Jorem laughed, self-deprecatingly, and turned to Quaeryt. “My wife is far more perceptive. I saw an educated scholar. She saw more. She often does.”
What Quaeryt saw was that Jorem adored his wife.
“My Jorem,” interjected Hailae quickly, “he is trusting and trustworthy.” Her smile was warm and open.
Quaeryt said nothing for a moment, envying them both. “You are well suited to each other, it would seem.”
“Oh … and this is Daerlae,” said Jorem, gesturing to the girl, who now held to her mother’s gray trousers with one hand.
“Daerlae, I’m very happy to meet you.” Quaeryt inclined his head once more.
Daerlae lowered her eyes for a moment, then peered back at Quaeryt.
“He’s a scholar,” declared Jorem.
“Uncle Lankyt is a scholar.”
“Uncle Lankyt is studying to be a scholar,” corrected Jorem. “So is Uncle Syndar.”
“If we are to eat before the stars appear,” said Hailae gently, “I must finish.” She glanced toward the small ceramic tiled stove.
“Why don’t you tell us how you came to meet my parents?” suggested Jorem. “That way Hailae can hear the story while she’s getting things ready-and I can help as well.” He looked to Daerlae. “And you can hear more about your grandparents. If you’re good.”
Quaeryt couldn’t help smiling.
Jorem hurried into the dining room and returned with one of the chairs. “Here…”
After taking a seat, Quaeryt cleared his throat. “I never thought that I would ever be close to the Ayerne, or meet your parents-and grandparents-when I took passage on a brig out of Nacliano called the Moon’s Son…” Quaeryt took his time in telling the story, trying to emphasize details that might interest Daerlae, while avoiding revealing how he had escaped the reavers by telling exactly what he had told Rhodyn and Darlinka. He also tried to time the story to how the meal preparation was going so that he was close to ending when he saw Hailae nod to Jorem. “… and then the mare carried me up to the front of a factorage that had a wonderful signboard painted with all kinds of fruits and vegetables.” He looked to Daerlae again. “And do you know whose factorage that was?”
“Mother and Father’s!”
“Exactly! And that is how I came to be here.”
“And now it’s time for dinner.” Jorem turned to Quaeryt. “Thank you. You speak well.”
Once they were seated at the long table, with Jorem at the head and Hailae to his left with Daerlae beside her and Quaeryt across from Hailae, Jorem looked to his wife.
She lowered her head and spoke. “For the grace that we all owe each other, in times both fair and ill, for the bounty of the land of which we are about to partake, for good faith among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For all these, we offer thanks and gratitude, both now and ever more, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged…”
“In peace and harmony,” Quaeryt replied almost in unison with both Jorem and Daerlae.
The blessing had to be of Pharsi origins, because the wording was somewhat different from any Quaeryt had heard before, yet not jarringly unfamiliar. Was he really Pharsi? At times, he’d wondered if there had been some Pharsi in his background, because he’d never seen anyone else with black eyes who hadn’t been Pharsi, but with his white-blond hair, he’d only assumed he was part Pharsi at most.
Jorem handed a carafe to Quaeryt. “It’s a decent red.”
“I’m sure it’s more than decent,” replied Quaeryt, “and whatever it is that you prepared, dear lady,” he added, looking at Hailae, “it smells wonderful, especially to a tired traveler.”
“It’s just a fowl ragout that we have for supper often. If I’d known Jorem was inviting company, I could have fixed something special.”
“For me, this is very special.” Quaeryt’s words were heartfelt.
Jorem dished out a large helping of the ragout and handed the platter to the scholar. “The olive bread is a family tradition, too.”
“You’re both most kind, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your asking me to supper.”
“Nonsense,” replied Jorem, with an intonation that recalled his mother to Quaeryt.
Hailae smiled.
For a time after everyone was served and had taken bread, there was a silence. From the first mouthful Quaeryt enjoyed the ragout-covered with a flaky pastry crust and with a filling consisting more of vegetables and leeks than fowl. Even so, it was tasty, if more subtle in flavor than most of the dishes in Solis, and the olive bread enhanced the flavor of the ragout.
