Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  “You sound like Rholan might.”

  “Hardly.” Quaeryt shook his head.

  “I’d have to doubt that, my scholar friend.” Skarpa glanced down the long table, grinned, and lowered his voice. “I didn’t see you at services on Solayi. Gauswn was disappointed.…”

  “He seems to think I’m something I’m not. I’m just a scholar who knows a bit about Rholan and the background of those who follow the Nameless.”

  “You’re more than that, even if you’re trying to sound like you don’t believe in the Nameless.”

  “I don’t disbelieve. I don’t know, but I believe in the precepts that Rholan and others set forth.”

  “For a doubter, you’re a powerful chorister.”

  “That’s one of the problems with words. Those who master them think that they’ve mastered more than the words themselves. Most haven’t.”

  “That sounds even more like Rholan to me, except better.”

  Quaeryt sighed loudly and dramatically. “I’m not a chorister. I’m not even a scholar of the Nameless.”

  “You could fool me and most of the officers.”

  Quaeryt couldn’t think what else to say that wouldn’t end up with him in the position of protesting so much that he’d end up convincing Skarpa and those around that he was what he wasn’t.

  “Scholar?” asked a voice from behind Quaeryt’s shoulder.

  Quaeryt turned, and seeing Commander Zirkyl, immediately stood. “Sir. You surprised me.”

  “That can be good or bad.” Zirkyl’s light voice was dry. “By the way, I couldn’t help but overhear your comments about the mastery of words convincing people they have greater abilities when they don’t. You’re right about that. That wasn’t what I came over to see you about, though. I’m going to prevail upon you to speak as chorister at services this coming Solayi. Everyone has said you gave an excellent homily two weeks ago, and I think they’re more than tired of me. Since you’ll be returning to Tilbora with Sixth Battalion next Meredi, that will be the last chance many of them will have to avoid hearing me.”

  While the literal meaning of the commander’s words was correct, since most of those attending would be leaving when Quaeryt did, the scholar wasn’t certain that was exactly what Zirkyl meant. In any case, all he could do was nod and say, “If that is your wish, sir, I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m certain it will be very good. Thank you, scholar.”

  As the commander walked away, Quaeryt looked across the mess table at Skarpa. The major was smiling.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Every word. I told you the commander was good at using the resources at his disposal effectively.”

  “He’s very good,” agreed Quaeryt. Too good, in this case. He shouldn’t have protested so eloquently or for so long, but then he hadn’t seen the commander slip up behind him.

  “Gauswn will be pleased. So will many of the others.”

  Quaeryt winced.

  “Gauswn’s a good undercaptain.”

  “I know he is. He just sees more in me than there is. Besides, the commander is a good speaker and chorister, I’m certain.”

  “He is. You’re better.”

  “I think this is a case where familiarity breeds a desire for difference, and I’m just different.” Before Skarpa could contradict him, Quaeryt asked, “How early will Sixth Battalion set out on Meredi for the return to Tilbora?”

  “I’ll let you change the subject this time, scholar, because you still have to give that homily.” Skarpa grinned, then added, “By sixth glass.”

  59

  On Samedi morning, Quaeryt rode another uneventful patrol, this one to the southeast, far longer, so that he did not return until just before the evening meal, at which he ended up next to Duesyn, who, he discovered, was actually from Nacliano and had been promoted to captain the past Juyn. The good captain knew nothing about the sad state of affairs concerning scholars in his home city, and said that it must have happened after he had been posted to the regiment from duty near Ruile.

  Quaeryt was so tired that he almost slept through breakfast on Solayi and then went back to his quarters and took a nap. By late afternoon, though, he woke feeling famished and made his way to the officers’ mess, where he wheedled a lager from the attendants and waited for the evening meal.

  He’d barely seated himself when Gauswn stepped into the mess, looked around, spotted him, and then walked over. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  “You will be speaking tonight, won’t you? At services?”

  “I will.” As if I had any choice.

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.” After a very polite nod, the undercaptain turned and left the mess.

  Quaeryt took a long swallow from his mug.

  Before long, Skarpa and Meinyt joined him.

  “I haven’t seen you around today,” offered the major as he sat down across from the scholar.

  “Yesterday’s patrol wore me out. I thought I was almost recovered, but…”

  “Oh … you went with Duesyn on the southern sweep,” said Skarpa. “That’s long and boring, but we do that one because High Holder Dymaetyn and High Holder Fhaelyn kept asking for it to keep poachers away. They never had any.” He shook his head.

  “It was a way to show the other High Holders that the governor listens to them,” offered Meinyt.

  “He listens to all the High Holders. He meets with them all the time. He just doesn’t always do what they want,” countered the major.

  “Has he ever met with the hill holders?” asked Quaeryt.

  Skarpa cocked his head. “I can’t say as I know. If he does, it isn’t often. They said they didn’t meet often with the Khanars, either. Most stiff-necked folk in all Tilbor. You were there when I had to deliver the commander’s message to that young snot Waerfyl, him in his red vest, daring me and the commander to torch his holding.”

