Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (10 page)

Nodding, he continued until he had fourteen in his wallet, and he was beginning to sweat profusely. Then he wiped his forehead and stood in the shade until he was cooler. Only then did he raise the concealment shield and retrace his steps through the fallen stone, weeds, and grass and back through the fence. He stood behind the oak once more, waiting until no wagons or pedestrians were nearby before releasing the concealment and stepping out onto the edge of the road to continue his walk.

At the next street heading north, he crossed the road, waiting for a coach and then hurrying across to avoid a collier’s wagon. After covering less than twenty yards, he could see that the street he traveled was one catering to cloth factors of various sorts.

He still wondered about the one patroller’s fixation on and hatred of scholars. Would someone at the local Scholars’ House be able to shed some light on that?

After walking another block, he saw an older man adjusting the shutters on the side windows of a small shop that looked to be a lace factorage. When he neared the graying and stout factor, he stopped and waited for the other to finish.

“What can I do for you?” The man did not smile.

“Pardon me,” Quaeryt began. “Could you tell me the way to the Scholars’ House here in Nacliano?”

The factor frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re a stranger here, aren’t you?”

“From Solis.”

“A word of advice. Don’t be asking about scholars here in Nacliano. You want to know why, just walk some three blocks north and two west, and that’ll tell you.” The factor nodded brusquely, turned, and left Quaeryt standing outside the shop.

The scholar managed not to gape. He’d traveled much of Telaryn over the years, and he’d never gotten that kind of answer.

Five blocks farther on, he understood better the factor’s words. What had been the Scholars’ House was a blackened ruin, and clearly had been for at least several years. The only thing that identified it as such was the cracked granite plaque-stone, only half of which remained, with only the chiseled letters
SCHOLAR
left. Scavengers had taken everything except the core of the walls and timbers so blackened that they were useless.

Quaeryt noticed something else as well—an abandoned anomen across the street, but the anomen had not been gutted and salvaged the way the Scholars’ House had, perhaps because there was at least some respect for a place of worship of the Nameless, even if it had been the anomen of the scholars. For a time, he stood in the shade cast by the tinsmith’s shop and watched the various passersby. To a person, not a one looked at either the anomen or the ruined Scholars’ House, as if neither existed.

Lord Bhayar could be skeptical of both choristers and scholars, but Quaeryt knew that Bhayar would have been displeased with both the patroller and the apparent public hatred of scholars, if only because such public hatred too often led to unrest and dissatisfaction with the ruler.

Quaeryt turned back toward the harbor—and in the direction of the Tankard, he hoped. He needed to listen and watch—and think—while he waited for a ship.

13

Although Quaeryt walked through the harbor district until close to twilight on Mardi, he did not see the patroller he was seeking. He didn’t expect to, because it was likely the man was on early duty. He did locate the Patrol building, with the barred windows that signified that it was also a gaol, some six blocks south of the Tankard and one back toward the harbor, tucked away between a stable that catered to teamsters and a café without a name. He did find it ironic that the building that served the patrollers faced away from the harbor.

On Meredi morning, Quaeryt was up and ate early, then made his way to the tall desk, above which the wall shelf remained empty. He waited until the gray lady appeared.

“What can I do for you?”

“It looks like I’ll be here at least one more night.” He extended three coppers. “For tonight.”

She took them with a nod.

“You’re Lily?” he asked.

“Was once. How’d you know? I never told you.”

Quaeryt smiled. “I listened. Years back, I used to be a sailor. I discovered that if you listen people will answer some of the questions you’d otherwise ask.”

“You still have that look, but you speak better than any sailor I’ve ever met, and you’ve got a slight accent that might say you’re Bovarian.”

“I’m not Bovarian. I am from Solis.”

“Now what do you do?”

“Whatever I must. I have a patron. He dispatched me to Tilbora to locate something, but I missed the
Azurite Naclia
. Took longer coming up from Cape Sud.”

Lily smiled. “Always does, except in fall. Winds turn then.”

“Is there a good patisserie anywhere?”