“Your father mentioned your brothers in Tilbora-do you see them often?” Quaeryt finally asked.
“Lankyt takes one of the ferries down to see us when he can, every other week or so,” replied Jorem. “We usually send him back with fruit, or in the winter, dried fruit. He doesn’t get much of that from the scholars.”
Quaeryt glanced to Daerlae. “Do you like your uncle Lankyt?”
“He’s nice. Sometimes, he brings me things. He brought me a doll for my birthday.”
“Uncles should do things like that.” Quaeryt smiled, then shifted his glance back to Jorem. “Does he say much about how things are in Tilbora these days?”
“He doesn’t talk much about Tilbora. He tells us about his studies.”
“Do you go there often? To Tilbora?”
Jorem and Hailae exchanged the briefest of glances before Jorem replied. “We haven’t been north of the river in years. It takes all our time to keep things going here. We’ve been fortunate enough that some of the cafes in Tilbora send buyers for our specialties almost every week.”
“They always want the anise leeks,” added Hailae, “and the sweet red onions.”
“I take it there are more cafes in Tilbora.”
“We have some here,” replied Jorem. “The Painted Pony is good, and so is Brambles. They also are good customers.”
“Do you see many armsmen here?”
Jorem shook his head.
“Do they do much to keep the peace in Tilbora, or do they just chase the local girls?” Quaeryt injected light sarcasm into his voice.
“Most girls know enough to stay away from them,” answered Hailae.
“Some years back,” said Jorem, “a few of them decided that Pharsi girls couldn’t protect themselves.”
“They were wrong,” interjected Hailae.
“But the governor razed an entire block of Pharsi houses when two soldiers were killed, and three were wounded,” continued Jorem. “Almost all the Pharsi families around there moved to places in Bhorael.”
“Your family was already here, though, wasn’t it?” Quaeryt asked Hailae.
“They were.”
The simplicity of the answer suggested that Hailae didn’t really want to say more, but Quaeryt thought an indirect question might shed some light on the matter, from what he knew of Pharsi customs. “I imagine you had some cousins who decided to move.”
“They’ve been much happier here,” she replied.
“I’m glad, and you both seem to like Bhorael.”
“It’s much friendlier than Tilbora,” said Jorem.
“Is there anything you think I should be aware of in Tilbora?” Quaeryt offered a gentle laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t remain in Bhorael.”
“Well … I wouldn’t mention that you’re on Lord Bhayar’s business-except to armsmen or the governor’s people. Where you come from doesn’t bother the scholars much, but most of the Tilborans don’t like the way the armsmen behave. Other than that … it’s probably like anyplace else. There are places to avoid and places where everyone is friendly and helpful.”
After that, Quaeryt steered the talk back to his time with Rhodyn and Darlinka.
A good glass later, he smiled and said, “I fear I have imposed too much, and I should take my leave. Poor Daerlae can barely keep her eyes open.”
“Oh, no. I fear we have kept you too late,” sa
id Hailae quickly. “You will not be able to find anywhere to stay.” She glanced at Jorem. “We do have a guest chamber above the stable.… It is modest … but it is clean and most private.”
“I would not wish to impose.…”
“It is not an imposition, not after all the news you have brought us,” said Jorem. “And Father would not wish it otherwise. Nor would we.”
“That would be most appreciated.” Quaeryt paused. “Are you certain?”
“Most certain,” said Hailae firmly.
“Let me get a lamp for you, and show you.…” Jorem stood.
So did Quaeryt, bowing to Hailae. “My deepest thanks for your hospitality, and for a marvelous dinner.” He turned to the sleepy-eyed Daerlae. “And for your company, young lady.”
“Am I a lady?” Daerlae looked to her mother.
“You are, and you will be,” answered Quaeryt. “If you listen to your parents and mind them.” He smiled at Hailae.