  “I wish you had,” murmured Meinyt.

  “And then what? We’d have to torch every holding in the hills and abandon them for years or spend hundreds of troopers chasing down every man or boy with a bow or crossbow. Armies and regiments aren’t meant to fight brigands and outlaws.”

  Quaeryt wondered about that. With the winters so long and cold, what would happen if most of the holds were destroyed? What would people do in the winter? Rather than raise that point, he just listened.

  “What do you do then?” asked Meinyt. “Let them get away with it?”

  Skarpa shrugged.

  Quaeryt considered the question without commenting as the rest of the officers and the food arrived.

  The evening meal consisted of some form of potato dumplings and chunks of meat in a brown gravy so spicy that Quaeryt couldn’t begin to determine the origin of the meat, although he guessed it was most likely mutton. The brown bread was hot and moist, though, and that helped.

  After eating, as before, Quaeryt followed the officer acting as chorister for the entire service—Commander Zirkyl this time—into the dining hall and stood to one side while the commander led worship from the invocation to confession and through the offertory, before standing aside and letting Quaeryt move forward to delivery the homily.

  “Good evening,” he offered in Tellan.

  “Good evening,” came the reply.

  “Under the Nameless all evenings are good … and even if they weren’t, I somehow think that having a less than perfect evening is to be preferred over the alternative of having no evening.” Quaeryt didn’t expect a laugh, and he didn’t get one.

  “Some of you may have heard of the term ‘nomenclature.’ No, it’s not a fancy substitute for good old-fashioned swearing. It’s the study of names, and the words it comes from mean literally to summon or command a name. For all that, do we really study what names are? We’re all familiar with what the names of people and things mean, and even where many of those names come from.

  “But what is a name? We sa
y that it is a noun, and a noun describes or is the term or definition of a person, place, or thing. But is that all it is? As people, we need names. They serve a function. They allow us to talk to each other, and to let others know who we are as opposed to other human beings. But let me ask another question.” Quaeryt paused.

  “Why do we capitalize a name when we write it? That’s a simple question, isn’t it? In terms of grammar, names are officially ‘proper names,’ and that is why names are capitalized. But then, would anyone want an improper name?”

  A low laugh rippled across the officers and rankers.

  “Yet … by capitalizing our names and the names of others, we are declaring that we are special, that we have a greater identity or are of greater import to the world than do those objects or creatures who share the same common name, such as trees, or rocks, or pebbles, or ants, or cattle. At times, people name animals, especially those that are loved or that have served faithfully, and those names accord them somehow a higher place than animals that bear no names. Yet no higher power, not even the Nameless, has bestowed our proper names upon us. No … we give them to our children, as our parents did to us.

  “By what right do we claim a special position in capitalizing our names? Do not all creatures on this earth have a use and a worth, whether or not each has a proper name as opposed to just a creature name? What is our worth and use? Is it measured by a name? Rholan certainly did not believe so. Or is it measured by our usefulness and accomplishments?…

  “Yet how often do accomplishments become mere nouns, common names written on the pages of history by struggling scholars far more skilled than I in an effort to capture the essence of those deeds? Do those who read the words understand that essence, or do they only focus on the words and names … losing that essence and understanding?

  “Rholan understood how easily names, even personal and proper names, could become so much more and so much worse than the sounds we use to identify ourselves as individuals … so … when we think of a name, especially our own, we should not fall in love with it, but regard it for what it is—a tool like any other tool. Like any tool, it can be most useful, and when misused, it can become dangerous, even deadly.…”

  Even though the homily was short, Quaeryt knew he’d said enough, perhaps more than enough, and he stepped back to let the commander deliver the benediction.

  Only after most of the worshippers had left did Zirkyl turn to Quaeryt. “You amaze me, scholar. To start with a grammar lesson and then tie it into another inspection of Naming … I’ve never heard any chorister do that.”

  “I haven’t either, sir,” added Skarpa as he approached.

  “You may be wasted as a scholar,” continued Zirkyl.

  “Alas, sir, that is what I am.”

  The commander shook his head. “Such a pity.”

  Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that the prime requisite for a chorister was to believe in the Nameless, and that he was only certain about believing in some of the precepts of the Nameless. Instead, he said, “We cannot be anything we wish; we can only be the best at what we are.”

  Zirkyl nodded slowly, but then added, “Do not set your sights too low, master scholar.”

  If you only knew, Commander. If you only knew. “I will keep that very much in mind, sir.”

  “See that you do.” The commander smiled before he turned and left Quaeryt with Skarpa.

  “What do you have your sights set on, scholar?” asked Skarpa, his tone half-amused.

  “Not to let thoughts of fame and glory impede what I wish to accomplish,” replied Quaeryt lightly. “And you?”

  “I’d like to be an effective regimental commander.”

  “You just might be,” said Quaeryt, smiling. “Do you want to join me for another lager? I think we can persuade them to serve us.”

  “Yes … but I’ll take ale.”

  The two walked back into the officers’ mess.

