Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  Quaeryt could see there were more than a few conflicting stories of that time, but said nothing.

  “Master Scholar Phaeryn has done marvels here,” said Nalakyn quickly. “The Ecoliae was almost falling down after the war…”

  Quaeryt listened intently as the preceptor catalogued all of the Master Scholar’s virtues and accomplishments. He didn’t even have to prod Nalakyn, and that bothered him in more ways than one.

  29

  After Quaeryt left the dining hall after breakfast on a gloomy and overcast Mardi morning, he was grudgingly grateful for the quantity of flatcakes, which were at least palatable, despite the thinness of the berry syrup. The mutton strips had been almost inedible. He was just three steps into the main corridor when someone called to him.

  “Scholar Quaeryt, sir.”

  He turned to see a student standing against the wall of a side corridor, a position not visible from inside the dining hall. “Yes, Lankyt?”

  “I … just wanted to thank you … for the letter … and for the talk, too, but mostly for the letter. I didn’t have a chance to talk to you after I read it. I appreciate your bringing it all this way.”

  “I could scarcely have done less after your father’s kindness.” Quaeryt moved toward the young man, stopping slightly less than a yard away.

  “There’s another thing, sir.…”

  Quaeryt nodded and waited.

  “Preceptor Nalakyn … he’s a good man.”

  “I got that impression,” replied Quaeryt.

  “Scholar Chardyn … he doesn’t care much for anyone who might be in the favor of Lord Bhayar … or the governor. I know you said you didn’t know much about him, but Da—my father, I mean … I think he had a different impression … and I wouldn’t want…”

  “I understand, and I thank you. You don’t have to say more. Your father is a good man, and I doubt if you could do better than to follow his principles.” Quaeryt smiled warmly, trying to disarm the youth. “You could help me with one other matter, if you would.”

  “Sir?” Lankyt’s voice lowered, holding worry.

  “Is there a taverna around here with good food?”

  The youth grinned, as much in relief as anything, Quaeryt suspected.

  “There are only two close. Well, three if you count Sullah’s, but no one with any sense goes there. Jardyna has better food, and a singer. The spirits are dear, though. Rufalo’s costs less, but the grub is awful. They’re both along the road to the west, less than half a mille, almost across from each other. Jardyna is the one with the picture of the garden.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I listen a lot, sir. People talk.”

  Quaeryt laughed. “Keep listening … and thank you. I’m not so sure I can take another supper here.”

  “Some nights I feel like that, sir. I’d better go.”

  No sooner were the words spoken than Lankyt turned and hurried down the side corridor, leaving Quaeryt alone in the main corridor, if only for a moment.

  “Are you still here?” asked Yullyd. coming out of the dining hall. “I thought … Did I hear someone else?”

  “I just asked a student about tavernas.”

  “They’d all pick Rufalo’s. The lager’s cheap there. That’s fine, but not if you want to eat. Jardyna’s not bad, and if you’ve got a mount, Terazo on the way into Tilbora is very good. Costly, but good.”

  Quaeryt paused. “Sarastyn mentioned the Ice Cleft.…”

  Yullyd laughed. “That was the old name of Rufalo’s. It hasn’t been called that for years. Rufalo forgets to tariff Sarastyn for half of what he drinks, but then, he probably waters it as well.”

  “Well … I thank you. I’ll keep those in mind.”

  “If you stay here too long, you’ll want to keep them more than in mind.” Yullyd paused, then asked, “How long will you be here, do you think? Solayi, you’d said.”

  “I’d thought through Solayi or perhaps Lundi. I need to spend more time with Sarastyn. He can only talk so long before he gets tired. You wouldn’t know anyone else who knows history that well?”

  “Not here. If the governor will let you into the Khanar’s library … there’s a lot there, I’ve heard. But I’d tell the governor’s people you’re from Solis. Things … well … we avoid the governor, and he avoids dealing with us.”