She smiled back.
“I heard that,” murmured Jorem, returning from the kitchen with a small lamp. “I hope she remembers the last part.”
“So do all parents,” said Quaeryt with a laugh as he turned to follow the factor down the steps into the factorage and then out to the stable.
24
Quaeryt had intended to slip away early, but Jorem found him in the stable before he had saddled the mare and had insisted on his joining the family for breakfast. Even so, it was well before sixth glass when Quaeryt left the factorage. Daerlae and Jorem stood on the front porch, and Daerlae waved, as the scholar rode northward toward the ferry piers. Quaeryt waved back, a smile on his face at the enthusiasm of the little girl.
Once again, he couldn’t help but wonder what lay behind the fracture in the family. It clearly had something to do with Hailae and the fact that she was Pharsi, yet Rhodyn and Darlinka didn’t seem to be the kind who would object to their son falling in love with a Pharsi girl, especially one who was attractive and able and who had a family of worth. Not only that, but it was obvious that Hailae and Jorem had endured some hardship and still were deeply in love-without the storminess that Quaeryt had observed from a distance between Bhayar and Aelina.
Absently, he wondered if Vaelora could be as stormy as her brother. Although the tone of her missive had been formal, there had been no mistaking the will behind the words. He shook his head. It would be months before he returned to Solis. Yet … why had she written such a formal missive? Why had she written at all? He shrugged. There was little point in speculating, and he certainly wouldn’t find out for seasons … if he ever did. Yet … he had to admit he was intrigued.
The ferry pier was located a half mille or so upstream from where the Albhor River actually entered the harbor and offered several different alternatives, from small boats just for individual passengers all the way up to a donkey-powered paddlewheel craft that could carry two wagons and several horses and their riders. Because the paddlewheel craft was the one that looked the safest and the most ready to depart, Quaeryt paid the five-copper fee, then had to walk the mare into a crude stall and tie her there.
Just as he finished, a one-horse wagon rolled aboard after him, and the teamster paid a silver. When no one else appeared within a quint, not all that surprisingly to Quaeryt, considering that it was early on Samedi, the ferryman groused under his breath and rang a bell. The donkeys began to walk on the slatted platform backed in heavy canvas and wrapped around two rollers, one of which was linked to the rear paddlewheel that churned the gray-brown waters and pushed the unwieldy craft toward the Tilbora ferry piers, close to half a mille away.
Keeping one eye on the mare and the stall, Quaeryt eased over to the ferryman, who was captain, helmsman, and crew, all in one. “Do you know where the Scholars’ House is in Tilbora?”
The ferryman looked blank, but did not shift his eyes from the river.
“The place where scholars stay?” prompted Quaeryt.
“Well … there’s what they call the Ecoliae. It’s a hill, sort of northwest from the ferry piers…”
The scholar had to strain to understand the man’s words; if he happened to be typical, the Tellan Tilborans spoke was almost a different tongue and far more guttural, similar to but not quite the way Chexar had spoken. An instant of sadness came over Quaeryt as he thought about the gruff captain.
“… and there’s an anomen on the next hill to the west … and it has a white dome.… Might be two milles. Could be three. I don’t go that way often. There used to be some teachers there. I suppose there still are … unless the Telaryns got rid of them.…” The ferryman turned his head and spat.
“There’s not a problem with the scholars, is there?”
“No more than anyplace. Not much more, anyways.…”
There was a hint of something there, but Quaeryt didn’t want to interrupt.
“… Don’t know what all that book learning’s good for. They don’t cause troubles, anyway. Not like the Telaryn armsmen or the Pharsi types.”
“I heard there were troubles years back.”
“No more trouble with the Pharsi folk. Good riddance. The armsmen … they’re still trouble.”
Abruptly, the ferryman looked at Quaeryt. “You’re a scholar type, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I traveled here from Solis to write a history.”
