There was no answer.
“Hailae!”
“I heard you, dear,” came a feminine voice holding a trace of irritation. “It will be another glass…”
“We’ll come up and talk while you finish fixing it … after we stable his horse.”
“I will be here.”
Jorem closed the door and turned to Quaeryt. “I’ll meet you in back.”
“Closing early won’t hurt your business?” asked Quaeryt. “I wouldn’t want to…”
“All those I’d expect on a Vendrei afternoon have already come. Tomorrow morning will be busy, but I see few late on Vendrei—sometimes, no one at all.”
“You’re certain?”
“Very certain. A factor who doesn’t know when those who want his goods are likely to want them will not be a factor all that long.”
“How long have you had the factorage?”
“Hailae and I have been the ones operating it for seven years. Her parents had it for twenty-five years, and her grandparents before them.”
“Very established, then. You’re carrying on a tradition.”
“A long tradition. I’ll see you in back.”
Quaeryt nodded and turned. Once he was outside, he untied the mare and walked her down the narrow alleyway to the small courtyard in the rear of the factorage. The stable was on the north side, just beyond the single large loading dock and door.
Jorem stood by the stable door.
While Quaeryt unsaddled the mare, Jorem added grain and hay to the feed trough. The other stall was occupied by a broad dray horse far larger than the mare. In the shed area beyond the stalls was a high-sided wagon—its side panels painted in the same design as the signboard of the factorage.
“That’s a handsome wagon, and the painting is well done.”
“Hailae did that. She has quite a hand.” Jorem’s voice held both pride and affection.
“Do you deliver produce as well or is the wagon for collecting it from growers?”
“Both. Hailae often makes those collections, especially from Groryan. It takes two of us to keep things going here.”
Again, Quaeryt had the feeling that Jorem had left much unspoken, but he did not press and went to work grooming the mare. Even so, it was almost two quints later by the time he reentered the factorage, washed up on the lower level, and headed up the stairs behind Jorem.
As Quaeryt reached the top of the steps, he caught the last few words spoken by a child.
“… eat with you?”
“If you’re good. Father is bringing company. You must listen and not talk unless someone asks you something.”
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
The steps opened onto a foyer with a wide window looking westward, from which the early-evening harvest sun flooded in.
Jorem gestured to the right. “There’s the parlor, but, if you don’t mind, we’ll join Hailae in the kitchen so that she can hear what you have to say.” After a moment he added, “Our daughter is likely there also. She’s usually good.” Those words were followed by a gentle laugh as he walked through a dining chamber that held but a long table and ten plain straight-backed wooden chairs—and a single tall sideboard on the wall opposite the pair of west-facing windows.
The door at the end of the chamber was ajar. Jorem pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen, where he stopped and said, “Hailae, this is Scholar Quaeryt. He is traveling to Tilbora, and he brought a letter from my parents.”
Quaeryt bowed.
The young woman who stood before a table in the kitchen that occupied the southwest corner of the second floor had black hair braided and coiled above an angular face dominated by large black eyes and a skin that was a faint golden almond. Behind her stood a small girl, her face almost a child’s replica of her mother’s, save that her eyes were dark gray and her hair far shorter and unbraided.
Could Hailae be the reason for all the melancholy and sadness between Jorem and his parents and brothers? Quaeryt wondered.
The mother’s eyes widened as she looked at Quaeryt, and she spoke.
He understood the words—though he had not heard them in more than twenty years—and he instinctively inclined his head and replied, again with a phrase he recalled, but only understood vaguely. Then he added in Tellan, “That’s all I remember. I was very young when they died.”
“I am so sorry,” replied Hailae in Tellan. “I did not mean to bring up unpleasant memories.”
Quaeryt smiled. “The memories were not unpleasant. What happened after was not always so pleasurable.”
“But … he’s blond…” said Jorem.
“There are blond Pharsi, and they have the white-blond hair.… That is how I know. They are the lost ones. Besides … can you not tell? His eyes are as black as mine.”
