Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (15 page)

“Water I can spare, young fellow.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that he wasn’t all that young, not when he must have seemed that way to her. Besides, he wanted to get away from the possibility of ship reavers as quickly as possible.

Although he was ready to raise concealment at any time, he waited by the gate while she walked back into the cottage. Shortly, she returned with a small bucket and a dipper.

He took the dipper and drank a small sip, tasting the water, then took more. When he finished, he returned the dipper. “Thank you. That was much appreciated.”

“The least one should do for a thirsty traveler. We don’t see many these days.”

“I imagine not. Which way to the road leading to Fairby?”

“The local road is at the end of the lane at the end of the path there.” She pointed south. “You go left, and it will lead you to Khasyl. To the right is the long walk to Fairby.”

“Thank you.”

“You might want to sit on that bench there and rest your legs,” she offered, pointing to a plank resting between two hillocks of earth just inside the gate.

While he was tired, Quaeryt replied, “I thank you for your kindness, but I must be on my way.” He inclined his head politely, picked up his canvas bag, and then stepped back before walking toward the path she had indicated. He could sense her eyes on his back.

While he had his doubts about her directions, or her intentions, since north was where he needed to go, he stayed on the path, and then the lane until it joined the road. Just before he reached the road, he passed one other cot that looked to have been long abandoned.

At the crossroads, if it could be called that, he glanced southward, but the foggy mist shrouded everything more than a half mille away, and he turned in the direction that felt generally northward, and doubtless had to be, since it was roughly parallel to the coast. The road was little more than a dirt track, rutted and uneven, and he ended up walking on the shoulder.

Less than a mille later, although he couldn’t be certain, for there were no millestones or other distance markers, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He looked back, but the misty fog was thick enough that he could only see a few hundred yards.

Then he heard the bay of a dog.

Frigging horse dung! They would have a hound.
Concealment shields didn’t hide scent, and they didn’t erase tracks in or along a wet and muddy road.

He began to look for a tree large enough for him to climb. Needless to say, he didn’t see one immediately close. So he forced himself to pick up his pace, tired as he was, as he searched for a tree or some other place with height.

He covered another fifty yards or so through the patchy fog, with the baying of the dog coming ever closer, without catching sight of a tree or anything that might serve his purposes. Then he caught sight of a tree ahead on the right, but it turned out to be a scrawny juniper. He forced himself into a faster walk.

After another hundred yards, he saw several trees through the mist, up a gentle slope to his left. One
might
be large enough for him to climb up out of easy reach. He turned and hurried up the slope of grass and low bushes, on one of which his trousers caught, enough that he had to stop and pull them free.

The baying of the hound was markedly louder, but he did not head for the taller tree, but the shortest, which he circled, and then the next taller, before he began to climb the tallest one. The storm had shredded some of the leaves, but there were enough remaining to offer some cover. The problem was that the tree wasn’t a sturdy oak or the like, but a softwood of some sort, and by the time his feet were less than three yards off the ground the branches were swaying under his weight. Carrying the canvas bag didn’t make matters any easier, either. He decided against climbing higher and braced himself against the unsteady main trunk. Then he waited for the pursuers to come to him, hoping that there were not too many of them.

As they drew nearer, between the baying of the hound, he could hear some of what was said, but the thick accent he did not recognize made it harder.

“He’s left the road … has to have heard the hound…”

“Maergyt said he was headed north…”

“… don’t see what the trouble is … just wants to put the wreck behind him…”

“Vaolyn says better to have no witnesses…”

“… lot of the cargo spoiled…”

“Not the oils … worth a fair piece.”

“… still don’t know why she wants him tracked down and taken out…”

Vaolyn was a woman? Quaeryt shrugged. Reaver queens weren’t unknown, just rare, but they tended to be more ruthless than their male counterparts, probably out of necessity.

“Hound’s on to something! Must be getting close.”