“Who’ll read it? Other scholars?” The ferryman turned and spat again, his eyes returning to the waters ahead of the ferry. “Leastwise, His Mightiness Lord Bhayar isn’t the one writing it. Lord and master of all the east of Lydar, and he’s never been here.”
“His father was here, and that wasn’t exactly what anyone wanted, was it?” asked Quaeryt dryly.
“You got that right, scholar!” After a time, he asked, “What you going to write?”
“One of the reasons I’m here is to talk to people about what happened. What do you think I should write?”
“Write what you want. Who cares?”
“I’d like to write something close to the truth.”
“No such thing as truth. Truth is what every man wants it to be for himself. Even the Namer’s imagers think their truth is the only one. A course the last one we found around here ended up chained to the sea stones when the tide came in. Couldn’t image his way out of all that iron.”
Quaeryt kept the wince inside himself. Does Tilbor view imagers the way Nacliano sees scholars? “When did that happen?”
“Last week in Juyn, I reckon.”
“So, if everyone’s got a truth, tell me what you think I should write.”
“Someone’s got to rule. Someone always has. Most folks don’t care so long as they got enough coppers to get by. Too many rulers take too many coppers and don’t make things better. That’s history. Oh, you got folks with fancy names and fancier clothes, and someone like you writes it all down, what they do, but no one writes about what I do. Don’t write what the beggar in the square does. Don’t write about the seafarers who sail the storms…” The ferryman stopped. “You won’t write that, either.”
Quaeryt laughed. “You don’t care much for scholars, do you?”
“You ever worked, really worked?”
“I ran away and spent six years before the mast. That was work.”
“Then you might write about real folk. If you do, them with golds won’t read it.” The ferryman spat again. “Can’t talk no more.”
Quaeryt eased away. Even before he reached Tilbora he was getting the feeling that what he had in mind was going to be far, far harder than he’d ever thought … and he’d never thought it would be easy. As the donkey ferry neared the piers on the Tilboran side of the river, he couldn’t help but note that the northern piers looked more worn and dilapidated than those in Bhorael-and the Bhorael piers had scarcely been pristine.
Once he had led the mare off the ferry and mounted, he set out to find the scholars’ place. As was usual in most ports with rivers, there was a road beside the river. This one led northwest from the
ferry piers, and Quaeryt rode slowly along it. Unlike the riverside in Nacliano, the ground flanking the river was no more than three or four yards above the water, and many of the structures located between the river road and the water showed watermarks, and stains on the worn wood. Few were constructed of stone above the foundations.
After a mille or so, Quaeryt was sweating in the midmorning sun, which felt more like summer. Although Tilbora was supposed to be cooler than Nacliano, the heat was more like that in Solis. Before too much longer, he found a wider avenue heading north and in the direction of the hills, the top of one of which appeared to have an anomen situated on its crest. It felt like he had ridden far more than two milles past moderate dwellings and small shops, with but handfuls of people on the streets, early as it was, before he reined up at the bottom of what had to be his destination.
The stone block at the base of the brick-paved lane leading up the gentle slope to the buildings above was inscribed with a single word-ECOLIAE. Quaeryt glanced up. The two-story brick structure that sprawled across the rise was not at all similar in form to the Scholarium in Solis, yet he could feel a certain sameness. All scholarly places exuded a definite feel … in some way or another.
He rode up the lane, dismounted, and tied the mare outside the main entrance. A fresh-faced youth in brown, clearly a student, if one likely to be close to finishing his studies, hurried out the door, across the wide covered porch, and down the three, not-quite-crumbing brick steps.
“Good day, sir.”
“I’m here from Solis,” said Quaeryt, “and would like to stay for a bit. Might I see the scholar princeps?”
“You’re fortunate, sir. He is in the front hall at the moment.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt walked up the steps and across the mortared bricks of the porch and into the building, whose ancient wooden floor creaked, as if to announce his presence.
The scholar who turned to face Quaeryt had short silver-blond hair and a square-cut beard of the same colors.
“Scholar princeps?” asked Quaeryt.
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