Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  Quaeryt stood back, as close as he could to the narrow column at the end of the half wall on the side toward the kitchen.

  “How about some of that Montagne red, Ufyeryl?” asked Burchal, as he seated himself, in a tone that was more demand than request.

  “You will have it,” the proprietor said cheerfully. “Dhaela … the good Montagne red!”

  Quaeryt’s eyes flicked to the serving girl addressed by Ufyeryl. He doubted she could have been much over sixteen, for all of her clearly feminine figure, accentuated as it was by the nearly sheer formfitting purple cotton blouse and tight trousers.

  In moments, Dhaela reappeared with two carafes, setting both in the center of the table, and leaning forward while doing so in a way to show her charms to their best advantage. Then she hurried off, only to return with three heavy goblets. “Here you are.” Her voice was cheerful, if sultry.

  Burchal’s right hand slid down from her waist and caressed her momentarily, before she straightened and eased away.

  “We have the special lamb…”

  Quaeryt watched the three patrollers as Dhaela recited the available fare, then took their orders, and then slipped away.

  Burchal grasped the nearer carafe, filled his goblet, and handed the carafe to the patroller on his right.

  “See what you mean by the fare and the servers,” said the youngest-looking patroller.

  “They’re definitely fair,” countered the other patroller, filling his goblet.

  “They treat me well.” Burchal’s voice held satisfaction.

  Quaeryt mentally supplied the words that the chief had not spoken. Because they know what’s good for them. Then the scholar had to flatten himself against the side of the half wall as a server hurried by.

  The patroller across from Burchal looked up and frowned, then shook his head.

  “What is it?” demanded the chief.

  “The hangings … they were moving.”

  The other patroller leaned back. “No one there.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” said Burchal cheerfully. “That’s why you don’t talk about anything important in public—or with women. There are ears everywhere. We’re here to eat.” He lifted the goblet, sniffed it, and took a small sip. He nodded and took a larger swallow. “Good as always.”

  “Heard your nephew found another scholar. Didn’t know there were any left.”

  “That’s part of his job. We need to make sure that imagers and scholars and other undesirable sorts don’t bother folks here.”

  “Be easier if Estisle felt the same way.”

  “It would indeed.”

  Although Burchal’s tone was cheerfully even, there was something behind it, almost as if the chief had plans that extended beyond Nacliano.

  Quaeryt nodded to himself. While he could have imaged pitricin or blueacid into Burchal’s gut, what he had in mind was far better for the situation.

  Before long Dhaela returned with another server, a young man, and set platters before the three patrollers, as well as a large basket of bread.

  After another caress of Dhaela, Burchal looked at the platter before him and smiled. “This is the best lamb in Nacliano.”

  The other two exchanged quick glances, then nodded.

  Quaeryt watched as the chief took several mouthfuls, then, after Burchal took another swallow of wine, and another mouthful of wine, imaged chunks of lamb into Burchal’s lower windpipe.

  Burchal swallowed, then tried to swallow again. He lurched to his feet, upsetting the chair behind him and knocking over the goblet so that red wine poured over the pale purple table linens.

  The patroller to his right jumped to his feet and pounded the chief on the back, but Burchal had turned red. His mouth was open, but no sound issued forth.

  The older patroller stood and pulled his own chair in front of the chief, trying to bend the chief forward over the back of the chair, but Burchal pushed him away and put his hand into his mouth. The chief staggered, trying to remove the lamb that was beyond his grasp.

  Quaeryt waited and watched until Burchal pitched forward.

  One of the servers screamed.

  Once he was certain that the chief was dead, amid the chaos and with his concealment shield Quaeryt had no trouble in slipping out of the Sea Sprite. He did not release the concealment shield until he was in an alleyway two blocks away in the direction of the harbor.

  Now all he needed to do was to locate Duultyn.

  He began to walk toward the harbor.

