welts on the front of his neck, revealed but slightly by the high-collared shirt.

  “I’d like to hear the story,” Quaeryt admitted as he moved toward the stool. He did turn the stool slightly, so that he could keep an eye on the guard out of the corners of his eyes.

  “Stories here, you understand,” began the bookseller, “always begin with a phrase such as, ‘In the time of … whoever was famous, it came to pass that…’ I suppose every place has a phrase to signify a story.” A chuckle followed. “In the time of the first years of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn, a strong man became the head of the City Patrol of Nacliano, and that man’s name was Burchal. He had the strength of two men and the cunning of both a weasel and a fox, and like a serpent, he could strike from the darkness. At first, everyone rejoiced, because the Patrol stopped the loaders from soliciting bribes from the shipmasters and teamsters. They were also glad when the taprooms and cafés that drugged the sailors burned to the ground. No one was displeased when the number of beggars was limited to one on each pier, and only to those beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, and with each beggar being given but one day a week to beg…”

  Quaeryt listened as the bookseller went through a listing of changes created by Burchal, but he kept his attention split between the storyteller and the guard.

  “… and then, one day, a scholar from Cloisonyt arrived in Nacliano. At first, no one even knew he had come to the city, for he repaired to the House of Scholars, but, in time, he began to visit the harbor and to teach some of the women to read, and one of those women was the young wife of Burchal, who was a beautiful girl from outside of Cheva. She could not read and begged the old scholar, and he was old, with hair of silver and a kind face, to teach her to read and to do her numbers so that she could help her husband with the household accounts.” The bookseller laughed ironically. “And from that day was Burchal’s happiness diminished, for the young woman was bright as well as beautiful, and she began to read, and then to look at the account books of the household, and then at another account book.” The bookseller shook his head. “Then she disappeared, never to be seen again, and one week to the day later, a great fire burned down the House of Scholars, and all the scholars within were said to have perished, including the old scholar who had taught the girl to read.” The bookseller stopped.

  “That’s it? And no one has done anything?”

  “What else would there be to say?” asked the bookseller. “The House of Scholars burned, and there are no scholars left in Nacliano.”

  “Or none who dare call themselves scholars,” replied Quaeryt.

  “One who does not acknowledge who and what he is cannot claim to be such, can he?”

  “That is a point many have debated, including Rholan, who said that a name did not equal deeds.”

  “Perhaps I should have said that one who neither acknowledges who or what he is nor acts as such cannot claim to be what he believes himself to be.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “I prefer to believe that acts rather than words define the man … or woman.”

  The bookseller laughed, a sound soft but ironic and edged with a hint of bitterness. “You are neither innocent enough nor cynical enough, for all acts come from words.”

  “Perhaps,” said Quaeryt, easing himself from the stool, “but the words need not come from the one who acts, nor the deeds from the one who speaks.” He smiled. “It is always better when someone else tells the story.”

  “I take it you have no interest in purchasing a book?”

  “A traveler should only purchase books when he is home and can provide for them.” Quaeryt bowed. “I thank you for the story.”

  “And I for your patience.”

  Despite the apparent politeness of the bookseller, Quaeryt remained ill at ease on the entire walk back to the Tankard, not because he doubted the story, but because he believed it … as well as what had not been said, but suggested, and not spoken, by the bookseller himself. More than that, the hidden semi-parable about the woman who learned to read and what came of it bothered him as well, especially in light of the missive from Vaelora sealed within the document case.

  14

  Again on Jeudi, Quaeryt rose and ate early, and plied Lily with another three coppers to save the garret chamber for yet another night. Unlike the previous day, he immediately headed toward the harbor Patrol building. He reached there even before the patrollers going on duty left the building. Duultyn and his partner were among the last to leave, and they headed in the direction of the Sailrigger.

  Using his concealment shield, Quaeryt followed more closely. After several days, he was beginning to understand the rougher Tellan of the east more clearly.

  “… never said what happened last night…”

  “She wasn’t there. Old lady Shaalya took me into every room in the place.”

  “Then she’s gone.”

  Duultyn shook his head. “Just for now. She’ll be back. Then she’ll pay. More than she wants.”

  “Your uncle said not to—”

  “I told him that she’d been seeing that scholar we chased.”

  “Oh … still don’t understand what he has against them. Except for the one … don’t seem any worse than anyone else.”

  “They’re worse.” Low as Duultyn’s voice was, the venom was far stronger than the words. “Worse even than imagers.”

  “You, I understand. But him? You’ve never said why he—”

  “You don’t want to know. Leave it, Thuaylt. Just leave it.”

  Duultyn stopped and looked at the taproom, with its shutters and doors all closed. “Be a shame, a real shame, if the place caught fire.”

  “Too many people know what happened yesterday.”

  “I can be patient. Long enough for people to forget.…” Duultyn turned and resumed his strolling walk toward the piers.

  Neither patroller spoke for a time.

  “You’re fortunate, Thuaylt,” Duultyn finally said. “Pretty wife who wouldn’t look past you, no matter what.”

