“You dispute that there are patterns?” asked Sarastyn.
“I’ve read enough history, sir,” said Quaeryt deferentially, “that even I can see that at times the pattern imposed is that of the writer, not of history.”
Sarastyn laughed, again softly. “You’re young, especially for a scholar. The patterns are there. They’re always there, but every generation refuses to see them. Some even ignore them, and replace them with their own patterns, as you suggested. Of those few that do discern the true patterns, most claim that they will escape the patterns of their times. There are few that are intelligent enough both to see the patterns and to understand that men are not all that different, generation to generation, and some of them try to explain to others. Such would-be explainers are either ignored or murdered.”
“People see what they want to see,” agreed Quaeryt. “Can you tell me which patterns have affected Tilbor over the recent past?”
“All of them.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t know the history, and no one outside of Tilbor has written it. Chardyn said that you—”
“Ah … yes, Chardyn,” replied Sarastyn in a lower voice. “He’s a pattern, too. He watches all strangers. More than he should, as he is now observing you.”
“Why might that be?”
“That … you will have to discover for yourself, but it is a pattern that has been consistent for the last few years. He always observes those who do not reside here for long.”
“I see.” That did confirm some of Quaeryt’s suspicions. “He said that you could help with the history.…”
“You risk that I may be telling you only my own recollections.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
For the third time, Sarastyn laughed. “It is a lovely day, and the Ice Cleft will not open its doors on a Solayi until the fourth glass of the afternoon. We should repair to the north porch.” After a last swallow from the mug, he stood.
Quaeryt rose as well, noting that Chardyn did not turn his head. Quaeryt still felt eyes on his back as he followed the older scholar.
Sarastyn chose a pair of chairs close to the railing, well shaded by the porch roof, but where the building did not block the slight breeze out of the southeast. Quaeryt settled into one of the wooden chairs to listen.
“In what are you interested?”
“Who was Khanar before Eleonyd … and was he stronger than his son?”
“It might be best if I started several generations before,” suggested Sarastyn, smiling broadly. “Context is often as important as the events themselves. Nidar the Great was the last of the truly strong Khanars—the great-grandfather of Eleonyd. He was the one who rebuilt the harbor here in Tilbora and restructured the old clan levies into the Khanar’s Guard and the militia.… Not coincidentally, he was the one who thwarted Hengyst’s ambitions to conquer Tilbor.…”
Quaeryt listened closely as Sarastyn continued, interjecting occasional questions for his own clarification and mentally noting particular references. Over the next glass and more, his interest grew, he had to admit, as Sarastyn’s verbal history drew closer to the present.
“… Tyrena was—I expect she still is—very blond and very strong-willed … as good with arms, if not better, than her father. But then, Eleonyd wasn’t much good at anything. So long as he listened to his wife … he got good advice … she died giving birth to Tyrena … listened to his daughter, but not enough … Rhecyrd … raised in the Noiran coast highlands … typical norther … tall, handsome, and thought everything could be solved with a bow or a blade … Eleonyd thought to preserve his lineage by marrying Tyrena to him … she wanted to rule in her own right … northers objected … members of the Khanar’s Council from both Midcote and Noira walked out…”
Quaeryt nodded as Sarastyn elaborated on what Chardyn had mentioned the night before.
“… can’t say as I blame Tyrena. She didn’t have much choice…”
“Could she have ruled in her own right?”
Sarastyn offered a rueful smile. “There’s never been a Khanara who ruled, but the people of the south preferred her. Rhecyrd started tales that Eleonyd wasn’t ill, but that Tyrena was poisoning him … most likely that his personal healer was, possibly paid by Rhecyrd … Eleonyd started to get better when the healer fell off a balcony and died … damage was done by then … and Eleonyd never fully recovered … got carried off by a nasty form of croup … might have been a civil war except the northers are hotheads … southers don’t like to fight losing battles…”
“Except that they did—with Chayar,” Quaeryt pointed out.
“No. Most of the southers didn’t fight at all. The Guard pulled back to the palace, and Rhecyrd’s clans fought. I don’t know that either of the Telaryn governors has understood that. Southers, and that’s all those south of the Boran Hills, are realists.”
“Just don’t back them into a corner?” asked Quaeryt.
“Mostly. Except for the Pharsi. They’re stiff-necked, but there aren’t many left since the riots years ago.” Sarastyn coughed several times. “I think I’ve talked long enough for now. Time for a rest before I take my afternoon medicinals.”
“Thank you. Have you written down any of this?”
“Save you, and a few others, who would care?”
“Those who have yet to be born who would also care,” suggested Quaeryt.
“You have great faith, Scholar Quaeryt. Few learn from what they observe, and fewer still from the accounts of the mistakes of others.”
“I have little enough faith, sir, but I refuse to give up hope.”
Sarastyn laughed, openly and without bitterness or malice. “Well said! Well said. So should it be for all scholars.” He coughed again. “This has tired me. We should speak later.” He rose slowly.
