and a brothel. He’d never patronized either type, not because he didn’t appreciate femininity, but because women like Hailae-or especially the not-quite-gangly Vaelora-were more to his taste. At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder exactly how the brothel made its presence known in the depth of winter. Not that he had any intention of being around past Year-Turn to find out.
When he rode back up the lane to the stable behind the main building of the Ecoliae, at close to fourth glass, Quaeryt had a fair understanding of how Tilbora was laid out-a town that had sprawled into a larger town based on the river piers and the harbor with the former Khanar’s Palace withdrawn to the northern heights and overlooking the town. Interestingly enough, while there was a good paved road across Tilbora from the palace to the river piers, there was no direct road from the palace to the harbor. That, unfortunately, said far too much about the Khanars and about Chayar and Bhayar.
Also, the men and women he’d seen were taller and leaner than the people of Solis, not that all of them were lean, as evidenced by the view offered by the unnamed brothel, and most of them seemed to have sandy brown hair or blond hair. He’d seen no redheads, and very few people with black hair.
After grooming the mare and seeing to her feed, Quaeryt walked from the stable to the main building, climbing the rear steps to the porch and walking toward the shaded east side. For all the size of the Ecoliae, he saw but a few handfuls of scholars on the wide porch, most of them in two groups in roughly circled chairs.
He didn’t feel like intruding, but he also didn’t want to turn and walk away. He decided to compromise and walk to the edge of the porch and look down at the small flower bed he had noted earlier. There wasn’t much to see, just harvest lilies that were beginning to look scraggly and a line of flowers he didn’t recognize, but that appeared similar to sun daisies.
He straightened and turned, debating whether to leave or loiter for a bit longer.
“You must be the visiting scholar. I’m Chardyn … Chardyn Traesksyn.”
The short scholar who spoke in cultured Tellan, if with a Tilboran accent, and who approached was neither slender nor wiry, but somewhere in the middle and well-muscled. He wore a short straight blond mustache, an affectation Quaeryt had not often seen. In the south, most men either were clean-shaven or had short beards. From what he’d seen in his ride through Tilbora, most men seemed to have full beards. Then again, Quaeryt hadn’t exactly counted.
“The whispered word through the students is that you’re on some sort of mysterious quest for some even more mysterious patron.”
Quaeryt laughed. “The next thing you know, they’ll be saying I’m the bastard son of Lord Bhayar, not that he’s old enough to have fathered anyone my age.”
Chardyn gestured toward a pair of chairs. “If you wouldn’t mind joining me?”
“I’d be pleased.”
“Good.”
Quaeryt settled himself into one of the chairs and waited until the other had settled himself as well.
“Can you enlighten me as to the truth of the rumors?” Chardyn lifted both eyebrows.
“They’re true, except that the quest isn’t all that mysterious. Nor is my patron mysterious, except that he prefers to remain unknown because he has discovered that if he ever reveals that he provides scholars with gainful tasks he will be inundated with scholars.”
Chardyn laughed, a soft but high-pitched sound. “You have answered what you can about your patron, but what of the quest?”
“There’s been very little written about Tilbor and its history in recent times. I’m looking for whoever might have the best understanding of Tilboran history, especially over the last few hundred years.”
“That scarcely sounds like the sort of quest most patrons would fund. Most want their names inscribed in tomes more likely to be widely read or upon large and elegantly ugly statues.”
“Oh … I think he would be most happy with an inscription on a very good recent history. Is there anyone here-you, perhaps-who might be of assistance?”
“Not me. Hardly me. I’m the martial-arts scholar.”
“Study or demonstration or both?”
“I’ve studied a number. I’m relatively proficient in Sansang.”
Quaeryt nodded. He’d heard of Sansang, supposedly a discipline that mixed all types of unarmed and nonbladed combat techniques, coming as it had from the ancient High Holder prohibition on the use of bladed weapons by anyone but High Holders, except as armsmen of a High Holder or a ruler, but he’d never met anyone proficient in it. “I’d like to watch your instruction sometime.”
“You’re welcome any morning at sixth glass on the practice green.”
“I’ll be there some morning.” Quaeryt smiled. “I’m not sure it will be tomorrow, though.”
“It won’t be. We don’t practice on Solayi morning.” Chardyn’s tone was light.
“Who might be able to help me with the history?”
“Right now, no one speaks much about Tilboran history.” Chardyn pursed his lips. “No one else but Sarastyn comes close.”
“Could you introduce me?”
The other scholar shook his head. “It’s past the third glass of the afternoon. He’ll be down soothing his throat, as he puts it. It’s best to catch him in the morning. Well … not early in the morning, and definitely not early tomorrow morning.”
“Doesn’t he have tasks…?”
“No. He was the assistant princeps for student studies for twenty years. He must be over seventy now, and as gnarled as winter-heights pine. He claims that his blood is half ale, and I’d believe that. Some men’s tongues loosen when they drink. His doesn’t. It tightens.”
“I met Scholar Zarxes, but I neglected to ask him about the Master Scholar here.”
“That’s Phaeryn. You can’t miss him. Tall, silver-white hair, voice like a deep drum. He’s done wonders in keeping everything working since…” Chardyn shrugged.
“Since Tilbor became part of Telaryn?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“How would most Tilborans put it?”
Chardyn laughed again, briefly. “Those who are political will say something about the ‘unfortunate occurrence.’ The merchanters will say something about Lord Chayar wanting to tariff them heavily to pay for his ambitions to rule all Lydar.”
“But he died years ago.”
“Oh … they’ll just say that his son is no better.”
“What do you say?”
The short scholar smiled. “They’re both true. Then there is the fact many will not admit. Eleonyd was not the strongest of Khanars, and the fact that he had no sons and that his daughter refused to marry Bhayar left him in a weakened position. When he died suddenly … everyone suspected the hand of Chayar.”
“Rhecyrdyl … or whatever the Pretender’s name was … said that was the case, didn’t he?”
Another high short laugh followed, a sound that bothered Quaeryt, but he waited.
“Rhecyrd. He was Eleonyd’s cousin. He never said anything. In fact, all he did say was that it was too easy to blame Chayar. The Telaryn envoy arrived in Tilbora a few weeks before Eleonyd sickened and died. Then the rumors started, and someone doused the envoy’s ship with Antiagon Fire with him still aboard. After that, who could prove anything? It was rather convenient for whoever actually caused Eleonyd’s death. More gossip began, this time that Rhecyrd’s imager was involved. But he was thirty milles north of Tilbora before and during Eleonyd’s illness and death.” Chardyn shrugged. “Then Chayar demanded Tilbor submit, and everyone put aside looking into Eleonyd’s death … for various reasons.”
Quaeryt winced.
“For Tilborans, all that was subtle,” Chardyn pointed out.
“What happened to the daughter?”
Chardyn shrugged. “She fled to Bovaria with all the jewels she could manage. Some say she married a High Holder there-Iraya or Ryel or something like that. Others say she put Rhecyrd up to everything and then left him to face Chayar. Some think both.”
Quaeryt considered what the other had said. He recalled what Bhayar had told him, and nothing that