  More and more, Quaeryt could see that there were definite tensions between the scholars and the governor, something he’d have to take into account once he reported to the princeps. “I imagine Chardyn would like to look into the Khanar’s library.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.” After another pause, Yullyd added, “You’ve paid lodging and meals through Jeudi morning. If you want to stay longer, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Before Quaeryt’s words had died away, Yullyd was on his way down the corridor to his study. Yullyd’s last words had been a reminder to keep paying, as well as an indication of the perilous state of the finances of the Ecoliae.

  Quaeryt kept his frown to himself and walked out onto the covered north porch. There he looked in the direction of the Telaryn Palace, where the sky was merely overcast, but a gust of cool wind prompted him to turn to the northwest, where dark clouds had massed and were moving toward Tilbora. Another gust of wind swept the porch, strong enough to shake some of the heavy wooden chairs and to move others fractionally. Then came the patter of rain on the roof, a patter that died away, then repeated itself.

  Quaeryt decided against taking a ride, at least for the while. He could always pore over the library, although Sarastyn had been dismissive of the Ecoliae’s holdings. Still, there might be something of value there, even if not along the lines of his purported research, and he might find something else that would shed light on better ways for the governor to deal with Tilbor. He reentered the building and walked to the northeast corner.

  The library at the Ecoliae was hardly that—just a large chamber some ten yards long and eight wide, filled with wall shelves and two rows of freestanding head-high, back-to-back bookcases. While a thin graying scholar who had been seated at one of the tables near Quaeryt on Solayi night looked up from the table desk near the door, then nodded pleasantly, there were no bars on the windows and no grated doors guarding the library. Quaeryt did note a solid lock on the door and inside shutters on the windows.

  Not knowing what was shelved where, and deciding against asking for obvious reasons, since he had no idea who did, or who didn’t, inform Zarxes or Chardyn, he began by starting at the top shelf on the outer wall and taking down the first book and opening it to see the title—The Practice and Profession of Music. A quick sampling of that set of shelves suggested that all were about music and drama. The books about drama surprised Quaeryt, since only the largest cities had playhouses, and most drama was produced in the smaller theatres of High Holders, as was virtually all orchestral music—except when Lord Bhayar had his band play in the Palace Square on special holidays, such as Year-Turn or Summer-Light.

  The next two shelves held various works on philosophy, including one that would have intrigued Quaeryt had he felt he had the time to read it—Rholan as Philosopher. The very title might have gotten the author drowned or burned at one time, but when Quaeryt read the name on the title page, he almost laughed. The book had been written by Ryter Rytersyn. He did thumb through the introduction quickly, and one paragraph caught his eye.

  … Rholan is revered to this day, and doubtless will be so for generations to come as the voice of the Nameless, as the Unnamer, as the man who destroyed the sacredness of names, yet few, if any, have remarked upon the fact that he used common nouns, names, to do so … suggesting either conscious irony or even a great sense of humor …

  Quaeryt smiled, thinking he might have liked to have met the author, but that was rather unlikely, since, if the date was correct, the man, or possibly the woman, given the pseudonym, had been dead for over a century. Then he moved to the next shelf.

  After mo
re than a glass, Quaeryt realized that Sarastyn, if anything, had understated the lack of historical tomes in the library. He found one short shelf of histories, and all seventeen books dealt with other lands—Bovaria, Khel, Tela, Ryntar, Antiago, Ferrum, Jariola—but not Tilbor, or they were rather dated geographies.

  His eyes were blurring, almost tearing, when he finally left the library after three odd glasses and made his way outside into the cool air brought by the harvest storm. The heavy rain had begun to turn the brick lane down to the road into a small stream, and the road below into a river. With the rain now coming down in sheets, he wasn’t about to take the mare out for a ride … and if it kept falling, he’d have to suffer through another evening meal at the Ecoliae.

  He did sigh quietly at that thought, then decided to return to the library. Perhaps, amid all the dross and irrelevancies, he might find something of value. Perhaps.

