Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (26 page)

“I do hope so. He has proved most helpful.”

“I am certain he has, but … he does have … certain lapses of memory, certain beliefs that are of the past, rather than the present.”

“Such as his belief that the taverna where he takes his ‘medicinals’ is still the Ice Cleft?”

“Precisely. When names change, more changes than the name.”

“That is a very good point.” Quaeryt nodded.

“I thought so.”

“Thank you … and if you will excuse me…”

“Of course.…”

As he walked westward toward Jardyna, Quaeryt considered several things. He didn’t like the fact that Chardyn had known Sarastyn’s condition so precisely, but, while Quaeryt couldn’t help wondering about Sarastyn, he couldn’t very well accuse Chardyn of ill-treating Sarastyn, nor could he keep track of Sarastyn’s every move. He also hadn’t cared for Nalakyn’s inquiries. Both suggested it was time for him to move on … and sooner than he had told anyone.

Lankyt’s directions proved adequate. It took far less than two quints for Quaeryt to reach the crossroads that held Jardyna on the southeast side and Rufalo’s some hundred yards to the north, on the west side, past a local chandlery and wool factorage. The painting of the garden on the signboard was far less artistic than the painting on Jorem and Hailae’s factorage, and while the signboard had been touched up, there were still parts where the paint was threatening to peel. The single oversized door, hung with massive iron straps, was of well-oiled oak, and the scents of food did not carry the odor of burned grease.

Quaeryt opened the door and stepped inside. A slender woman dressed in a deep maroon tunic over black trousers turned. While her figure was girlish, the silver and blond hair and the slightly lined face were not.

“Drinks? Or food?”

“Both,” replied Quaeryt. “More food than drinks.”

“You’re from the west, aren’t you?”

“From Solis.”

“I didn’t know Phaeryn was seeking scholars from there.”

“He isn’t. I had a patron who sent me here.”

“He must be indifferent to your wishes, then.” The woman’s smile was friendly, her tone bantering.

“Not indifferent. Just wanting me to earn his support.”

She laughed. “I’m Karelya. You can take any of the small tables that are empty—unless you’re expecting more than one person to join you.”

“A small table will be fine.”

“Pick any one that suits you.” She gestured toward her right.

That half of the large room held fifteen or sixteen tables, with a massive ceramic stove in the middle of the end wall. It was covered with plants in pots, most of them flowering. What Quaeryt noted was that the small tables were those set against the oiled pine plank walls, while the larger tables, those seating six or eight and those seating four, were in the middle of the room. Two of the small tables were occupied, one by a white-haired man, and the other by a young couple. Three men wearing the leathers of teamsters sat around a table for four.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt smiled, then made his way to the unoccupied table closest to the stove, taking the seat that put his back to the plants on the stove.

He’d no sooner seated himself than Karelya reappeared.

“Greeter and server?” he asked.

“For the moment, until the evening girls appear. We stay open until ninth glass. That’s later than most, but still means we can close down before midnight.”

“Unless there’s a really good crowd?”

“That sometimes happens on Samedi nights, usually in midfall. In winter, it gets too cold. What will you have?”

“What is there for me to have?”

“The dinners tonight are fowl paprikash with potato dumplings, Skarnan noodles and beef, and mutton cutlets and fried potatoes. Each one is three coppers.”

“The fowl, please. What about lagers or ale?”

“Light and heavy lager, gold and brown ale. Two coppers for any of them.”

“I’ll try the light lager.”

“The light lager it is.” With a friendly smile, she was gone.

If Jardyna was the less expensive taverna, he didn’t want to think about the more expensive places. He glanced to the other side of the taverna, where the tables were all small and crowded together, and where close to fifteen men were already seated and contemplating or drinking from large mugs. Only a surprisingly low murmur oozed into the eating area.

The door opened, and two men entered, attired as if they were factors of some sort, with jackets over linen shirts. They didn’t even pause, but made their way to the table for four nearest to Quaeryt, taking as they did.