  “Thank the Nameless for that every day,” agreed the taller patroller.

  “I still wonder why…” Duultyn shook his head. “Never will understand women.”

  Even from what he’d overheard, Quaeryt knew why the patroller never would.

  “Been a hot week.”

  “So was last week,” replied Duultyn. “I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s rounds are done.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  By the time Duultyn and Thuaylt stopped at another café for a midday meal, Quaeryt was convinced that he’d discovered all that he was going to by following the pair, and he returned to the first pier. Two more ships had ported, and he inquired about the destination of each. One was heading east, and the other was a Ferran brig headed homeward via Westisle.

  Then he eased past another pair of patrollers to get onto the second pier, where a single worn brig had just tied up at the innermost bollard. Even before he reached the ship, he had the sinking feeling that the vessel was the Moon’s Son.

  He stood back and studied the ship, but he had to admit, worn as she looked, she was also trim, and nothing looked out of place or in ill repair. While the gangway was already down, he watched the crew for a time before he finally made his way up the plank and requested permission to board from the bosun.

  “Come on aboard.”

  “I’m looking for passage to Tilbora.”

  The bosun replied, “We port there, but best you talk to the captain.”

  “That’s Chexar?”

  “Aye.” The bosun turned. “Captain … the gent here is looking for passage.”

  The man who walked across the deck toward Quaeryt was of average height and build and not notable in any attribute, except for the copper-red brush mustache that matched neither the dull red of his hair n
or the brownish red of his eyebrows. “Yes?” His voice was a raspy baritone.

  “I understand you might be heading to Tilbora,” offered Quaeryt.

  “That we would be, but not until a glass before dawn on Samedi. Passage costs a gold, and three coppers a day for fare. That gets you a bunk cabin in the fantail and the same meals as the rest of us.”

  Quaeryt handed across two silvers. “That’s to hold it, the rest when I come on board Vendrei night.”

  Chexar took the silvers. “Done. What do we call you?”

  “Quaeryt.”

  The captain frowned. “Had a mate once, kept talking about a quartermaster type who left to be a scholar … name like that. Said he’d have been a good mate.”

  Quaeryt wasn’t surprised. Even halfway decent quartermasters were rare, and captains kept their ears open about mates and others of possible value.

  “Might have been me.” Quaeryt smiled wryly. “Might have been someone else.”

  Chexar nodded. “Why might you be headed north?”

  “I have a patron who sent me there. I need to do what he wants and return before the turn of winter.”

  “Might have been better staying a quartermaster,” replied Chexar.

  “True enough, Captain, but we can’t live over what we might have done.”

  “All too right.” Chexar nodded again, brusquely. “Be aboard before eighth glass tomorrow night.”

  “That I will, Captain.”

  Chexar turned and walked forward, toward where the bosun was overseeing the off-loading from the forward hatch.

  Quaeryt walked down the gangway and headed back toward the harbor Patrol building. When he passed the Sailrigger, he noted that all the doors and shutters remained tightly closed.

  Once he reached the street across from the Patrol building, he began to watch, moving from point to point, occasionally using a concealment shield. He continued his surveillance until almost a glass past midday, changing his position, using a concealment shield at times until a coach pulled up. The coach was green and trimmed in polished brass. Quaeryt once more raised a concealment screen and eased along the uneven brick sidewalk until he was within a few yards of the coach, if with his back to the wall of the adjoining café.

  Shortly, a tall, burly, and gray-haired patroller in greens, with a gold seven-pointed star on each collar, emerged from the building, accompanied by another patroller, and walked toward the waiting coach.

  “… don’t care what’s wrong with his wife.… He keeps the schedule, or he can take an early stipend.… Tell him that.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Just from his body posture, the few words, and the chief’s tone of voice, Quaeryt didn’t care any more for the chief than for Duultyn, who, apparently, was Burchal’s nephew. That family tree has more than its share of sour lemons.

  After the coach pulled away, Quaeryt decided to walk back to Hill Square, as much because he wanted to look around a nicer part of Nacliano as because there was little more he could learn by watching the Patrol building. Besides, he couldn’t hold the concealment shield for long, long periods without getting exhausted, and remaining near the Patrol building without concealment might call too much notice to himself.

  As he walked along the even yellow-brick sidewalks that bordered the equally uneven yellow-brick surface of the streets, he couldn’t help but notice a certain almost furtive air displayed by many of those he passed, who moved with their eyes shifting quickly from point to point. Yet few eyes rested long on Quaeryt, as if those who did look at him quickly dismissed him and looked away.

  When he neared Hill Square, he began looking for the narrow street that held the bookshop, then turned down it. He walked past the felter’s shop, then stopped. The dilapidated building between the felter’s and the cordwainer’s was closed, the iron-grated door locked. It looked abandoned, and as if it had been for years. Yet he had been there the day before. Abruptly, he nodded. Clearly, the use of the “cooperage” as a bookstore was a tacit accommodation between Burchal and the bookseller, who had to have once been other than a mere vendor of tomes.

