Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (6 page)

Quaeryt stopped and reread the clear and graceful writing of the previous paragraph once again.

“‘Men and women of ability,’” he murmured, “yet ‘so many men of ability seek to further their own ends.’”
An accidental choice of words? Not likely. Not at all.

A woman of ability must subordinate herself to a man, if indirectly, in order to obtain her ends, while a man may seek to make his own destiny. Thus, a ruler must always ask of a man who ostensibly serves him whose ends that underling truly works for and in what circumstances, while the ruler can ask with which man a woman is allied and how her acts and requests might benefit the man in question.

“I don’t know about that … a woman can flatter one man while serving another.”
But that’s what’s she’s saying.

This is not as simple as it may appear, for a mother may have desires for her husband or her lover or her children. The honest woman is the one who is direct with the one she loves the most, but do men respect such honesty?

Another good question.
Quaeryt kept reading.

In historical tomes, one often reads of how effectively a ruler must treat with allies and enemies. Seldom is there ever reference to the effectiveness in dealing with those closest to a ruler, save when a ruler cold-bloodedly removes all those whose bloodlines might supplant his own. Yet Lord Chayar was most successful in not resorting to such familial bloodletting, as was his father and as has been his son. Why do those who study history not remark upon such?

Because Chayar had only a single son and because his father Lhayar sent all his sons into battle against the descendants of Hengyst until but one son remained.

Or is it because they use circumstances in quiet ways to limit familial rivalries before they can threaten the internal harmonies necessary for a successful ruler?

These are mere thoughts, offered for your consideration.

The signature was a single letter—“V.”

When he had finished, Quaeryt folded the missive carefully, then slipped it inside the document case Bhayar had given him.

What exactly did Vaelora have in mind? What she had written wasn’t a flattering treatise on his intellect or insight. Nor was it seductive—except in the sense of showing that she could indeed think … and raise issues without revealing, at least directly, even who she was. The document was unlike anything he had ever read, and it was incredible, so incredible that he had to wonder if Vaelora had composed it herself.

Yet … who else could have? From the brief meeting, he had doubts that Nerya had, and none of Vaelora’s sisters had been in residence in Solis in years. That meant that the document reflected either Vaelora or the presence in the palace of another woman of intellect and perception. Perhaps Aelina?

Quaeryt nodded. That was possible. Was the document suggesting that some of the better of Bhayar’s decisions had come from his Lady?

Either way, the missive had raised many of the key issues of ruling, including perhaps the most important, that of assuring an orderly succession. Hengyst had been a great ruler, and yet within a few generations, his successors had been anything but great. Supposedly, the same had been true of Caldor, the founder of Bovaria. Kharst had come from a cadet lineage that had scarcely been noted a few generations earlier, when suddenly, all the direct descendants of Caldor had suffered various fatalities that had never been explained satisfactorily, perhaps because anyone who raised such issues also vanished.

Was the letter a form of indirect communication from Bhayar?

He shook his head. While he certainly couldn’t discount the possibility, Vaelora’s words to him and the tone of the letter mitigated that likelihood. Besides, Bhayar had never minced words with him, not ever. He had hinted, upon occasion, that his youngest sister was proving to be difficult—a greater and greater problem for which he had no easy solution. Because of her intellect? That was all too possible.

Was Vaelora interested in Quaeryt? Perhaps … but why? He was essentially a scholar with a modest income, very modest, and she had no idea that he had a limited ability, through his imaging, to do somewhat better than that—but certainly not the ability to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. Nor could Bhayar afford to waste an asset like Vaelora on a mere scholar, even one the Lord was familiar with and friendly to.

As for some sort of liaison, Vaelora’s words had almost hinted at that … but, as Quaeryt had as much as indicated to Bhayar, giving in to such an impulse, even if Vaelora were interested, would be tantamount to Quaeryt sentencing himself to a distant exile … or even death. That was certainly not his plan, not when he had so much he wanted to accomplish … somehow. In any case, he would not even have a chance to see Vaelora before he sailed, yet she had asked for his comments.