“Kinnyrd … said he’d be here…”

“… believe him? He’s always late…”

Quaeryt shifted his attention back to Karelya, who appeared with one of the large mugs and set it on the table. He slipped out five coppers.

“Just leave them on the table for now. Selethya will collect them when she brings your meal.” With another smile she was gone, moving to the pair of men, who’d been joined by a burlier fellow with an enormous brown beard. “What will you three have? The usual?”

“What else?” rumbled the burly man.

Karelya laughed, although Quaeryt thought the sound was slightly forced. Behind them several more people stepped inside Jardyna, and Quaeryt had the feeling that he’d arrived just a few moments before the customary time for most of those who frequented the place.

Quaeryt sipped the lager slowly as he waited for the meal. If the dark amber brew before him was the “light” lager, he certainly wouldn’t be interested in the “heavy” lager or the ale. Then again, maybe the Tilborans needed that heavy a brew in the dark and cold of winter.

Two women, perhaps ten years older than he was, slipped into the table next to him and immediately ordered ale from a serving girl, presumably Selethya, who also wore maroon and who had curly brown hair pulled back from her face and bound at the back of her neck so that the curls flowed down between her shoulder blades.

He tried to listen to the other conversations. That of the women was so low that he could barely hear them.

“… the sisters … worried about backlands partisans…”

“… why?… not affect us…”

At those words, Quaeryt strained to hear more clearly.

“… Maera … brother said—”

“Not here … scholar right behind you.”

For several moments, the women said nothing. Then, one spoke again.

“… hear about Waelya?… cannot believe she didn’t walk out … family … support her…”

“… pride … we … all have it…”

“… pride be named…”

The three men were far louder, so much so that their conversation drowned that of the women, who were clearly keeping their voices down.

“I told you that the late pears would be soft.”

“You’re always saying that you told me or someone else, but none of us remember those words.”

“You don’t want to remember.”

“Excuse me!” interrupted Karelya loudly and cheerfully. “Here you go.” She set the three mugs down, one after the other. Then she grinned and added, “The late pears were a trace soft, but I don’t think Kinnyrd said anything. Not in here. I would have heard it. So would everyone else.”

Even Kinnyrd laughed.

When the three had taken several swallows of whatever was in their mugs, the men’s conversation resumed, if in much lower tones.

“… another scholar … haven’t seen him before…”

“… trust Phaeryn to find a way…”

“… find a way, yes. Trust, no … backlands timber families can be worse than the High Holders…”

“… could be … also could be related…”

With those words, the three immediately begin talking about whether the snows would come earlier or later.

Quaeryt sipped the lager until the curly-haired Selethya arrived with a platter. “Sir … you had the fowl?”

“I did.”

She slipped the platter in front of him.

“Is there a singer tonight?”

“Yes, sir. Daerema will be here in half a glass or so.”

“Thank you.” He offered her the coppers, plus an extra.

“Thank you, scholar.”

The fowl was far better than the fare at the Ecoliae, and the sauce was excellent, especially since the dumplings were a trace firm. Even so, he found he ate everything, doubtless too swiftly. Then he had to sip the lager, slowly, while he waited for the singer. Almost all the tables had come to be filled, and all the conversations blended into a rumble, from which Quaeryt could pick out only phrases, none of which made sense out of context. He found that he had somehow actually finished the lager and ordered another.

The conversation died away when the singer stepped onto the low platform set against the middle of the rear wall, so that those in both halves of the room could hear her. The dark-haired young woman wasn’t all that pretty, not with her sharp nose and broad face. She offered no introduction, just lifted the lutelin and began to sing.

High upon headland, and clear out to sea,

my true love did sing out his song to me …

He sang and he wept and his words sounded true,

that never the night did I think I would rue …

Quaeryt smiled. She might not be a beauty, but her countenance was pleasant, and more important, for a singer, her voice was lovely, and her fingers were deft enough on the five strings of the lutelin that voice and melody blended pleasantly and strengthened the words of the song.

