Scholar

62

On Vendrei night, after he’d returned to his quarters following the evening meal and prepared for bed, he had checked his spare browns, one of the pair tailored at the Ecoliae. Not only were they hanging in the narrow armoire, but they had been cleaned and pressed. That scarcely surprised him. On Samedi morning he donned the same browns he’d worn on Vendrei, deciding to save the clean and pressed ones for the reception, then made his way to the mess. There he ended up sitting with Captain Taenyd and another undercaptain-Haardyn.

“How is your comparative history coming?” asked Taenyd with a smile.

“Matters were slowed somewhat, as you might have heard. A crossbow quarrel, in fact.”

“I heard that. I also heard that you’re so knowledgeable that you could be a chorister.”

“From Undercaptain Gauswn?”

“And from others.”

“Alas … I’m a scholar of history, not of the Nameless. I’m not sure good scholars always make good choristers.”

“Why not?” asked Haardyn.

“Good scholars deal in facts. At least, they should. Choristers present the truth of the Nameless. But there aren’t any hard facts that affirmatively prove that there is a Nameless.”

“How did the world, the stars, everything come to be, then?” asked Haardyn.

“What if it always was?” Quaeryt smiled ruefully. “Your question presupposes that the Nameless created everything. What if the Namer did? Or there was some other cause? We think we know that the world exists, but what if it doesn’t? What if Taenyd and I are merely your imaginings? Or you and Taenyd are mine?”

“You just can’t imagine things…” Haardyn stopped.

“Exactly,” replied Quaeryt. “Imagers can image things into being … after a fashion, anyway.”

“Then the Nameless could have imaged all of us into being,” countered Taenyd, “or the world and whatever was on it that led to us.”

“That’s possible,” agreed Quaeryt. “But so could have the Namer … or something else. We don’t know. We don’t have any proof of any of those causes.”

“You don’t really believe that we’re merely dreams or imaginings,” declared Haardyn.

“No, I don’t … but that’s a matter of belief, not facts. How can I tell whether everything around me is real or imagined? I believe it to be real because too many things happen that are unpleasant and that I would not wish to happen … but a small part of my mind points out that I often do things which are unwise … and that I know are unwise … and so, could I not imagine unpleasant or unwise aspects of a world I might dream?” Quaeryt laughed, then took a swallow of tea from his mug, followed by a mouthful of the egg hash.

The captain and the undercaptain exchanged glances. Finally, Taenyd spoke. “Do you deny the existence of the Nameless?”

“No. I do not know whether the Nameless exists. I cannot affirm or deny that which I do not know.”

“You still sound like a chorister,” said Haardyn with a laugh.

“That’s because scholars and choristers both study the world,” suggested Taenyd. “They just study it in different ways.”

“That’s a very good observation.” Quaeryt nodded. “And cavalry officers study it in yet another way.”

“The good ones do,” affirmed Taenyd.

“What do you always look for first?”

“The most likely place from which we might be attacked.”

“That’s not a bad precept for many situations,” replied Quaeryt with a smile.

From there on, the three talked about mounted tactics.

After breakfast, Quaeryt went to his study, then walked to the princeps’s anteroom.

Vhorym looked up. “Sir?”

“Could you tell me where the Red Room is, Vhorym?”

The squad leader smiled. “It’s on the main level, directly under the Green Salon.”

“Thank you. If, by any chance, anyone is looking for me, I’ll be in the palace library.”

Quaeryt spent the morning and early afternoon in the library, studying the available maps of Tilbor and trying to correlate which High Holders-as listed in a small book he’d discovered earlier-were located where. There was no comparable information on the hill holders, he noted.

As he sat in the library, a thought struck him. He’d seen all the dispatches, and he’d heard Straesyr talk about collecting tariffs, and he’d noted the size of the “regiment.” What he hadn’t seen any records on was expenses-especially the balancing of expenses against tariffs. The princeps had to be collecting enough tariffs to support the regiment and to send some of those revenues to Bhayar, because Bhayar would have been complaining far more loudly had there been no revenues at all, or scant revenues. Yet how could he raise that issue-or discover the figures-in a way that it did not appear that he was seeking them?