  Duultyn and Thuaylt weren’t at the foot of pier one, nor of pier two … nor even pier three. Was Vendrei the patroller’s day off? That seemed unlikely to Quaeryt, given what he’d overheard on Jeudi, especially since Duultyn did enjoy some favoritism from his uncle. But what if Duultyn had gotten ill? After what Burchal had said, Quaeryt didn’t see that as likely, yet … where was Duultyn? Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. Any possible or practical way of tracking the patroller down would require asking questions, and questions would leave tracks, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Nor could he afford to wait for yet another ship heading north.

  After retracing his steps to check the first two piers again, Quaeryt was about ready to head in the direction of the Sailrigger when he finally spotted the two patrollers as they approached the second pier. He remained in the shadows of the awning of the chandlery next to which he’d taken a position until the two passed him, moving toward the pier. Then he raised a concealment shield and followed.

  “… still think that scholar escaped?”

  “… know he must have…”

  “Why?”

  “Because he jumped into the water like he knew what he was doing … knew we couldn’t follow him … will find him.”

  “What if he shipped out already?”

  “I have a feeling he hasn’t.”

  “… might be better if he had…” murmured Thualyt.

  “What did you say?”

  “Just that it might have been better for him if he had.”

  “I don’t care about what’s good for scholars. I know what’s best for them, and that’s to get rid of as many as possible.”

  From where he followed the pair, Quaeryt shook his head, then imaged a jolt of blueacid into the patroller’s stomach.

  Duultyn’s step faltered for a moment. Then he shook his head.

  “What is it?” asked Thuaylt.

  “Must have been that pepper fowl I ate. Gut-ache. It’ll pass.”

  “Are you all right?” Thuaylt’s voice held concern.

  “I said I’ll be fine.” Even as irritation filled Duultyn’s voice, his free hand went to his forehead. His steps became more uneven.

  “Duultyn!”

  “Sow-named fowl! Spoiled meat. Bastard Xeryl fed me spoiled meat.” Duultyn staggered to the seawall and leaned over it, gagging uncontrollably. His body began to convulse.

  Thuaylt leaned took several steps toward his partner, then halted, as if uncertain as what to do. “Duultyn?”

  There was no response, except for several more convulsions before the patroller slumped over the seawall. Before long, even his breathing stopped.

  Quaeryt slipped around the pair and made his way onto the second pier, holding the concealment shield while he reached the shadow cast by the first vessel tied there, a coastal schooner. He eased the grass bag holding the remains of the apricots over the side of the pier, but the splash was so small that no one could have heard it, then waited until no one was near or looking before releasing the shield.

  He walked purposefully toward the next ship—the Moon’s Son.

  16

  For all of Chexar’s talk about leaving well before dawn, the Moon’s Son had barely left the harbor behind when the leading edge of the sun peered over the eastern waters on Samedi morning, but the ship was sailing almost directly before the wind, and the swells in the gulf beyond the harbor were moderate. The “bunk cabin” was far smaller than the space in the fantail locker on the Di
amond, but, although there were two bunks against the aft bulkhead, Quaeryt was the only passenger. For that, he was grateful.

  As orangish light flooded diffusely over the ship, he stood by the starboard railing on the poop deck, looking to the southeast at the northern end of the rocky island of Estisle, which held the port of the same name. He couldn’t help but reflect on the past week. Two aspects of his time in Nacliano particularly bothered him. First was the possibility that an innocent café owner might be blamed for poisoning Duultyn. Quaeryt hadn’t considered the fact that Duultyn would immediately blame someone when he felt unwell. He should have. People like Duultyn blamed others for everything. Second was the concern that the Patrol chief who followed Burchal might be even worse. While that seemed unlikely, in places like Nacliano the same factors that allowed a man like Burchal to abuse power made it more likely that someone similar would succeed him. On the other hand, Quaeryt was only one man, and a scholar and hidden imager at that, and he couldn’t be everywhere to try to improve things. That was another reason why he had to prove his greater usefulness to Bhayar. That was the first step in what he planned.

  Besides, he told himself, it’s better to do something when no one else has done anything than hope that what’s bad will improve itself.

  Still … he worried.