Jorem laughed, self-deprecatingly, and turned to Quaeryt. “My wife is far more perceptive. I saw an educated scholar. She saw more. She often does.”
What Quaeryt saw was that Jorem adored his wife.
“My Jorem,” interjected Hailae quickly, “he is trusting and trustworthy.” Her smile was warm and open.
Quaeryt said nothing for a moment, envying them both. “You are well suited to each other, it would seem.”
“Oh … and this is Daerlae,” said Jorem, gesturing to the girl, who now held to her mother’s gray trousers with one hand.
“Daerlae, I’m very happy to meet you.” Quaeryt inclined his head once more.
Daerlae lowered her eyes for a moment, then peered back at Quaeryt.
“He’s a scholar,” declared Jorem.
“Uncle Lankyt is a scholar.”
“Uncle Lankyt is studying to be a scholar,” corrected Jorem. “So is Uncle Syndar.”
“If we are to eat before the stars appear,” said Hailae gently, “I must finish.” She glanced toward the small ceramic tiled stove.
“Why don’t you tell us how you came to meet my parents?” suggested Jorem. “That way Hailae can hear the story while she’s getting things ready—and I can help as well.” He looked to Daerlae. “And you can hear more about your grandparents. If you’re good.”
Quaeryt couldn’t help smiling.
Jorem hurried into the dining room and returned with one of the chairs. “Here…”
After taking a seat, Quaeryt cleared his throat. “I never thought that I would ever be close to the Ayerne, or meet your parents—and grandparents—when I took passage on a brig out of Nacliano called the Moon’s Son…” Quaeryt took his time in telling the story, trying to emphasize details that might interest Daerlae, while avoiding revealing how he had escaped the reavers by telling exactly what he had told Rhodyn and Darlinka. He also tried to time the story to how the meal preparation was going so that he was close to ending when he saw Hailae nod to Jorem. “… and then the mare carried me up to the front of a factorage that had a wonderful signboard painted with all kinds of fruits and vegetables.” He looked to Daerlae again. “And do you know whose factorage that was?”
“Mother and Father’s!”
“Exactly! And that is how I came to be here.”
“And now it’s time for dinner.” Jorem turned to Quaeryt. “Thank you. You speak well.”
Once they were seated at the long table, with Jorem at the head and Hailae to his left with Daerlae beside her and Quaeryt across from Hailae, Jorem looked to his wife.
She lowered her head and spoke. “For the grace that we all owe each other, in times both fair and ill, for the bounty of the land of which we are about to partake, for good faith among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For all these, we offer thanks and gratitude, both now and ever more, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged…”
“In peace and harmony,” Quaeryt replied almost in unison with both Jorem and Daerlae.
The blessing had to be of Pharsi origins, because the wording was somewhat different from any Quaeryt had heard before, yet not jarringly unfamiliar. Was he really Pharsi? At tim
es, he’d wondered if there had been some Pharsi in his background, because he’d never seen anyone else with black eyes who hadn’t been Pharsi, but with his white-blond hair, he’d only assumed he was part Pharsi at most.
Jorem handed a carafe to Quaeryt. “It’s a decent red.”
“I’m sure it’s more than decent,” replied Quaeryt, “and whatever it is that you prepared, dear lady,” he added, looking at Hailae, “it smells wonderful, especially to a tired traveler.”
“It’s just a fowl ragout that we have for supper often. If I’d known Jorem was inviting company, I could have fixed something special.”
“For me, this is very special.” Quaeryt’s words were heartfelt.
Jorem dished out a large helping of the ragout and handed the platter to the scholar. “The olive bread is a family tradition, too.”
“You’re both most kind, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your asking me to supper.”
“Nonsense,” replied Jorem, with an intonation that recalled his mother to Quaeryt.
Hailae smiled.
For a time after everyone was served and had taken bread, there was a silence. From the first mouthful Quaeryt enjoyed the ragout—covered with a flaky pastry crust and with a filling consisting more of vegetables and leeks than fowl. Even so, it was tasty, if more subtle in flavor than most of the dishes in Solis, and the olive bread enhanced the flavor of the ragout.
