Scholar

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.