He was still pondering that question, in between other matters, when he had to leave the library to return to his quarters and change into what passed for his finery.

Given the nature of the reception, and the fact that Quaeryt was there as a member of Straesyr’s staff, the scholar appeared at the door to the Red Room half a quint before third glass, where he was greeted, unsurprisingly, by Vhorym in a dress green uniform.

“The princeps is over by the sidebar with the wine, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded, then walked toward Straesyr, taking in the room and its decor. The chamber was identical to the Green Salon in size and shape, twenty yards in length and perhaps fifteen in width, but the hangings were a deep red and flowed down from the gilded crown moldings carved into floral designs. The ceiling was merely of normal height, and air flowed from a series of brass grates high on the walls. The only light was from the brass lamps set on matching wall brackets at intervals around the room, and, by comparison to the Green Salon, the Red Room was almost gloomy. There was also no clavecin in the chamber.

“Yes,” said Straesyr with a nod as Quaeryt approached, “that dress coat makes all the difference, indeed.”

“For which I am most grateful,” replied Quaeryt. “Is there any point or view you wish me to convey to the factors?”

“Only that you are from Solis, and that you were sent from Solis by Lord Bhayar to gather information for Lord Bhayar. That should be sufficient … beyond being pleasant and learning what you can without upsetting people.”

“Is there anything special you’re interested in discovering?”

“Nothing in particular. One finds out more without an agenda, just by encouraging others to talk about themselves.” Straesyr smiled. “You already know that. You might sample the delicacies before others arrive, so that you have more time to listen without your guts interrupting your concentration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt made his way to the side table. From one of the dozen large platters, he picked up a slice of boiled pickled egg set on a petite round of bread and topped with a dollop of a stiff cream topping. The topping was horseradish so hot he never tasted the egg or the bread. The rarish mutton wrapped in thin fried flatbread with a cumin filling was tastier, and he had two of those. He skipped the pickled turtle eggs, but the pate on dark bread was good enough for two. He finished with one of the small white cakes, then moved to the beverage sideboard.

“Sir?” asked the ranker in dress greens.

“The dry white wine,” replied Quaeryt. “Please.”

With the goblet in hand, the scholar turned and watched as the first factor entered the Red Room, a thin-faced man with thick and bushy gray hair, and a beard to match, wearing a gray jacket and trousers and a tan shirt. Straesyr greeted him effusively and talked for a moment.

As Straesyr turned from the one factor to greet another entering the Red Room, Quaeryt intercepted the first arrival. “Greetings … I’m Quaeryt and an assistant to the princeps.”

The factor stiffened for an instant. “Ah … Rewhar … I’m a brick factor.” After another pause, he added, “I had not thought to find a scholar … as an assistant to Princeps Straesyr…” The factor left the sentence hanging.

“That was not of his choosing. Lord Bhayar sent me from Solis to gather information.”

“A scholar to gather information. That makes sense. How are you finding Tilbora?”

“As it is … I hope.” Quaeryt smiled as winningly as he could.

“What sort of information are you gathering?”

“The condition of the province, its strengths, and its problems, particularly the difficulties posed by the hill holders.”

“They are not that much trouble … except if one wants to travel the hills.…”

“Do they trade much ?”

“They grow or hunt most of what they need, and trade their timber and silver for what else they require.”

“Silver? I was not aware…”

Rewhar smiled. “They would prefer that few know of that. Holder Waerfyl and Holder Saentaryn have mines on their lands. So does Zorlyn, but his lands are much farther into the Boran Hills. His mines are also much richer.”

“Zorlyn … that sounds familiar, but I couldn’t say why…” Quaeryt had never heard of Zorlyn. At least, he didn’t think so.

“Oh … he’s the one that no one knows beyond his name. One of his youngest sons-and going through three wives, he has many-is a scholar.” Rewhar frowned. “He’s the princeps of that scholars’ place…”

“The Ecoliae?” At that moment, the connection struck Quaeryt-Zarxes Zorlynsyn. He didn’t want to mention the name Zarxes, because no one at the palace or in Tilbora had ever mentioned Zarxes by name.

