Scholar

eastward again, catching a glimmer of pearly white on the horizon, just about where he expected it. He’d have to approximate, because moonrise was calculated as that time when the highest limb of the moon’s orb cleared the plane of the horizon, and that was almost impossible to determine precisely from a ship’s deck, even one pitching so comparatively slightly as was the Diamond.

“Excuse me,” he said to Ghoryn before hurrying across the deck to the lantern-lit glass.

He checked the time-two and a quarter quints past.

“Where are we, scholar?” asked the mate, who had followed Quaeryt across the deck to stand behind the helm.

“If the glass is correct, we’re closer to Cape Sud than I’d thought, more like sixty milles, and I’d judge we’re closer to thirty south of the cape.” Quaeryt shrugged. “That’s an approximation, though.”

Ghoryn nodded. “We both have us close to the same position.”

“We don’t seem to be traveling that fast.”

“Captain knows the currents.”

Quaeryt had to admit he hadn’t thought about currents. He just laughed softly.

“Glad to see there are some things you don’t know, scholar.”

“There are more than a few.” Far more than a few. Quaeryt walked back to his position as lookout.

The mate did not follow, but retreated belowdecks, as if the only reason he’d come up had been to check moonrise. But then, it probably had been.

10

Once the Diamond Naclia rounded Cape Sud, she faced heavy seas and headwinds, day in and day out. Quaeryt had to lash himself into his bunk every night, waking up frequently, and rising with bruises in places he hadn’t had bruises since his last voyage, some ten years earlier. By the end of every day his clothes were damp, if not soaked, and nothing seemed to dry completely. The fare was salted mutton and hard biscuits, with occasional dried lemon and orange rinds. All in all, sailing the three hundred milles from Cape Sud to the calmer waters off Estisle took over a week. During that time, Quaeryt reflected more than a few times on the reasons behind his trip … and upon Vaelora’s missive, clearly an expression of interest of some sort. But what? And why?

The skies were gray as Shuld guided the Diamond around the northern tip of Estisle and toward the harbor at Nacliano, but the early-afternoon air was warm and dry, for which Quaeryt was thankful.

Nacliano was the oldest port on the east coast of Lydar. Even before Shuld eased the Diamond into place at the end of a pier that creaked with every swell that rolled under it, Quaeryt was reminded of that antiquity by not only the odors, but by aged brown and gray stone buildings that jumbled themselves across the hills on the north side of the River Acliano. From the pier, the patchwork of roof tiles was all too obvious. There also seemed to be little rhyme or reason as to what ship was moored where on what pier. Inshore from the Diamond was a fishing craft, little more than fifteen yards from stem to stern, and opposite was a broad-beamed three-masted square-rigger.

Quaeryt waited until the Diamond was doubled up and the gangway was down before carrying his duffel over to the base of the forward ladder where Ghoryn stood.

“Do you have any thoughts on ships that will get me to Tilbora?” Quaeryt looked to the first mate as he handed over the last silvers he owed.

Ghoryn smiled wryly. “Depends on how you want to get there, scholar.”

“Safely, but without stopping at every little coastal port along the way.”

“You could start by talking to Caarlon. He’s the first on the Azurite Naclia. Saw them a pier over, and they were just winding up loading out. Odds are that they’ll be heading north. Captain Whuylor does a lot of iron runs.”

Iron runs? “And you don’t?”

“That’s heavy gear. Sawmill blades, axes, crosscut saws, even iron pigs. They’re hard on a ship, and harder on the crew. Captain Shuld prefers cargoes that have more … value for their weight.”

“Scented oils, perfumes…?” ventured Quaeryt.

“Medicinals from Antiago, worked silver from Eshtora … Anyway, if the Azurite’s not headed north, you might try Fhular. He’s been taking the Regia Nord that way for years. More of a coaster, but he’s a solid master. Doesn’t stop at more than a port or two each way. Then … if you’re really desperate, there’s always Chexar on the Moon’s Son.”

The way Ghoryn mentioned Chexar, Quaeryt hoped he wasn’t ever desperate enough to have to rely on the Moon’s Son to get to Tilbora. Even the ship’s name was worrisome, at least if one believed in folktales. The Pharsi believed that certain women-daughters of Artiema, the greater moon-were specially gifted, but Quaeryt had never heard of a son of the moon, except in muttered terms, and no tales about the lesser moon-Erion, the hunter-mentioned either sons or daughters.

Since Ghoryn had no other suggestions, and a well-meant but short “Good fortune,” Quaeryt hoisted his duffel and headed down the gangway, turning toward the foot of the pier. He glanced at the big square-rigger, flying a Tiempran ensign from the stern staff above a nameplate that was unreadable, at least to him.

Beyond the Tiempran vessel was one flying an ensign that Quaeryt thought was Caenenan. The crew was unloading barrels and kegs, and a mixture of scents drifted across the pier, suggesting that the cargo was largely spices … and that at least one keg had broken or cracked.

As he neared the inshore end of the pier, he began to angle his way southward in order to make his way back onto the adjoining pier where the Azurite was purported to be tied up.

“You there! What do you think you’re doing? Get over here.” A heavyset figure in a washed-out green uniform, with a black leather harness and belt, a black-billed visored green cap, and scuffed black boots, gestured with an iron-tipped truncheon for Quaeryt to move toward him. He spoke in the harsh Tellan of the east.

Quaeryt recognized the uniform as that of the local patrol, the colors dating back to the time of Hengyst and the Ryntarian despots. The scholar moved carefully, leaving his hands exposed, stopping a yard short of the patroller. He set the duffel on the worn wood of the pier, holding the strap loosely.

“How did you get here?” The patroller’s voice was deep, but cuttingly nasal.

“I was a passenger on the Diamond. She just ported.”

“With that duffel? Likely as not, you’ve jumped ship. We don’t need people like you here with your fancy words and your pretty way of trying to talk like real people.”

Quaeryt could see the problems ahead. If he showed coin, then the patroller would mark him for a confederate not on the Patrol to deprive him of coin and possibly life. If he didn’t, he’d likely end up in gaol for some trumped-up reason. “I’m a scholar, patroller. All scholars wear brown, you might recall.”

“Don’t get fancy with me, fellow. Scholars can’t afford ship passage unless they’re up to no good.”

“Why don’t we walk back to the ship? You can ask the captain or the mate if what I said was true.” Quaeryt turned just slightly, noting that another, even larger patroller was moving toward him, also with a truncheon.

“We don’t need to do that to deal with trash like you.”

The loaders and the four vendors on the northern side of the pier edged away from the three. That told Quaeryt more than he wanted to know, but what to expect.

“You’re going to come with us, scholar.” The patroller emphasized the already derogatory Tellan term for scholar.

“Might I ask why?”

“No. Your type doesn’t need answers.”

“Where do you want me to go?” Too many people had seen him and probably noted the scholar’s browns. That meant he was limited in what he could do in public. Yet he certainly didn’t want to go with the pair of patrollers, not the way they were looking for an excuse to use their truncheons.

“That’s for us to say. Pick up that duffel.”