Scholar

“A word of advice. Don’t be asking about scholars here in Nacliano. You want to know why, just walk some three blocks north and two west, and that’ll tell you.” The factor nodded brusquely, turned, and left Quaeryt standing outside the shop.

The scholar managed not to gape. He’d traveled much of Telaryn over the years, and he’d never gotten that kind of answer.

Five blocks farther on, he understood better the factor’s words. What had been the Scholars’ House was a blackened ruin, and clearly had been for at least several years. The only thing that identified it as such was the cracked granite plaque-stone, only half of which remained, with only the chiseled letters SCHOLAR left. Scavengers had taken everything except the core of the walls and timbers so blackened that they were useless.

Quaeryt noticed something else as well-an abandoned anomen across the street, but the anomen had not been gutted and salvaged the way the Scholars’ House had, perhaps because there was at least some respect for a place of worship of the Nameless, even if it had been the anomen of the scholars. For a time, he stood in the shade cast by the tinsmith’s shop and watched the various passersby. To a person, not a one looked at either the anomen or the ruined Scholars’ House, as if neither existed.

Lord Bhayar could be skeptical of both choristers and scholars, but Quaeryt knew that Bhayar would have been displeased with both the patroller and the apparent public hatred of scholars, if only because such public hatred too often led to unrest and dissatisfaction with the ruler.

Quaeryt turned back toward the harbor-and in the direction of the Tankard, he hoped. He needed to listen and watch-and think-while he waited for a ship.

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