He listened and sipped as she sang, but still kept his eyes moving around the room as he did. After several songs, someone from the taproom side of Jardyna called out, “The wish song!”

“Aye, the wish song!” echoed another voice.

The singer smiled faintly, and raised the lutelin once more.

If wishes rained down from the sky,

porkers could talk and whales could fly …

if Nidar had lived in these days,

then we’d all be drinking his praise,

oh … we’d all be drinking his praise.

If Khanar had had a strong son,

or the envoy been roasted well done,

if Nidar had come back to fight,

we’d all be carousing all night,

we’d all be carousing all night.

But wishes don’t rain; ice isn’t snow,

Boars still snort, and no one will know

the time when the sun and the sea

and the rivers and we run free,

oh … the rivers and we run free.

Cheers followed the song, but as soon as they subsided, the singer immediately began another song, almost as if she wished she hadn’t been asked to sing the wish song.

My man was a strong man, as strong as life would see,

and he was fair and free and good at loving me …

The murmurs died away, and the room stilled, and Quaeryt glanced around. There were tears in some eyes, and the eyes belonged to both men and women.

… but a man and his daughter and a cousin fought,

and now I’ve a daughter with no father, all for naught …

When the singer finished the second song, clearly about the war with Telaryn, she quickly launched into an upbeat tune.

You came home the other night, as tight as you could be,

You woke me up to help you find the finest specialty …

But I’m no shop, and not your very private chandlery …

Laughter broke out, and Quaeryt laughed with the rest.

After several more songs, he paid Selethya for the second ale, which he’d barely touched, adding two extra coppers, and made his way out of Jardyna.

While he was especially alert on the walk back to the Ecoliae, he couldn’t help thinking about the songs that the singer had offered—and that she’d been able to sing the second one without anyone, even from the rowdier taproom side of Jardyna, heckling her … and in fact listening respectfully.

That reaction didn’t fit with what he’d observed of Chardyn, and that was another aspect of the Ecoliae that disturbed him. But then, there had been the two women talking of the sisters and the partisans … and the fact that there had been several tables besides the one adjoining his that had held only women—and that was something he hadn’t seen anywhere else in Telaryn, or even in the few Bovarian ports he’d visited years before.

32

As he approached the Ecoliae, Quaeryt felt more and more uneasy. Why? Was it because of the questions by Nalakyn, or Chardyn’s remarks? Or the continued interest in when he was likely to depart the Ecoliae? His eyes flicked skyward. Artiema was slightly less than half-full, while the smaller reddish-tinged disk of Erion showed little more than a thin crescent, not that he put much stock in the idea that more violence occurred under the light of a full Erion.

When he reached a spot some fifty yards downhill from the front porch, he imaged a concealment shield. If he happened to be right in his feelings, that would help. If he were wrong, there was no harm done. He slowed his steps so that there was little or no sound from his boots on the bricks of the lane, but it seemed to take forever before he climbed up the steps to the porch. Because there was always a student scholar watching the front door, he walked around the east side of the porch to the east rear side door. It was, naturally, bolted shut, as were all doors except the front one after eighth glass.

That wasn’t a problem, or not one that took terribly long, since he imaged away the catch plate, opened the door, and stepped inside, into the dimness of the side hall. Then he imaged the plate back in place and walked slowly and as silently as he could to the narrow staircase at the east end of the building. From there he crept up the steps and then along the long, long hallway toward his chamber on the west end.

He might be overreacting, but he didn’t think so.

He stopped in the darkness outside the doorway to his chamber, studying the hallway and then the door. There was no glimmer of light in the thin space between the wooden floor and the bottom edge of the door. Nor did he hear anyone breathing or moving on the other side. All he had to do was lift the latch, because, as was the case with any room in any Scholars’ House, there was no lock, only a bar and a bolt that could be slid shut from the inside.