“Are there any books in the library that you or others have written that might be of value?”
“Those I wrote have long since vanished, and the others … you can see what you will.”
Quaeryt stood and watched as the older man made his way toward the nearest door.
Once he turned to head toward the stables, he saw Chardyn seated at the other end of the porch, seemingly reading a book. He had his doubts that the Sansang scholar had been just engaged in reading.
As Quaeryt stepped off the porch, he glanced to the north and west, but the sky remained clear, without even a trace of haze. While the day felt cooler than it had on Samedi, by late afternoon, it well might be hotter. He shrugged and continued to the stable.
When Quaeryt had finished saddling the mare and led her out into the sunlight, where he mounted, it was close to midday. He didn’t see Chardyn on the porch when he rode past the northeast corner, nor any other of the few scholars he might have recalled from the night before. Several students were playing what looked to be a form of turf bowling on the lower lawn in front. He thought one of them might be Lankyt, but the youth didn’t look in his direction.
He rode eastward past the anomen, and then farther, past the circular crossroads, which seemed even quieter than the last time he had ridden through it, before he finally came to the broader paved road that led south to the river piers or north to the Telaryn Palace. He turned the mare north.
Less than a hundred yards later, he rode past a produce wagon, filled with baskets of maize, most likely headed toward the river piers. A short distance behind that wagon was another, this one bearing bushels of the red and green apples he’d seen at Jorem’s factorage. By the time he was a good half mille, or so he judged, from the lower gate to the causeway serving the palace, he’d ridden past more than a dozen produce wagons, all headed south—and on a Solayi, to boot.
He eased the mare to the shoulder of the road and reined up and studied the Telaryn Palace and its grounds. The long rise ran roughly east to west and had been stripped of all vegetation except grass, and the grass had been grazed regularly enough that it looked to be less than ankle-high in most places. A dry moat some tw
enty yards across encircled the base of the entire rise, and another road ran parallel to and south of the moat, intersecting the road which Quaeryt had taken at the lower gate that guarded access to the causeway leading up to the palace. Halfway up the slope, the hillside had been carved away to create a wall out of the underlying limestone some three or four yards high. The sole break was where the angled causeway turned straight uphill for a timber bridge that crossed that gap. On the uphill side, the causeway angled back to the east, reaching a stone-framed gate near the eastern end of the gray stone walls.
After taking in the palace, he urged the mare forward and rode slowly toward the gates.
The iron gates were closed, set in gray stone towers that extended back to the moat. A timber bridge crossed the moat, supported in the middle by a single pier rising from the bottom of the dry ditch. A set of towers on the far side of the moat, with cables running to the edge of the bridge on the gatehouse side, suggested that the entire bridge could be lifted.
Two guards, Telaryn armsmen wearing standard green uniforms, were posted in front of the gates, one on each side, each standing under a slanted roof that cast enough shade to keep them from excessive heat. The taller guard, the one on the west side, followed Quaeryt’s every motion as he rode past, but did not move or say a word.
Quaeryt continued westward on the road flanking the dry moat, noting with a smile that the stone paving ended about a hundred yards from where the dry moat turned north and away from the road. The wooded hill to the west of the one holding the palace was empty of any dwellings, walls, or fences, but Quaeryt had no doubts that any incursion was likely to result in the appearance of armsmen.
He kept riding, deciding to try to make a large circle back to the Ecoliae.
27
The circle route that Quaeryt rode on Solayi afternoon had taken him a good three milles north and another mille south to a village so small that it had neither signs nor millestones to give a hint as to its name, and none of the handful of buildings holding shops and crafters had signage, In that, Tilbor clearly resembled the rest of Telaryn, since lettered signs were not exactly common anywhere, although more prevalent in port cities and in Solis. The village almost could have been one anywhere in greater Telaryn, except for the steeply pitched roofs and the narrow windows that hinted at long and cold winters.
After he returned to the Ecoliae and stabled and groomed the mare, Quaeryt washed off the sweat of the day, reminding himself that he needed to purchase more scholars’ garments on Lundi.
That evening, with little better to do and hoping to learn more, in one way or another, Quaeryt decided to take in services at the anomen next to the Ecoliae. He had to admit that he was not especially inclined to the worship of anything, particularly a deity as vaguely defined as the Nameless, although from what he had read about the Duodean practices in Caenen, the Nameless seemed far more acceptable, especially with regard to the precepts presented by the choristers.
The midharvest sun was almost touching the hills to the west when Quaeryt walked up the last part of the packed clay and dirt path from the Ecoliae and reached the old yellow-brick archway leading into the anomen. The doors were of antique oak, but recently oiled and in seemingly good repair. The interior was dim, lit only by four wall lanterns of polished brass, two on each side of the meeting hall, a space not quite twenty yards long and about ten wide. The walls were plastered smooth and had been recently whitewashed, but held no decoration or adornment, in keeping with the strict precepts of Rholan.