Quaeryt peered through the leaves, trying to get a good look at his pursuers as they moved up the slope, slowing as they nearer the clump of trees. There were three men—all young, lean, and hard. The one with the dog on a rope lead carried a club. The other two held blades. One looked to be a cutlass, another a sabre of some sort.

“… think he’s in the trees?”

“Where else?”

“Give the dog more rope.…”

Quaeryt concentrated on the man at the back of the group, then imaged an oblong of wood into the man’s chest, right where his heart should be. The reaver offered a strangled cry and pitched forward. When the second man turned, Quaeryt managed a second imaging. His head was pounding as the second attacker clutched at his chest.

The man with the hound stopped, looking around.

The third imaging left Quaeryt’s guts turning inside out, and his vision dimmed. He just hung on to the tree.

The hound stopped baying and looked toward the fallen man, around whose wrist the lead rope was wrapped. Then the dog lurched toward the base of the tree in which Quaeryt perched and resumed baying, if with a more desperate edge to the sound. The rope did not allow the hound quite to reach the trunk of the tree, but the dog kept baying … and baying.

Finally Quaeryt imaged a chunk of wood into its heart as well. That bothered him … far more than dealing with the reavers, but he dared not have the baying call more attention to where he was.

His eyes were burning, his guts were churning, and it was all he could do not to puke and to hold his position in the tree, hoping that no one else would happen along soon, and that the fog and mist would cloak him for a while until his guts settled and he could eat some of the hardtack and cheese and regain some strength.

20

Worried as he was, Quaeryt remained in the tree and rested, grateful that the misty fog, while beginning to lift, still remained thick in places. After a time, certainly less than a glass, he sipped water from the tin bottle and then slowly chewed some of the hardtack. A good quint later, he was finally recovered enough to ease himself down from the tree and to resume walking. The one thing he was sure of was that he needed to get as far from the wreck as he could … and as quickly as possible.

The first mille or so from the tree was almost pleasant. By the second he was feeling warm, although the air was still cool. By the third mille, a good glass or so later, the dampness combined with his own body heat and the lack of a breeze to make him feel uncomfortably hot, and he loosened his shirt and jacket. His arms were getting tired from carrying the canvas bag, even though he was switching it from hand to hand as he kept walking.

To keep his mind away from how he felt, he went back over what had happened. He hadn’t been thinking as well as he should have been. He should have imaged red pepper into his scent, so that the hound wouldn’t have been able to smell anything at all for a time. That just showed how tired he was. Yet he definitely needed to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dead reavers and the poor hound, whose only fault had been its masters.

For a time, he concentrated on just putting one foot in front of the other.

After perhaps another half glass, he came to the ruins of a cot, one that had been burned, it appeared, and then razed. He looked along the road, only to realize that he stood at the southern edge of a small hamlet where every building had been fired and leveled. The destruction had not been too recent because scraggly grass grew up to the remaining foundation and wall stones and the only path was the well-worn one from the road to the ruin, but it had happened within the past few years, because the soot on the mud bricks had not faded that much.

Despite his feeling feverish, or possibly because he was, Quaeryt shivered, then shook his head. The destruction merely refueled his intention to put the Shallows Coast behind him. Even so, he forced himself to sit down on a flat portion of the cot wall and to drink some of the water and eat more of the hardtack. The very thought of eating any of the cheese gave him a queasy feeling.

After taking that brief refreshment, he rose and made his way along the road and through the ruins. He couldn’t help but note that not a wall remained standing above knee height. What had been the cause of such devastation? Reavers usually just raided and departed. They weren’t known for such thorough destruction, even when villagers resisted. Had the village been burned because of a recurrence of plague? That didn’t make sense because no one would have stayed around afterward to level the walls.

Nothing else he saw as he passed the twenty-odd ruined buildings shed any more light on the reason for the destruction. There were no signs of animals, either, except that the rolling hills to the north of the hamlet had been recently grazed.