  His eyes drifted back to Estisle, which had begun as a haven for pirates and smugglers centuries ago—before they all discovered that trading was more profitable and less fatal … and Hengyst had granted them amnesty for their support.

  Quaeryt sensed someone and turned to see the captain standing a few yards away, looking forward, then to the helm, before returning his gaze to the scholar no longer attired as such—and who wouldn’t be until after he disembarked from the Moon’s Son.

  “You were on board right early yesterday,” observed Chexar. “You in haste to get to Tilbora?” The captain spoke Tellan with what Quaeryt suspected was the thick accent of Tilbor.

  Quaeryt laughed. “Not so much that as in haste to leave Nacliano. I’ve seen friendlier ports in my day.”

  Chexar nodded. “It didn’t used to be that way. Now…” The captain shrugged. “Most of the crew stays close to the ship these days. We try to off-load and load as quick as we can.”

  “What happened? You must know. You’ve spent more than a few days tied up in Nacliano over the years.”

  “That’s hard to say. Things happened. Someone burned down the Scholars’ House, and all the scholars left … maybe some of them stayed permanently, you might say. A couple of the older factorages closed. Another caught fire. Who knows? It just isn’t the same. People look strange-like at anyone they don’t know.”

  “I saw this one patroller who jumped at anyone wearing brown.…”

  Chexar shook his head. “That had to be Duultyn. He hates scholars. Scholars wear brown. His wife, pretty thing she was, ran off with one.”

  “He hates scholars and men who wear brown just for that?”

  “The scholar was the kind who studied all the old martial arts. It was weeks before Duultyn could walk straight.” Chexar grinned. “They say that he lost more than his wife.” The grin faded. “Don’t think he’s quite right in the head, but he’s the nephew or some such of the City Patrol chief.”

  “He sounds like a patroller to avoid.”

  “If you’re a seafarer, they’re all to be avoided,” replied Chexar wryly.

  “Even in Tilbora? What’s it like there?”

  “It’s colder there. More like harvest in summer, fall in harvest, winter in fall, and you don’t really want to be there in winter.” He laughed. “I don’t, and most of the crew doesn’t, and we grew up there.”

  “I was thinking about the patrollers.…”

  “The ones in Tilbora aren’t like those in Nacliano. They’re like those in most ports. You don’t bother them, and they don’t bother you.”

  “What about the governor?”

  “I’ve never seen him. They say he keeps pretty much to the Telaryn Palace—used to be the Khanar’s Palace. Stay away from the Telaryn armsmen, though. They can be nasty pieces of work.”

  “Why? Do they think Tilbor is going to revolt or something?”

  “That’s the way they act. Me … I never saw anything like that. We Tilborans are stiff-necked. That doesn’t mean that we’re troublemakers. Oh … there are a few, call themselves partisans or some such, but most of the real partisans went back to work once things settled down after the war. Life’s tough enough in the north without making trouble for yourself. Except for the hill folk. They’ve always been trouble. The rest of us, we just want to get by. You want troublemakers, go to Antiago or Bovaria.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve never been to Tilbor. What’s a good dish to eat … and what should I avoid?”

  Chexar laughed. “Most is like anywhere else, but I’d avoid the white cod. Never liked it as a boy. Still don’t. Looks and tastes like fish jerky seasoned in lye. That’s because it is. It’ll keep forever…” Abruptly, he turned. “Gelas! Bring her a half point more to port.”

  “Aye, Captain!” returned the helmsman.

  Chexar continued, without looking at Quaeryt, “We need to stay well north of the Wreckers’ Rocks. That’s not really a problem with the weather as fair as it is.”

  “I heard that the seas are rougher north of here. How soon will we hit them?”

  “On the trip south … we got to calmer weather some four days out of Nacliano. Likely enough, that hasn’t changed all that much.”

  “How rough?” asked Quaeryt.

  “Not that bad. Swells a yard or two at most. Winter seas, you see swells five to ten yards all the time.” Chexar laughed softly. “That’s why we do winter runs from Nacliano to the south. There aren’t many who run to Tilbora in the winter, and none who sail farther north.”

