Scholar

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 cafe 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 cafe 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.”

The dry towel followed the first, then dropped to the brick-paved courtyard floor. Duultyn did not pick it up, but turned toward the gate.

Once the two patrollers left the Sailrigger’s courtyard, Quaeryt followed. He could have done far worse, but he needed Duultyn in good health, at least until he discovered more.

The only problem was that, while he followed the pair for more than three glasses, he learned little that he had not already seen. Duultyn did take coin from two other beggars along the way, speaking cheerfully to both. Just before noon, perhaps a quint before tenth glass, the two returned to the Patrol building.

Quaeryt took a table at a cafe a half block away, where he ordered a lager and a domchana. The batter-fried ham and fresh yellow and red pepper sandwich wasn’t bad, although he’d had better. But then, he’d also eaten far worse.

He did wonder just how long he’d have to wait for the two patrollers before they left the patrol station.

After lingering over his midday meal, Quaeryt waited until Duultyn and his partner reappeared and followed them for another two glasses. He learned little more. He then returned to the harbor and visited the two ships that had ported since the morning. Neither was heading north.

He debated returning to the Sailrigger, but decided that he wouldn’t learn what he needed to know even if Duultyn did return there after his duty shift. Instead, he decided to look to see if he could find a bookseller.

That took more than a glass, because, after one look of disgust from a cabinetmaker who displayed a bookcase in his window, when Quaeryt inquired about a bookstore, he decided that asking was anything but the best policy. In the end, he stumbled onto it, because he had decided that at least a few people who liked good pastries might like books as well and he had made his way to the area around Hill Square. He had just walked by one of the bakeries mentioned by Lily and had noted that it was close to being a patisserie, but he decided he could always stop later.

He had turned the corner and was walking down a narrow side street, passing a felter’s shop, when he noticed that the next building had iron grates on the windows, and an iron-grated door, although the grated outer door was swung back and latched open. Above the door was a sign that read “Cooper.” That was what the faded and stylized letters seemed to signify. The windows were so grimy that he could see nothing, perhaps because there were no lamps lit within the building.

Yet, when Quaeryt slowed and peered through the open doors, he saw bookshelves, despite the pair of half barrels against each side of the entry foyer.

He stopped and considered. The bookshop, if it were indeed that, was well away from the harbor, but less than two blocks from Hill Square. It was also tiny, less than four yards wide, wedged between the felter’s and a cordwainer’s shop.

Finally, he shrugged and decided to enter, if cautiously.

When he stepped inside, Quaeryt was almost overwhelmed by the mustiness, an odor stronger than that in the dankest corner of the library of the Scholarium in Solis. He paused for a moment, then glanced at the shelves, then at the tall silent man standing at the back of the shop, who held a knife with a shimmering blade.

“Go ahead and look,” said another voice, one filled with age.

Quaeryt glanced to his right, locating a man with wispy white hair perched on a stool chair behind a high desk. “I’m sorry. Your guard took me by surprise. So did the sign for a cooper.”

“That’s all right. It’s better that most think it’s the place of a cooper who’s given up coopering. You’d be an outlander, even to come in here.”

“If no one comes in here…?”

“Oh … there are plenty of folk who’d like books. Most of them just don’t walk in. They send notes to a friend of mine, along with the coin, and Eltaar delivers them at night. These days, no one likes being thought much like a scholar.”

“Could you tell me why?”

“I can, and, unlike others in this fear-ridden city, I’d be pleased to tell you.” The white-haired bookseller gestured to a high-backed stool in front of his desk. “That is, if you would care to join me.”

As he saw the gesture, Quaeryt also noted that the bookseller wore tightly fitted gray gloves that ran from his fingertips up under the sleeves of the pale gray shirt and that there were whitish welts on the front of his neck, revealed but slightly by the high-collared shirt.

“I’d like to hear the story,” Quaeryt admitted as he moved toward the stool. He did turn the stool slightly, so that he could keep an eye on the guard out of the corners of his eyes.

“Stories here, you understand,” began the bookseller, “always begin with a phrase such as, ‘In the time of … whoever was famous, it came to pass that…’ I suppose every place has a phrase to signify a story.” A chuckle followed. “In the time of the first years of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn, a strong man became the head of the City Patrol of Nacliano, and that man’s name was Burchal. He had the strength of two men and the cunning of both a weasel and a fox, and like a serpent, he could strike from the darkness. At first, everyone rejoiced, because the Patrol stopped the loaders from soliciting bribes from the shipmasters and teamsters. They were also glad when the taprooms and cafes that drugged the sailors burned to the ground. No one was displeased when the number of beggars was limited to one on each pier, and only to those beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, and with each beggar being given but one day a week to beg…”

Quaeryt listened as the bookseller went through a listing of changes created by Burchal, but he kept his attention split between the storyteller and the guard.

“… and then, one day, a scholar from Cloisonyt arrived in Nacliano. At first, no one even knew he had come to the city, for he repaired to the House of Scholars, but, in time, he began to visit the harbor and to teach some of the women to read, and one of those women was the young wife of Burchal, who was a beautiful girl from outside of Cheva. She could not read and begged the old scholar, and he was old, with hair of silver and a kind face, to teach her to read and to do her numbers so that she could help her husband with the household accounts.” The bookseller laughed ironically. “And from that day was Burchal’s happiness diminished, for the young woman was bright as well as beautiful, and she began to read, and then to look at the account books of the household, and then at another account book.” The bookseller shook his head. “Then she disappeared, never to be seen again, and one week to the day later, a great fire burned down the House of Scholars, and all the scholars within were said to have perished, including the old scholar who had taught the girl to read.” The bookseller stopped.

“That’s it? And no one has done anything?”

“What else would there be to say?” asked the bookseller. “The House of Scholars burned, and there are no scholars left in Nacliano.”

“Or none who dare call themselves scholars,” replied Quaeryt.

“One who does not acknowledge who and what he is cannot claim to be such, can he?”

“That is a point many have debated, including Rholan, who said that a name did not equal deeds.”

“Perhaps I should have said that one who neither acknowledges who or what he is nor acts as such cannot claim to be what he believes himself to be.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I prefer to believe that acts rather than words define the man … or woman.”

The bookseller laughed, a sound soft but ironic and edged with a hint of bitterness. “You are neither innocent enough nor cynical enough, for all acts come from words.”

“Perhaps,” said Quaeryt, easing himself from the stool, “but the words need not come from the one who acts, nor the deeds from the one who speaks.” He smiled. “It is always better when someone else tells the story.”

“I take it you have no interest in purchasing a book?”

“A traveler should only purchase books when he is home and can provide for them.” Quaeryt bowed. “I thank you for the story.”

“And I for your patience.”

Despite the apparent politeness of the bookseller, Quaeryt remained ill at ease on the entire walk back to the Tankard, not because he doubted the story, but because he believed it … as well as what had not been said, but suggested, and not spoken, by the bookseller himself. More than that, the hidden semi-parable about the woman who learned to read and what came of it bothered him as well, especially in light of the missive from Vaelora sealed within the document case.