  60

  The sun was still above the hills to the west on Jeudi afternoon when Quaeryt rode up the paved road and through the eastern gates into the Telaryn Palace. The brisk winds that had cooled him on the last few glasses of the journey were a definite sign that the hotter weather was beginning to wane, even if it was only the fifth day of autumn. After two days of riding and practicing his shields as often as he could, Quaeryt was pleased that he could hold shields he was certain were strong enough to block a crossbow quarrel—if for less than a quint continuously. He had the feeling he’d need them every bit as much in Tilbora if not more than he had while riding patrols out of Boralieu.

  He hadn’t sent any reports to Bhayar from Boralieu, but knowing that he’d be returning on a Jeudi, over the previous week he’d written a totally factual report of the events of his month at the outpost, mentioning his injury in passing, but offering nothing about any of his abilities, except an improved capability in the saddle, or any speculations whatsoever. He also had written a summary report of each week’s activities for the princeps.

  He had barely dismounted in the stable courtyard when a young ranker hurried up.

  “Scholar Quaeryt, sir? The princeps would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

  Earliest convenience? What exactly does that mean? “Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I take care of my mount.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.” The ranker hurried off.

  After unsaddling and grooming his mount, Quaeryt dumped his gear in his quarters and retrieved his report for Straesyr, then hurried back to the second level of the main section of the palace and into the princeps’s anteroom. Vhorym looked up from his table desk, then stood. “The princeps will see you immediately, sir. Just go on in.”

  Straesyr actually stood as Quaeryt entered his study. “How are you feeling, scholar? How’s that chest wound? I heard you’d been wounded on a patrol. The first reports weren’t that good.”

  The princeps’s warm voice held concern, and Quaeryt thought that his ice-blue eyes weren’t quite as hard and calculating as usual.

  Quaeryt felt fine, but he replied, “I’m still sore and bruised, but I’ll recover.”

  “The governor was greatly concerned. He hadn’t thought you’d run into such an attack that soon. He’d recommended your going on routine patrols at first.”

  “It was a routine patrol. Even Captain Meinyt thought so. There were only a few backwoods types. They had crossbows. We lost one ranker, and two others besides me were wounded. Two of the attackers were killed. I didn’t do too much, except talk to the officers, after I felt better, for the next few weeks.” He extended the sheets of his report. “Here is a consolidated report of the time I spent in Boralieu.”

  Straesyr smiled and gave a rueful headshake. “It’s a pity you’re a scholar and not an officer. You’re intelligent. You get the job done, and you’re obviously durable.”

  “I’m not terribly good with weapons, sir.”

  “You think. That’s far more important for an officer.”

  Sometimes you think too much. Quaeryt kept that thought to himself.

  “There is one other thing.” Straesyr smiled, reached down, picked up a sealed missive off the desk, then handed it to Quaeryt. “This arrived a few days ago by courier. It appears to have been addressed by the same hand as the one awaiting you when you first arrived.”

  Quaeryt took the missive and looked at the script. “It does look the same.”

  “Without being too intrusive…”

  “She is a young lady to whom I was introduced by her aunt just before I left Solis. She posed a number of scholarly issues, and I replied before I departed for Boralieu. While she is charming, I am a scholar, and scholars are not known for their wealth, and I have no family. I will, of course, continue to write, because a woman whose intellect is so sharply honed is rare.”

  “You phrased that in an interesting fashion, scholar.”

  Quaeryt laughed softly. “I have found little different in the basic ability of men or women to
think. I have found great differences in the proportion of each who are trained to use their thoughts and faculties to the fullest.”

  “My wife would agree with you, as would my daughter, young as she is,” said Straesyr dryly. “I will have to relate your observation to them.”

  “Are they here in Tilbora?”

  “My wife was not about to allow me to remain here unaccompanied. That may be suitable for a widower such as the governor, she said, but not for a handsome and intelligent man. We have quarters in one of the row houses beyond the stables.”

  “I saw children…”

  “Doubtless at least one of them was mine.” The princeps smiled again. “You have had a long day, and I would not keep you yet longer. You will be in your study in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Until then.”

  Quaeryt inclined his head and departed.

  As he walked back to his quarters to unpack and see what he could do about getting his garments washed, he thought again about the princeps. Behind the open mannerisms, Straesyr concealed a great deal, possibly even more than did Rescalyn. Yet his mention of his wife had been anything but casual, even as easily presented as those words had been.

  Not until he was back in his quarters, which had been swept and cleaned in the last day or so, did he study the letter that bore Vaelora’s handwriting, although only his name and posting were written on the outside. Interestingly enough, he could detect no sign that the seal had been tampered with, none at all, and he finally broke it and extracted the sheets of paper inside and began to read.

  Dear Scholar Quaeryt—

  I am in receipt of your correspondence of 33 Agostas. I do appreciate your thoughtful commentary on the points that I raised previously, and I cannot convey how pleased and relieved I was to learn that you arrived safely in Tilbora, despite the difficulties you encountered in your travels.