Scholar

as well as a large basket of bread.

After another caress of Dhaela, Burchal looked at the platter before him and smiled. “This is the best lamb in Nacliano.”

The other two exchanged quick glances, then nodded.

Quaeryt watched as the chief took several mouthfuls, then, after Burchal took another swallow of wine, and another mouthful of wine, imaged chunks of lamb into Burchal’s lower windpipe.

Burchal swallowed, then tried to swallow again. He lurched to his feet, upsetting the chair behind him and knocking over the goblet so that red wine poured over the pale purple table linens.

The patroller to his right jumped to his feet and pounded the chief on the back, but Burchal had turned red. His mouth was open, but no sound issued forth.

The older patroller stood and pulled his own chair in front of the chief, trying to bend the chief forward over the back of the chair, but Burchal pushed him away and put his hand into his mouth. The chief staggered, trying to remove the lamb that was beyond his grasp.

Quaeryt waited and watched until Burchal pitched forward.

One of the servers screamed.

Once he was certain that the chief was dead, amid the chaos and with his concealment shield Quaeryt had no trouble in slipping out of the Sea Sprite. He did not release the concealment shield until he was in an alleyway two blocks away in the direction of the harbor.

Now all he needed to do was to locate Duultyn.

He began to walk toward the harbor.

Duultyn and Thuaylt weren’t at the foot of pier one, nor of pier two … nor even pier three. Was Vendrei the patroller’s day off? That seemed unlikely to Quaeryt, given what he’d overheard on Jeudi, especially since Duultyn did enjoy some favoritism from his uncle. But what if Duultyn had gotten ill? After what Burchal had said, Quaeryt didn’t see that as likely, yet … where was Duultyn? Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. Any possible or practical way of tracking the patroller down would require asking questions, and questions would leave tracks, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Nor could he afford to wait for yet another ship heading north.

After retracing his steps to check the first two piers again, Quaeryt was about ready to head in the direction of the Sailrigger when he finally spotted the two patrollers as they approached the second pier. He remained in the shadows of the awning of the chandlery next to which he’d taken a position until the two passed him, moving toward the pier. Then he raised a concealment shield and followed.

“… still think that scholar escaped?”

“… know he must have…”

“Why?”

“Because he jumped into the water like he knew what he was doing … knew we couldn’t follow him … will find him.”

“What if he shipped out already?”

“I have a feeling he hasn’t.”

“… might be better if he had…” murmured Thualyt.

“What did you say?”

“Just that it might have been better for him if he had.”

“I don’t care about what’s good for scholars. I know what’s best for them, and that’s to get rid of as many as possible.”

From where he followed the pair, Quaeryt shook his head, then imaged a jolt of blueacid into the patroller’s stomach.

Duultyn’s step faltered for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“What is it?” asked Thuaylt.

“Must have been that pepper fowl I ate. Gut-ache. It’ll pass.”

“Are you all right?” Thuaylt’s voice held concern.

“I said I’ll be fine.” Even as irritation filled Duultyn’s voice, his free hand went to his forehead. His steps became more uneven.

“Duultyn!”

“Sow-named fowl! Spoiled meat. Bastard Xeryl fed me spoiled meat.” Duultyn staggered to the seawall and leaned over it, gagging uncontrollably. His body began to convulse.

Thuaylt leaned took several steps toward his partner, then halted, as if uncertain as what to do. “Duultyn?”

There was no response, except for several more convulsions before the patroller slumped over the seawall. Before long, even his breathing stopped.

Quaeryt slipped around the pair and made his way onto the second pier, holding the concealment shield while he reached the shadow cast by the first vessel tied there, a coastal schooner. He eased the grass bag holding the remains of the apricots over the side of the pier, but the splash was so small that no one could have heard it, then waited until no one was near or looking before releasing the shield.

He walked purposefully toward the next ship-the Moon’s Son.

16

For all of Chexar’s talk about leaving well before dawn, the Moon’s Son had barely left the harbor behind when the leading edge of the sun peered over the eastern waters on Samedi morning, but the ship was sailing almost directly before the wind, and the swells in the gulf beyond the harbor were moderate. The “bunk cabin” was far smaller than the space in the fantail locker on the Diamond, but, although there were two bunks against the aft bulkhead, Quaeryt was the only passenger. For that, he was grateful.

As orangish light flooded diffusely over the ship, he stood by the starboard railing on the poop deck, looking to the southeast at the northern end of the rocky island of Estisle, which held the port of the same name. He couldn’t help but reflect on the past week. Two aspects of his time in Nacliano particularly bothered him. First was the possibility that an innocent cafe owner might be blamed for poisoning Duultyn. Quaeryt hadn’t considered the fact that Duultyn would immediately blame someone when he felt unwell. He should have. People like Duultyn blamed others for everything. Second was the concern that the Patrol chief who followed Burchal might be even worse. While that seemed unlikely, in places like Nacliano the same factors that allowed a man like Burchal to abuse power made it more likely that someone similar would succeed him. On the other hand, Quaeryt was only one man, and a scholar and hidden imager at that, and he couldn’t be everywhere to try to improve things. That was another reason why he had to prove his greater usefulness to Bhayar. That was the first step in what he planned.

Besides, he told himself, it’s better to do something when no one else has done anything than hope that what’s bad will improve itself.

Still … he worried.

His eyes drifted back to Estisle, which had begun as a haven for pirates and smugglers centuries ago-before they all discovered that trading was more profitable and less fatal … and Hengyst had granted them amnesty for their support.

Quaeryt sensed someone and turned to see the captain standing a few yards away, looking forward, then to the helm, before returning his gaze to the scholar no longer attired as such-and who wouldn’t be until after he disembarked from the Moon’s Son.

“You were on board right early yesterday,” observed Chexar. “You in haste to get to Tilbora?” The captain spoke Tellan with what Quaeryt suspected was the thick accent of Tilbor.

Quaeryt laughed. “Not so much that as in haste to leave Nacliano. I’ve seen friendlier ports in my day.”

Chexar nodded. “It didn’t used to be that way. Now…” The captain shrugged. “Most of the crew stays close to the ship these days. We try to off-load and load as quick as we can.”

“What happened? You must know. You’ve spent more than a few days tied up in Nacliano over the