  He retraced his steps back uphill in the direction of the nearer pastry shop. Less than a quint later, he stood inside a white-walled shop filled with the scents of baking bread, almonds, and other nuts and spices.

  A dark-haired girl who could not have stood to his shoulder looked over the counter at him. “Might I help you, sir?”

  “What’s the best pastry you have?” he asked.

  “The lime tarts are good, and so are the orange ones … or perhaps the walnut-honey layers…” The woman girl smiled shyly.

  Lime tarts reminded him of sour lemons, and so might an orange one, especially if it were the slightest bit bitter. “I’ll try one of the walnut-honey pastries.”

  “A walnut-honey layer it is. Two coppers.”

  Two coppers? The shop definitely catered to the wealthier citizens of Nacliano. Quaeryt handed over the coppers and received in return a square of layers of thin pastry interspersed with honey and ground nuts and placed on a larger square of brown paper.

  “There you are.”

  Quaeryt took the pastry outside and walked slowly in the direction of the Tankard, not that he was in any hurry. He took a small bite of the walnut-honey layer, chewing it slowly.

  For all its sweetness, the pastry tasted bitter.

  Like Nacliano.

  He finished the last crumbs and licked his fingers, then continued eastward toward the Tankard, which, for all its lack of comfort, somehow felt more honest than did Hill Square.

  15

  On Vendrei morning, Quaeryt did not get up quite so early. He didn’t see much point in tracking the patrollers exceptionally close to dawn. He had overheard that Duultyn was on duty, but, if that had changed, it wasn’t something that he could control. Still, he washed up and shaved and finished breakfast before seventh glass, then went out to the high desk in the front hall. The wall shelf remained empty of any pottery or other decorations.

  When the gray lady appeared, he said, “Thank you. I won’t be staying tonight.”

  “You find a ship?” asked Lily.

  “I did.”

  “Chexar’s Moon’s Son, I’d wager. He’s one of the few that goes north in summer. Good master, but not the most fortunate, I’ve heard tell.”

  “And he’s still sailing?”

  “He’s one of the best at sea. He hasn’t always picked the right cargoes at the right time.”

  Quaeryt nodded. He understood that, and he didn’t care as much about the cargoes as arriving safely in Tilbora.

  “Best of fortune.”

  “Thank you.”

  After making a few small purchases, including a large number of apricots, Quaeryt arrived across the street from the harbor Patrol building two quints before the ten bells of midday rang out. He took a seat at the café from where he could watch the Patrol building, set his small canvas bag between his boots, and ordered a lager and a domchana. He paid the server immediately in case he needed to depart in a hurry. Then, between bites and sips, he just watched.

  The only places where the sidewalks were uncrowded were those fronting the Patrol building. Likewise, there were no street vendors there, either.

  Quaeryt smiled as he watched a young bootblack persuade a couple to have their boots shined. He wasn’t quite so pleased when he saw a pleasant-faced young woman cozy up to a teamster about to unload his wagon, but he needn’t have worried, because the burly fellow backhanded her cutpurse companion with enough force to throw him into the wagon and leave him stunned. The two thieves scurried off, but their haste was unnecessary because there were no patrollers nearby, even in front of the Patrol building, and the teamster didn’t call for any.

  Quaeryt ordered a second lager, not that he intended to drink it all, and kept watching, but also looking toward the harbor time and again, as if he were waiting for someone.

  As on the previous day, Burchal did not leave at noon, but
at just before a single bell struck the first glass of the afternoon, and he was accompanied by two other patrollers. No coach arrived, for which Quaeryt was grateful, although he had been prepared to follow the coach on foot, since Nacliano’s streets were narrow and crowded enough that coach or wagon movement near the harbor was slow.

  As soon as he glimpsed the chief, Quaeryt stood and left, slipping a pair of coppers to the serving girl as he passed her. He moved into a shadowed doorway for a moment and raised a concealment shield, hoping that anyone looking in his direction would simply have thought he had entered the confectionery shop, while anyone watching from inside the shop would think that he had hurried away.

  The three patrollers had covered less than twenty yards before Quaeryt had closed enough to overhear parts of their conversation.

  “… talk about it later.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “What do you say we go to Ufyeryl’s?”

  “The fare’s good there.”

  “So are the servers,” replied Burchal with a deep rolling laugh. “It’s close, and I need to be back before half past second glass.”

  No more than a block later, the three entered a large café. Ufyeryl had to have been the owner or the proprietor, because the signboard outside the stone-faced structure declared it to be the Sea Sprite. Unlike at most eating establishments in Nacliano, the windows were glazed and the shutters painted, if a shiny gray.

  Quaeryt had to squeeze in behind the last patroller because he didn’t want people seeing a door open and close with no one apparently there.

  “We have your favorite table available, Chief Burchal,” offered a corpulent man in a white shirt and purple vest, gesturing toward the left side of the dining area.

  Burchal said nothing, but one of the two patrollers following murmured to the other, “As if he dared otherwise.”

  The table was set off from the others by two half walls that were head-high, except for a column at the outer end of each, with pale purple drapes hanging from brackets and filling the space between the half walls and the ceiling.