“That’s it. The fellow’s name … I can’t remember, but it has to start with ‘Z.’ Zorlyn names all his sons something beginning with ‘Z.’ I heard that somewhere.” Rewhar glanced past Quaeryt toward the serving table.

“Don’t let me keep you from enjoying the food. I did find the small mutton rolls and the pate quite tasty. The sauce on the pickled sliced eggs is rather highly spiced.” Quaeryt smiled again and gestured toward the table.

The next two factors to enter and greet the princeps were careful to avoid Quaeryt, and he decided to wait until more had arrived. When a good fifteen or so had appeared, he moved toward a pair standing somewhat away from those clustered around the serving table.

“Honorable factors … I’m Quaeryt, the scholar assistant to the princeps. I was sent here from Solis by Lord Bhayar to offer aid to the princeps and to gather information.” He smiled.

“Oh…” replied the taller factor. “Jussyt … I’m not really a factor so much as a quarryman who became fortunate enough to discover better ways of splitting and dressing stone. They all claim I’m a factor, though. Even Raurem here.”

Quaeryt turned to the shorter man.

“Produce, especially apples and the rough grains. But apples … they’re the most notable fruit of Tilbor. More varieties grown here than anywhere in Lydar. Better, too. It’s a pity we can’t ship them farther away than the east coast without drying them.” Raurem shook his head.

“What’s the best eating apple?”

“Ah … that depends on when you eat it. Right off the tree or in a day or two, it’d be the black thorn. The best keeper, to eat, that is, is the red mottled, and that’ll keep most of the winter in a tight cold cellar, but not one that’ll freeze them. You’ll just have mush that way…”

Quaeryt smiled and kept listening, wondering how much he’d remember about the apples of Tilbor. Then he learned about the gray split slate-the best roofing slate in all Lydar, according to Jussyt. Since neither seemed inclined to discuss scholars, after a time, he slipped away and talked to others, each more than willing to discuss what they did.

Almost a glass later, he eased up to an angular factor, whose left eye had a pronounced tic, but before he could say a word, the other spoke.

“You’re the scholar … apparently most unlike those in Tilbor … from what I hear.”

“I couldn’t say, not yet. I’m Quaeryt.”

“By the way,” the factor grinned, “I’m Cohausyt. We have the sawmills north of Tilbora on the river.”

“Most seem … reluctant to discuss the scholars resident here.”

“That is because it is either unwise to do so, or, if one is a High Holder … unnecessary.”

“Unwise?” Quaeryt did his best to look puzzled.

“Some of those scholars have ties to the hill holders, and they pursue … other goals, although it is said that one of those most rumored to be … less scholarly … recently vanished.”

“They actually bear arms and do … other unseemly things?”

“We have no need of an assassins’ guild here, as they do in Antiago, not with scholars such as those.”

Quaeryt winced. “That troubles me. Scholars have a difficult enough time as it is. To have a group behaving so…”

“It troubles many in Tilbora as well.” Cohausyt leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Can you tell me why the governor ignores such a pox?”

“I did not know that the local scholars were such a pestilence. Because I did not, I never inquired into the matter. I had heard that those here on Lord Bhayar’s service were not to deal with the scholars. I had thought that was because Lord Bhayar has always said that his ministers were to leave the scholars alone unless they broke the laws of the land…”

“Would that…” Cohausyt shook his head. “Enough said.”

“I will look into the matter,” promised Quaeryt.

“I would that you would … but not because any have suggested it.”

“I will only say that I overheard some remarks, but could not determine who made them.”

For the next two glasses, Quaeryt mixed, mingled, conversed, and mainly listened. While there were more allusions to the local scholars, none of those factors said more, nor did Quaeryt press them. All in all, by the time the last factor left, he felt exhausted. So did Straesyr, he suspected, because the princeps merely said, “We’ll talk on Lundi.”

That was fine with Quaeryt.