  30

  The rain was still falling on Meredi morning, if more steadily, rather than in sheeting gusts, but Quaeryt saw no point in trying to ride on roads that were streams if they were paved—which most weren’t—and quagmires if they weren’t. He didn’t see Sarastyn anywhere, and, for lack of anything better to do, he made his way back to the library.

  This time he did stop before the quiet scholar apparently in charge of the chamber. “I’ve seen you here and in the dining hall, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Quaeryt.”

  “Foraugh. I’m the librarian. I imagine you’ve guessed that.”

  The librarian’s heavy and thick Tellan accent suggested he might not be from Tilbora, and Quaeryt asked, “I get the feeling you’re not from this part of Tilbor. Is that right, or am I just too unfamiliar with the northeast of Lydar?”

  “No, sir. You’ve that right. I’m from the hills south of Midcote. That’s the oldest part of Tilbor. That was what my grandpere said, anyway. Usually, he was right. He was a potter, and these days folks will fight over his work.”

  “How did you come to be a scholar?”

  “I spoiled too many pots. My father sent me here. He said that education ruined a man for honest work, but since I was ruined anyway, it couldn’t do me any more harm.” Foraugh offered a crooked smile.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Sixteen years. Five as a student-copyist, and eleven as a scholar.”

  “The copying paid for your schooling?”

  “I doubt that it did, but Master Scholar Phaeryn said it did.”

  “I noticed there aren’t many books on history.”

  “No. When we returned from the hills after the war, almost all the history references were gone. I’ve borrowed and copied what I could find…”

  “Didn’t anyone stay here during the war—to look after things?”

  “Scholar Chardyn and a few others did. From what he said, I think the partisans may have taken over the Ecoliae for a time.”

  “The partisans?”

  “Oh … that was the name they gave themselves. They were the ones who kept fighting after Lord Chayar’s soldiers captured and executed Khanar Rhecyrd. The fighting in parts of Tilbora lasted over a year, closer to two.”

  “It must have seemed the right thing for Scholar Chardyn to do, then, after his service to Khanar Rhecyrd.”

  “I would judge so, but he never speaks about that time. None of us do. Those were the black years.”

  “I imagine times were very difficult for most people.”

  “The High Holders didn’t fare that badly. They have their own guards and armsmen, and the governor didn’t want to fight them, not after they attacked High Holder Jaraul, and lost almost five hundred soldiers to his two hundred.”

  “They killed Jaraul?”

  “They did, but, later, the governor pardoned him and granted half the lands back to his widow and surviving son. That was part of the agreement between the High Holders and Lord Chayar … well, the agreement signed on his behalf by the governor. That stopped the fighting between the High Holders and the governor. After that … the partisans had to give up. Mostly, anyway, except for occasional attacks on careless soldiers.”

  “The governor caught most of them?”

  “Oh, no. They just slipped away, back to whatever they’d been doing. Well … as they could. It didn’t make sense to fight much when they’d been betrayed by the High Holders.”

  “For a time, the High Holders gave them support, until they—the High Holders—reached an agreement with the governor?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed that the High Holders used the partisans as a tool to help force the governor to come to an agreement. Then they forgot how many partisans died.”

  Quaeryt let himself wince. “That seems…”

  “The way the High Holders always have been, in any land. Are they any different in Solis?”

  “They’re … less direct, I’d say, but probably no different.”

  Foraugh offered a sad smile. “You see?”

  “None of the students come from their families?”

  “They seldom leave their estates, and they have tutors, mainly from Bovaria. The wealthiest of our students would be paupers compared to the poorest children of the High Holders.”

  That was no surprise to Quaeryt, but the answer he already knew wasn’t why he’d asked the question. “Then, the older timbering families, like those of Master Scholar Phaeryn, they’re not High Holders?”