“Your father mentioned your brothers in Tilbora—do you see them often?” Quaeryt finally asked.
“Lankyt takes one of the ferries down to see us when he can, every other week or so,” replied Jorem. “We usually send him back with fruit, or in the winter, dried fruit. He doesn’t get much of that from the scholars.”
Quaeryt glanced to Daerlae. “Do you like your uncle Lankyt?”
“He’s nice. Sometimes, he brings me things. He brought me a doll for my birthday.”
“Uncles should do things like that.” Quaeryt smiled, then shifted his glance back to Jorem. “Does he say much about how things are in Tilbora these days?”
“He doesn’t talk much about Tilbora. He tells us about his studies.”
“Do you go there often? To Tilbora?”
Jorem and Hailae exchanged the briefest of glances before Jorem replied. “We haven’t been north of the river in years. It takes all our time to keep things going here. We’ve been fortunate enough that some of the cafés in Tilbora send buyers for our specialties almost every week.”
“They always want the anise leeks,” added Hailae, “and the sweet red onions.”
“I take it there are more cafés in Tilbora.”
“We have some here,” replied Jorem. “The Painted Pony is good, and so is Brambles. They also are good customers.”
“Do you see many armsmen here?”
Jorem shook his head.
“Do they do much to keep the peace in Tilbora, or do they just chase the local girls?” Quaeryt injected light sarcasm into his voice.
“Most girls know enough to stay away from them,” answered Hailae.
“Some years back,” said Jorem, “a few of them decided that Pharsi girls couldn’t protect themselves.”
“They were wrong,” interjected Hailae.
“But the governor razed an entire block of Pharsi houses when two soldiers were killed, and three were wounded,” continued Jorem. “Almost all the Pharsi families around there moved to places in Bhorael.”
“Your family was already here, though, wasn’t it?” Quaeryt asked Hailae.
“They were.”
The simplicity of the answer suggested that Hailae didn’t really want to say more, but Quaeryt thought an indirect question might shed some light on the matter, from what he knew of Pharsi customs. “I imagine you had some cousins who decided to move.”
“They’ve been much happier here,” she replied.
“I’m glad, and you both seem to like Bhorael.”
“It’s much friendlier than Tilbora,” said Jorem.
“Is there anything you think I should be aware of in Tilbora?” Quaeryt offered a gentle laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t remain in Bhorael.”
“Well … I wouldn’t mention that you’re on Lord Bhayar’s business—except to armsmen or the governor’s people. Where you come from doesn’t bother the scholars much, but most of the Tilborans don’t like the way the armsmen behave. Other than that … it’s probably like anyplace else. There are places to avoid and places where everyone is friendly and helpful.”
After that, Quaeryt steered the talk back to his time with Rhodyn and Darlinka.
A good glass later, he smiled and said, “I fear I have imposed too much, and I should take my leave. Poor Daerlae can barely keep her eyes open.”
“Oh, no. I fear we have kept you too late,” said Hailae quickly. “You will not be able to find anywhere to stay.” She glanced at Jorem. “We do have a guest chamber above the stable.… It is modest … but it is clean and most private.”
“I would not wish to impose.…”
“It is not an imposition, not after all the news you have brought us,” said Jorem. “And Father would not wish it otherwise. Nor would we.”
“That would be most appreciated.” Quaeryt paused. “Are you certain?”
“Most certain,” said Hailae firmly.
“Let me get a lamp for you, and show you.…” Jorem stood.
So did Quaeryt, bowing to Hailae. “My deepest thanks for your hospitality, and for a marvelous dinner.” He turned to the sleepy-eyed Daerlae. “And for your company, young lady.”
“Am I a lady?” Daerlae looked to her mother.
“You are, and you will be,” answered Quaeryt. “If you listen to your parents and mind them.” He smiled at Hailae.
She smiled back.
“I heard that,” murmured Jorem, returning from the kitchen with a small lamp. “I hope she remembers the last part.”