“Patisserie? Oh … one of those fancy bakeries? Not around here. You want to walk a good mille, you can take the next street north and go west until you get to the Hill Square. There’s two within a block or so of the square.”

Quaeryt nodded. “Thank you. Until later.” With that, he turned and left the Tankard, walking quickly to the north. Once he turned the corner, he stopped to look at some copperware displayed in a window, then eased to where he could watch the Tankard’s front door while seemingly waiting on the corner for someone.

He waited for almost half a glass before a pair of patrollers strolled by. While he was ready to head for the nearest alleyway and vanish behind a concealment shield, neither looked more than passingly in his direction. Nor was either the round-faced and heavyset patroller who had attacked him.

Since it was unlikely that another and different pair of patrollers would be following the first any time soon, Quaeryt turned and headed toward the harbor. There, at the first pier, he observed a second pair of patrollers, but not the man for whom he was looking. Keeping well away from them, but not in an obviously apparent fashion, he walked onto the pier. He wasn’t exactly hopeful about finding a ship headed north, not when almost half the berths at the pier were vacant, but he covered the entire pier, making inquiries and having no success.

When he left the first pier, the patrollers were no longer at the base, but he found they had moved to watch the second pier, although neither seemed especially attentive, and he eased past them. The long pier held but four vessels, and not a single one was headed north. He did use concealment to leave the pier, although it might not have been necessary.

There were no patrollers at the base of the third pier, and, again, he made his way out and inquired of the ships tied at the pier, but not a single one was headed north.

As he turned to head back down the pier, away from a schooner that had just arrived from Thuyl, a voice called out. “Dried fruits … the best dried fruit in the east! You can’t do better, sir!”

Quaeryt smiled as he looked at the bent old man. He liked the man’s cheerfulness, as well as his clean tan shirt and trousers, and the clean tannish cloth that covered his tray. “I doubt I could. What’s the best?”

“Depends on your taste, sir. I’m a tad partial to the sour cherries, but I’ve got some sweet ones, too, and the dried apple keeps well if you’re going on a long voyage.”

“A copper’s worth of the sour ones.” Quaeryt tendered the coin and received a small pile of dried cherries on a clean but small cloth square—a rag, in fact. “You keep track of the ships?”

“I wouldn’t say that I keep track of them. I see some more often than not.”

“I’ve been looking for vessels heading to Tilbora. I heard that the
Moon’s Son
sails there often.”

“Right regular, she does, excepting she’s not in yet.”

“Where might she tie up?”

“Over on the second pier, way in … cheaper there. That’s because the end berths are easier to catch the wind…”

When the old vendor finished, and Quaeryt had eaten all the dried cherries, he handed the cloth back. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.” The old man nodded.

Quaeryt grinned before heading back toward the base of the pier. He wasn’t about to ask about the nasal-voiced patroller who hated scholars. People usually remembered when strangers asked about such, and he didn’t want anyone remembering anything, and since he had the time, it was better not to ask.

He was vaguely surprised to find that the pair of patrollers who had attacked him had stationed themselves at the shore end of the third pier in the time that he’d been on the pier, although that might have been because there looked to be more vessels tied up there than at the other two piers, and the pier was more crowded with vendors, teamsters and wagons, and loaders, as well as at least some travelers. Quaeryt moved back and tried to blend into the nearest bollard, listening as he did.

“…
Sparrow
’s back…”

“Just sails three ports—Kephria, Hassyl, and here … must like those Antiagonan women…”

“Nuanyt likes more than that.”

“… don’t see anyone in brown…”

“Not many these days … suppose the word’s out. Might as well swing by the Sailrigger.”

“Why? Be dead as dead till…” The larger patroller shook his head. “Might have known…”

As the two turned, Quaeryt raised a concealment and waited until they were headed away, both swinging the iron-tipped truncheons from their leather straps. Then he followed, if at a distance, as the two walked along the avenue fronting the harbor, heading southward. After passing a small café that looked to be closed, the two stopped in front of a legless man sitting on a low-backed stool with stubby legs less than a hand long and strumming a mandolin.

“Pharlon! Seen any scholars lately?” asked the nasal-voiced patroller.

“No, sir.”