  “No. They’re highlanders and backlanders. They have lands, but not hoards of golds. Not most of them anyway. They also own the timber road to Midcote.”

  “So most of the timber from Tilbor comes from Midcote?”

  “It always has.”

  Despite talking to Foraugh for another glass, Quaeryt learned little more. Nor did an additional glass in the library turn up anything new of note. When he finally left the library and stepped out onto the porch, the rain had stopped, and the clouds had retreated to a high overcast that appeared to be thinning. He had begun to consider what of those inquiries he had determined to be necessary he might best pursue with Sarastyn when Scholar Princeps Zarxes approached.

  “Ah … Quaeryt, what do you think of our harvest rains?”

  “For the sake of the holders and growers, I hope they had most of their harvesting done—or that what is left is mainly hay … or the like.”

  “You sound like a grower. Do you have relations who are?”

  “None that I know of, sir,” replied Quaeryt politely. “And you?”

  “Not I. Phaeryn and I come from timbering families. I grew up with an ax in my hands, while Phaeryn was raised riding through those lands and marking trees.” Zarxes smiled broadly. “I have not seen much of you, except in the dining hall, although I hear you have made many inquiries of Sarastyn. Will you be with us much longer?”

  “I anticipate at least until the end of the week, if not longer. I’m learning a great deal from Sarastyn, and even some from Scholar Chardyn.”

  “Ah, yes. They each know history in a differing fashion. Well … I will look forward to reading whatever you write … if, of course, you can have a copy made for our poor library.”

  “That decision, sir, I will have to defer to my patron.”

  “You never did mention his name, I don’t believe.”

  “I did not. That was his wish.”

  “His command, perhaps?”

  “Hardly. He does not express himself to me in that fashion, for which I am grateful.”

  Make of that what you will.

  “You should be. In that you are most fortunate.”

  “I suspect it is just that he is perceptive. He is a good patron, and one I would not wish to lose. So I listen, and he sees that.”

  “Many are not so reasonable, such as Lord Bhayar.”

  “I have never been in any position to make that judgment,” replied Quaeryt with a light laugh. “From what everyone says, I would not wish to be.”

  “Nor I.” Zarxes smiled pleasantly. “It would appear we will have a
sunny and pleasant afternoon. Do enjoy it, as you can.”

  “I have more to learn, but I will.” As I can, while always being aware of what lies behind me.

  Zarxes did not glance back.

  Shortly, the sun began to break through the overcast, and then the wind picked up. Directly after the sunshine strengthened, Sarastyn appeared on the south porch, and Quaeryt immediately approached the older man.

  “More questions, Scholar Quaeryt?”

  “Of course. Once I have thought over what I’ve learned from you, then I discover I have more questions.”

  “That is always the way for a scholar.” Sarastyn looked out to the south. “The Ice Cleft will be open before all that long. But before that, I will endeavor to provide suitable responses.”

  “It will be open … after all the rain?”

  “Especially after all the rain. Here in Tilbor the soil is thin and drains well, too well the growers say, and with this wind, even the muddiest of byways will be passable by tomorrow. The Ice Cleft is on the main road, and I’m careful where I put my feet.” Sarastyn raised his thin eyebrows. “Your question, Scholar Quaeryt?”

  “Who were the partisans?”

  “You might as well ask the name of the wind—or the Nameless,” replied Sarastyn gruffly. “Any Tilboran—except a High Holder—could be a partisan at some time or another.” The old scholar snorted. “There have been partisans in Tilbor since the first Khanar. Anyone who acts on a grievance against a ruler or a High Holder declares himself a partisan.”

  “Has anyone written about partisans who changed things—or have any been that successful?”

  “Most partisans are more successful in stopping change than making it. To stop change, all you have to do is kill people who can effect change. To make a change in the way a land does things, you have to convince people, and few want to change.”

  “So the best way to make a change is to convince people you’re restoring the old ways that they loved?” Quaeryt’s voice was only slightly sardonic.