“So do all parents,” said Quaeryt with a laugh as he turned to follow the factor down the steps into the factorage and then out to the stable.
24
Quaeryt had intended to slip away early, but Jorem found him in the stable before he had saddled the mare and had insisted on his joining the family for breakfast. Even so, it was well before sixth glass when Quaeryt left the factorage. Daerlae and Jorem stood on the front porch, and Daerlae waved, as the scholar rode northward toward the ferry piers. Quaeryt waved back, a smile on his face at the enthusiasm of the little girl.
Once again, he couldn’t help but wonder what lay behind the fracture in the family. It clearly had something to do with Hailae and the fact that she was Pharsi, yet Rhodyn and Darlinka didn’t seem to be the kind who would object to their son falling in love with a Pharsi girl, especially one who was attractive and able and who had a family of worth. Not only that, but it was obvious that Hailae and Jorem had endured some hardship and still were deeply in love—without the storminess that Quaeryt had observed from a distance between Bhayar and Aelina.
Absently, he wondered if Vaelora could be as stormy as her brother. Although the tone of her missive had been formal, there had been no mistaking the will behind the words. He shook his head. It would be months before he returned to Solis. Yet … why had she written such a formal missive? Why had she written at all? He shrugged. There was little point in speculating, and he certainly wouldn’t find out for seasons … if he ever did. Yet … he had to admit he was intrigued.
The ferry pier was located a half mille or so upstream from where the Albhor River actually entered the harbor and offered several different alternatives, from small boats just for individual passengers all the way up to a donkey-powered paddlewheel craft that could carry two wagons and several horses and their riders. Because the paddlewheel craft was the one that looked the safest and the most ready to depart, Quaeryt paid the five-copper fee, then had to walk the mare into a crude stall and tie her there.
Just as he finished, a one-horse wagon rolled aboard after him, and
the teamster paid a silver. When no one else appeared within a quint, not all that surprisingly to Quaeryt, considering that it was early on Samedi, the ferryman groused under his breath and rang a bell. The donkeys began to walk on the slatted platform backed in heavy canvas and wrapped around two rollers, one of which was linked to the rear paddlewheel that churned the gray-brown waters and pushed the unwieldy craft toward the Tilbora ferry piers, close to half a mille away.
Keeping one eye on the mare and the stall, Quaeryt eased over to the ferryman, who was captain, helmsman, and crew, all in one. “Do you know where the Scholars’ House is in Tilbora?”
The ferryman looked blank, but did not shift his eyes from the river.
“The place where scholars stay?” prompted Quaeryt.
“Well … there’s what they call the Ecoliae. It’s a hill, sort of northwest from the ferry piers…”
The scholar had to strain to understand the man’s words; if he happened to be typical, the Tellan Tilborans spoke was almost a different tongue and far more guttural, similar to but not quite the way Chexar had spoken. An instant of sadness came over Quaeryt as he thought about the gruff captain.
“… and there’s an anomen on the next hill to the west … and it has a white dome.… Might be two milles. Could be three. I don’t go that way often. There used to be some teachers there. I suppose there still are … unless the Telaryns got rid of them.…” The ferryman turned his head and spat.
“There’s not a problem with the scholars, is there?”
“No more than anyplace. Not much more, anyways.…”
There was a hint of something there, but Quaeryt didn’t want to interrupt.
“… Don’t know what all that book learning’s good for. They don’t cause troubles, anyway. Not like the Telaryn armsmen or the Pharsi types.”
“I heard there were troubles years back.”
“No more trouble with the Pharsi folk. Good riddance. The armsmen … they’re still trouble.”
Abruptly, the ferryman looked at Quaeryt. “You’re a scholar type, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I traveled here from Solis to write a history.”
“Who’ll read it? Other scholars?” The ferryman turned and spat again, his eyes returning to the waters ahead of the ferry. “Leastwise, His Mightiness Lord Bhayar isn’t the one writing it. Lord and master of all the east of Lydar, and he’s never been here.”
Scholar Page 14