Quaeryt stood to the south side, halfway back from the sanctuary area, from where he watched as close to thirty students filed into the anomen, led by a scholar whom he did not recognize. Quaeryt picked out both Syndar and Lankyt, although neither appeared to notice him. By the time the chorister stepped to the front of the anomen, in addition to the students, there were close to twenty scholars present, of various ages, but he did not see either Chardyn or Sarastyn. He did see Zarxes and a silver-haired scholar who matched the description Chardyn had provided of Phaeryn.
Despite his short and wavy brown hair, the chorister of the anomen looked old and frail, with the hint of sagging jowls, and high cheekbones that accentuated the gauntness of his face. His wordless invocation warbled and wobbled painfully, so much so that Quaeryt had to conceal a wince.
Thankfully, when the chorister offered the greeting, his voice was stronger. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”
Quaeryt did not sing the opening hymn, something about “the unspoken Namelessness of glory,” a song he had never heard.
After that was the confession, which sounded different when spoken in the Tellan of Tilbor. “We name not You, for Naming presumes, and we presume not upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We pray not to You for ourselves, nor ask from You favor or recognition, for such asks You to favor us over others who are also Yours. We confess that we risk in all times the sins of presumptuous pride. We acknowledge that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we strive too often to raise our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our small achievements have meaning. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your Nameless magnificence and that we must respect all others, in celebration and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
Quaeryt did chime in with the chorus of “In peace and harmony.”
He added a pair of coppers to the offertory basket passed among the worshippers and then watched as the chorister ascended to the pulpit for the homily.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening,” came the murmured reply.
“Under the Nameless all evenings are good, even those that seem less than marvelous.…” The chorister paused and cleared his throat, looking out over the small congregation for a long moment before continuing. “Those of you who are young and strong … you say that you are different from those who came before you, because you see them as older. You do not see them as they were when you were young or even unborn, when they were young and strong. But if you are fortunate, you in time will grow old, and those who follow you will in turn claim that they know better because they are young and strong. This insistence that you are right because you are young and strong is but another manifestation of Naming. You place your appearance above the consideration of what is right and just. Because men and women are often weak in spirit, it falls to those who rule to enforce what is right through strength. Yet because this is so, many claim that might makes right. That is an argument of the Namer. All virtues require the support of strength, but to claim those virtues are only virtues because they are supported by strength is error indeed.…”
Quaeryt couldn’t help but think about what the ancient chorister was saying. How did a ruler convey virtue beyond the strength with which it was necessarily enforced? How much did people respond to righteousness itself and how much to force? How could the two best be balanced?
As Quaeryt pondered those questions, he noted that Zarxes had turned and looked across those scholars attending and had paused in his glances to take in Quaeryt.
Quaeryt kept a pleasant smile on his face, but ignored the scrutiny, as if it were perfectly normal for the scholar princeps to ascertain which scholars and students were attending anomen, which, in fact, it doubtless was.
After the benediction, before anyone looked in his direction, Quaeryt raised a concealment shield and eased toward the tall silver-haired figure that he thought was Phaeryn, following him and Zarxes as the two walked down the rutted path from the anomen toward the brick lane leading back to the Ecoliae.
Neither scholar spoke until they were well away from the anomen and seemingly alone. Even then, Zarxes glanced back through the fading glow of twilight before he spoke.
Close as he was, Quaeryt had difficulty catching all the words.
“… you see the visiting scholar?”
“�
�� can’t say that I did … haven’t met him … might recall … only your description … think he’s truly a scholar?”
“He is, most definitely.… That might pose a problem…”
“Oh?”
“Kellear sent a message the other day … rumors that Lord Bhayar is sending a scholar assistant to the princeps … couldn’t find out his name. About some things, Straesyr is closemouthed … worse than Rescalyn, and the governor has little love of us…”
“Even after…?”
“He’s not to be trusted … used as we can, but not trusted.”
“It could be a trap for Kellear. Did you warn him?”
“I’m not about to send messages to him. If he comes to see me, I’ll tell him.”
“When was the last time he came to see you?”
“Almost a year ago. That’s his choice.”
Quaeryt tried to fix that name in his memory—Kellear.
Phaeryn did not reply immediately, but finally asked, “You think this visiting scholar—what’s his name—might be the one?”
“He gave his name as Quaeryt.”
“… can’t be his real name…”
“… hardly think so.… Yet he spent several glasses this afternoon getting Sarastyn to talk about the history he said he was here to write about … some overheard what he asked, and his questions were detailed … also delivered letters to two students…”
“… must be handled with care…”
“… always … but … either way … it would be for the best. He has coin.”
“When did he say he would be leaving?”
“A week…”
“Have Chardyn or someone get him to give a day where everyone can hear…”
“I’d thought something like that…”
“Good. What about the plans to deal with Fhaedyrk?”
“… he’s wily … last man we sent drowned…”
“… proving to be a real problem … suggest underpaying tariffs to the governor?”
Scholar Page 17