“You will let me know if you do, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a good fellow.” The patroller bent and scooped a coin from the bowl set before the disabled musician, then continued to the next corner, where both patrollers turned away from the harbor. Two women carrying laundry baskets on their heads hurried across the narrow street and down an alleyway to avoid the patrollers.

A block later, the two patrollers slowed as they neared a larger building with a painted signboard proclaiming it as the Sailrigger. The place was definitely a taproom, but one with dancers attired more than suggestively, if the painting on the signboard happened to be an indication, although there was an open courtyard in front, enclosed by a chest-high yellow brick wall, where some sort of food could be served. All the tables were empty.

The patrollers walked through the untended open courtyard gate. Quaeryt followed so far as the gate, then stopped, holding his concealment and waiting.

“Saerysa!” called the nasal-voiced patroller.

No one appeared, although Quaeryt thought he saw one of the closed shutters on a window on the wall of the taproom adjoining the courtyard vibrate.

“You wouldn’t want to make the Patrol unhappy, would you, Saerysa?”

After several moments, a woman appeared, wearing a thin cotton robe. She was dark-haired and small, but even with the loose robe, it was obvious she was well-formed, most likely one of the dancers. Quaeryt doubted that her duties were limited to dancing. She stopped a yard or so outside the door leading into the building, leaving it open behind her.

“Aren’t you going to come and greet me?” The nasal-voiced patroller stepped past several tables but stopped a good three yards short of the dancer. He eased the truncheon into his belt sheath.

“You’re here early. I just got up.” Her voice was low and husky.

“Fancy that. You need to come over and greet me. Just like you would when you want a sailor to spend his silvers on you.”

“I’m not even really awake, Duultyn.”

“You really should come here.”

Saerysa took two steps and halted just out of the patroller’s easy reach.

“You’re shy this morning.”

“I told you I was tired.”

Abruptly, the patroller moved and grabbed both her wrists, pulling them down and pressing her against him. The girl tried to knee him in the groin, but he turned his body and took the knee on his thigh, then shifted his grip and pinned both arms with one large hand, and ran the other hand across her body.

“You need to be more friendly, Saerysa.”

The dancer slumped, as if surrendering, then tried to bite Duultyn’s shoulder.

As the patroller pushed the dancer back and twisted away from her teeth, Quaeryt did his best to imitate the “caaw” of a raven, then imaged a sordid mass that he hoped resembled a large and soggy raven dropping less than a yard above the patroller. It dropped and spread across the patroller’s green shirt with a splatting sound.

While a few bits of the “dropping” splattered on the dancer, Saerysa pulled back, then wrenched free of Duultyn’s grasp as the patroller gaped at the mess across the front of his uniform. She turned and ran through the door into the building.

“Shit!”

“That’s right.” The other patroller stifled a laugh, but did shake his head. “That raven really got you.”

“Ravens don’t do that!” snapped Duultyn.

“I heard it, and you’ve seen it.”

“I didn’t see any raven, and you can’t miss birds that big.”

“He didn’t miss you.”

An older woman appeared with two large towels, one damp and one dry. “Sir … perhaps these would help.”

Duultyn glared at her. “Where’s Saerysa?”

“You scared her. She ran off. She is no longer here.”

“She is, too.”

The other patroller cleared his throat. “Duultyn…”

“Shit…” Duultyn looked at the older woman. “Tell your little dancer she has a big debt to pay. And she’d better.” He took the damp towel and began to sponge off his shirt.

The older woman retreated into the Sailrigger, closing the door behind her.

“Namer-cursed sow…” muttered Duultyn. “Name ’em all!”

“She’s pretty enough, but is she worth all the trouble?” asked the taller patroller.

“It’s a matter of principle. How would Burchal feel if he knew…” Duultyn glanced down and shook his head. “Still going to have a stain here.”

“Glad the chief’s not a relation of mine.”

“It comes in handy at times.” Duultyn threw the damp towel on the nearest table and blotted his shirt with the dry one. “Old lady Shaalya knows I can find a reason to close her down if Saerysa isn’t more cooperative. You’ll see.”