  Since the shortest overland routes from Tilbora to Solis ran through the mountains, Quaeryt wasn’t going to have as much time as he would have liked in Tilbor, not and meet Bhayar’s request for his return. Yet … staying longer in Solis would not have suited either his needs or Bhayar’s, and from what he’d already seen in Nacliano, there were more than a few problems of which the Lord of Telaryn was woefully unaware.

  “How late do you leave Tilbora for the last time in the fall?”

  Chexar shrugged. “That depends on the weather and the signs.” He grinned wryly. “And if anyone has a good cargo. If things look spare, we leave a few weeks before the end of Finitas, never later than the twenty-third.” The captain nodded, then turned and walked back toward the helm.

  Quaeryt thought. It was already the thirty-fifth of Juyn, the last day of summer. That left the two months of harvest and a little over seven weeks of fall—seventeen weeks in all—and it would likely take more than a week to reach Tilbora … if nothing untoward happened.

  That seemed more than possible, but … still.

  17

  After four days aboard the Moon’s Son, Quaeryt had to admit that the often-dour Chexar was a good shiphandler. The fare was adequate, and the weather slightly rough, but bearable. The ocean was getting colder. That was obvious from the fine spray that flew from the bow when the ship encountered a larger swell. Late on Meredi afternoon, he managed to catch Chaenyr, the second mate, in a talkative mood … or what passed for one.

  “Will you have any time away from the ship when you port?”

  “Depends on what we can load and how long it takes. It’s early in harvest.” The mate shrugged. “That means fewer cargoes. I wouldn’t mind a few days home.”

  “You’re from Tilbora?”

  “You might say that, excepting as I grew up in Slaegyn. That’s a hamlet some ten milles to the north of Tilbora, on the Highlands.”

  “Is that near Haestal?”

  The mate nodded. “Just south of there.”

  “And it’s in the Highlands?” From Quaeryt’s study of the maps of Tilbor, Haestal was on the coast, but didn’t have a harbor.

>   “Aye … the east cliffs drop near on three hundred yards into the sea. There’s not even shingle at the base of the cliffs, and in a nor’easter, the waves might break halfway up.”

  “Is a nor’easter likely this time of year?”

  Chaenyr laughed. “You can get a nor’easter any time of year. They happen more in fall and winter, and they’re worse then.”

  Quaeryt glanced forward. “No clouds in sight now, but the wind’s freshened and shifted. It’s more out of the east now. That’s usually a sign of a change in the weather.”

  “The weather changes all the time once you get a few days north of Estisle.” Chaenyr cocked his head, his eyes squinting. “Might be a blow coming. Might not. Might just be a shift to a sou’easterly. We could use that. Calmer seas and a mostly following wind.”

  The scholar looked to port where, just on the western horizon, there was the thinnest line of darkness—the coastline of eastern Telaryn. “Where are we now?”

  “We passed the headland at Edcloin just after sunrise … most likely we’ll be coming in sight of the Barrens before long. They’ll be hard to see. The captain’ll be turning some to the east. Won’t want the winds and currents to fetch us up there.”

  “The Barrens? Are those low sandspits or islands?”

  “Hundreds of ’em. Stretch for a good three hundred milles, and that doesn’t count the shallows to the north. They say there were once more towns and good harbors there, but the waters changed and filled them with sand, and the folks all left, most of them, anyway. I’d dare say more ships been lost to the shallows than to the Barrens. One good thing that the Lords of Telaryn did—they cleaned out most of the shipbreakers and their false lights and fires. Still some on the Shallows Coast, though.” The mate spat over the rail. “About the only good thing the Telaryns did.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the Telaryns are much liked in Tilbor.”

  “Telaryns are fine. We could do without the armsmen and the extra tariffs. Some folks wouldn’t even mind the tariffs if the coin went to building better roads or replacing the breakwater in Tilbora. All they see is the parties and balls in the Telaryn Palace.” Chaenyr frowned. “Where are you from?”