He kept walking, but he had to pause more frequently as the day grew somewhat warmer and the fog and mist lifted into low clouds. For all the greenness of the land, he saw no cots or holdings—none at all. While he did see signs the grass had been grazed, he saw no herds or flocks. The lack of human habitation bothered him, because there seemed to be no reason for it, yet he knew full well that such an emptiness was anything but natural and had to have a cause.

Sometime around midday, he passed through another village that had been leveled and burned, and it seemed slightly larger than the first he had encountered. Once more, he stopped and rested. This time, he had to force himself to stand and resume walking, and when he did, he had to stop for several moments because he coughed so violently he almost retched. Yet the cough was dry and hacking. Still, the coughing stopped, and he was able to keep walking.

He felt more than warm, more like feverish. Was that because he’d imaged more than his body could bear at a time? Or was it because he was sick?

More likely sick.
But there was little point in stopping in the middle of nowhere with little food and less water.

His pace slowed some, but he kept trudging along.

In midafternoon, he came to a large stream, or small river, crossed by an old stone bridge with two spans anchored in the middle by a stone and brick pier. The bridge was barely wide enough for a wagon and a team, and there was no sign that any carts, wagons, or mounts had passed that way recently.

He decided against refilling the water bottle that was close to empty. Who knew what lay upstream? He certainly didn’t want to court a flux on top of whatever illness he was fighting.

Less than a mille past the bridge, after he’d followed the road up a gentle slope, he saw a small cot down a lane to the west of the road, and then several dwellings along the top of the next rise on the east side of the road. When he walked past the lane, he saw hoofprints and cart or wagon wheel tracks in the road for the first time since he’d scrambled ashore.

He could feel his steps slowing as he clambered up the next rise toward the hamlet, but when he reached the top, he paused to catch his breath after another spell of dry hacking coughs. While he recovered, he studied the buildings and realized that the place was not a hamlet at all, but a single holding. Four mud-brick outbuildings with thick thatched roofs surrounded a large and sprawling one-story dwelling, also thatched, situated on the highest point of the rise to the east of the road. On the south side of the dwelling, less than a hundred yards away, was a small orchard.

The clouds had lifted enough that, beyond the sandy hills that bordered the grasslands east of the holding, Quaeryt could see the ocean, still a dull gray under the clouds. Finally, he began to walk again, directing his steps along the road until he reached the brick-paved narrow lane that led to the main house of the holding.

He was halfway to the front entry of the main house when a tall and broad-shouldered, but gray-haired, man carried a large basket of fruit—late cherries, Quaeryt suspected—out of the small orchard and set it down in a small cart. He walked swiftly to meet Quaeryt.

“Greetings!” The single word was spoken in what Quaeryt thought of as unaccented Tellan, and his voice was cheerful as he stopped short of the scholar. His smile turned to a worried frown. “You look a sight.…”

“I’m sure I do.…” Quaeryt’s voice was hoarse and felt raw. “I was set upon.… Lost my mount.” Quaeryt looked over his shoulder toward the south.

“You don’t speak Tellan like a native. Do you speak Bovarian?” the man asked in that tongue, if with a heavy Tellan accent.

“I do.”

“Then I will. I need the practice. You traveled through the Shallows Coast?” The man shook his head. “Not even the Lord’s armsmen go there, except in force.”

“The reavers? They’re not a problem for you?”

“These days they don’t come north of the Ayerne.”

“That’s the little river with the bridge?”

“It is indeed. Vaolyn keeps her folk south of there. We had to burn a few hamlets to get that across.”

“Is there anywhere I might find a mount?” Quaeryt’s throat felt rawer with every word.

“Nawlyn’s the closest. Times, Zachys will part with a horse.…” The holder paused. “If I do say so, you’d not be looking ready to ride.”

“Where is Fairby? I must have missed it.”

The holder laughed. “Don’t see as how you could have found it. That was one of the places we burned … razed the very stones.”