He sat down and took out a short sheet of paper, thinking, and then finally writing.

Dear Mistress Vaelora—

Your missive raised most of the issues of historical interest in assessing the problems facing a ruler, as well as those facing women who are close to such rulers or who may have power in their own right.

Inasmuch as I am departing immediately on a task assigned to me, I cannot comment at length on your words, but the depth and perception of your insights are indeed remarkable, and when I return I would hope to discuss them, if that is agreeable to all concerned.

He signed it as she had signed hers, with his initial.

Finally, he left his chamber, heading for the harbor. It was later than he would have liked, and he still needed to meet with Ghoryn and confirm with silver his passage on the
Diamond Naclia
. Then he would have to return to the palace and arrange for his reply to go to Nerya. He wasn’t about to address the outside of his reply directly to Vaelora. Not at all.

7

After meeting with Ghoryn late on Jeudi afternoon to confirm his space on the
Diamond
, and then returning to the palace, and spending several silvers to reach Nerya, who accepted the missive silently, Quaeryt returned to the Scholars’ House to sleep there on Jeudi night, knowing that the bunk in the fantail locker would have been as hot and steamy as the inside of a boiling cookpot. He’d also melted some wax to waterproof the leather case Bhayar had given him, which now held both his credentials and Vaelora’s missive. He was up well before dawn on Vendrei, walking toward the harbor with a sailor’s duffel, the canvas strap over his shoulder, the duffel almost on his hip. While he had the silvers for Shuld, the captain, in his wallet, the golds were in hidden slots in his belt, boots, and the sheath of his belt knife.

Until he reached the unmarked way that was “second street,” he saw almost no one on the avenues and streets, and but one patroller. Except around the harbor, and in the palace, Solis was not a morning city. Because it was not, he had to worry less about slam-thieves and cutpurses.

Even from the pier in the gray light before dawn, Quaeryt could see that the crew of the
Diamond Naclia
was busy with the last tasks before casting off. The land breeze was light, but enough to get the barque out of the harbor.

“That duffel yours, scholar?” asked Ghoryn as Quaeryt walked up the gangplank. “From back when?”

“It is. Never found anything better for traveling.”

“Looks like it’s seen a few ports.”

“A few,” agreed Quaeryt amiably. He turned as the angular figure he had met once approached. There were three black stripes with the crescent moon above them on the front shoulder of the sleeveless dark gray linen jacket.

The scholar slipped his fingers inside his own brown traveling jacket and came up with the coins. “I believe you agreed to these, Captain. The other half of the passage and fare for ten days.” Quaeryt handed across four silvers to the lanky captain.

“You’re a man of your word, scholar.” Shuld smiled humorously, his surprisingly white and full set of teeth contrasting with his square-cut black beard.

“Sometimes that’s all we have.”

“Looks like you’ve a bit more than that.”

“A patron commissioned a history of Tilbor. Commissions like that don’t come often.”

“How often?” asked Ghoryn.

“This is my first and probably my last,” replied Quaeryt with a laugh.

Shuld nodded and walked away, turning his attention toward the fo’c’s’le. “Careful with those capstan bars!”

Ghoryn turned. “Baeryn! Show the scholar the fantail locker.”

“Yes, sir.” A ragged-haired youth in breeches that barely covered his knees hurried across the deck and stopped a yard away. He was barefoot. “This way, sir!”

Baeryn quickly clambered up the ladder to the poop deck, keeping well to starboard as they passed the helm, and then dropped down the half ladder.

The youth opened the locker, which, as he did, Quaeryt could see had two doors, rather than hatches, one on the starboard side and one on the port. “There you are, sir.”

Quaeryt did not enter the locker, but studied it from the open door. The bunk, such as it was, consisted of a narrow plank shelf, with a canvas pallet, and three ropes anchoring the forward side to the overhead. Under the shelf bunk were spare sails, and against the forward bulkhead were lines and cables. Everything was stowed neatly and fastened in place. There were no portholes in the locker itself, only several sets of shielded and louvered openings to provide ventilation. He noted that the door opened so that it was flat against the outside bulkhead and that there was a cleat there, as well as one on the inside of the door, doubtless one pair of two so that the doors could be tied open in fair weather to air out the locker. On each side of the locker in the aft bulkhead that ran down from the poop deck to the main deck were three brass-framed portholes, clearly going into the captain’s and other quarters. All were open.

Quaeryt set the duffel on the narrow deck between the railing and the bulkhead. “How long have you been on the
Diamond
, Baeryn?”

“Near-on three years, sir. My da was a top-rigger on the
Emerald
back when the captain was first mate.”

From the way the youth spoke, Quaeryt suspected his father was no longer alive, but now was not the time to ask. “Are all the ships out of Nacliano with jewel names in the same fleet?”

“Don’t know as it’s rightly a fleet, sir. There’s six, I hear, and High Holder Ghasphar owns ’em all.” He grinned. “The
Diamond
’s the best.”

“She’s well-kept and clean. Can you tell me the other mates besides Ghoryn?”

“He’s the first. Wealhyr’s the second, and Zoeryl’s the bosun.”

Quaeryt concentrated, committing the names to memory. “Thank you. I won’t keep you longer. I’m sure you’ve duties to attend to in getting under way.”

“Yes, sir.” After a quick nod, the youth scrambled back up the ladder and headed forward across the poop deck.

Quaeryt stowed his duffel in the locker in a narrow cubby at the end of the shelf bunk on the port side. Then he closed the locker and made his way up the ladder. The helmsman was standing by the wheel, and the captain was forward of him, surveying the ship and crew. Keeping well clear of both, Quaeryt made his way to the main deck, below the poop near the port ladder, where he would be out of the crew’s way. He listened as the bosun called out the orders.

“Single up!”

“Gangway aboard.…”

Quaeryt noted that the captain used only the topsails in clearing the port and heading down the channel out into the bay, but that made sense, given the long and comparatively narrow channel toward deeper water. The scholar looked back as the white-orange light of dawn crept over Solis, turning the palace on the hill a pinkish orange.

Not for the first time since he’d decided on his course of action, he wondered if the goals he had in mind were worth the risk—or if they were even attainable. He also couldn’t help but worry about whether he should have replied to Vaelora … yet not replying might well have been worse.

But … she is attractive and bright … and few women are both.

8

Sometime before dawn on Solayi, nine days into the voyage, Quaeryt was awakened from an uneasy sleep by the sound of boots on the poop deck, far more boots than there should have been at that glass. He immediately pulled on his shirt, trousers, jacket, and boots, and stowed the remainder of his gear in his cubby. Then he eased open the locker, slipped out the starboard door, and closed it behind him.

He studied the sky, but could see no stars, let alone either moon, and since Artiema was still close to full—or, more properly, barely beginning to wane—that meant that the clouds were fairly thick, at least to the west. The wind was light, but steady, out of the west, and the swells were low, no more than a yard from crest to trough at the most.

After a moment, Quaeryt made his way forward, climbing the ladder to the poop deck, forward on the upper deck, and then down to the main deck, since the side of the poop deck was flush with the hull and the only way forward was over the poop.

The bosun stood aft of the main cargo hatch, and Ghoryn stood above him, at the poop deck forward railing, watching as men scurried up the masts.

Eight crewmen wrestled a huge bronze long-gun into position on the starboard side, just forward of midships, while two others were rigging hawsers from heavy iron rings that were probably anchored into the frame of the ship itself. Quaeryt wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught sight of grooves at the end of the muzzle of the cannon as they turned it.

One gun?
Just one, despite its rather sizable proportions?

The shot for the cannon didn’t look like anything Quaeryt had seen before, either. The ten objects in the wooden cradle were more like short cylinders with rounded points, instead of regular round cannonballs, not that he’d seen all that many cannon or cannonballs. Most merchanters didn’t carry cannon.

Quaeryt risked a question. “What’s the trouble?”