Scholar ip-4

by L. E. Modesitt

  In following another brick road that branched off the main road a half mille or so past what he thought of as the circular crossroads, he came to an area of leveled rubble-a space that appeared to encompass four square blocks. Moreover, some of the houses adjoining that area appeared to be deserted, with holes in the walls where windows and doors once had been.

  Why had no one rebuilt? Was it considered ill fortune? Had Rescalyn or his predecessor forbidden it? Was it even the area that Lankyt had referred to?

  Those were questions he’d have to raise carefully, indirectly, or possibly not at all, if he could get someone to volunteer the information, but he had the feeling that how the Pharsi were treated was something Bhayar would have to consider carefully-given the lord’s ambitions. Less than a mille to the northeast from the razed area, after riding past modest but generally well-kept dwellings, he came to a set of brick pillars, one on each side of the road. Beyond the pillars, the narrow road widened into more of an avenue, with larger dwellings, all of them two stories, on each side. All were constructed of a dark reddish brick, but the roofs were not of thatch or tile but of split wooden shingles.

  Why wooden shingles when the brick and crafting is so good? He only had to ponder that for a moment before the answer came. Snow. Tiles were heavy, and so was slate, and if heavy snow and ice piled on the roofs in the winter, the weight on the roof could be heavy indeed. All the trim was painted, if in dull colors, and all exterior wood was either oiled or painted. Every dwelling had a stable attached by a walled and roofed walkway.

  Very cold winters …

  When Quaeryt returned to the Ecoliae slightly before fourth glass, he felt that he had a basic understanding of what types of people generally lived where in Tilbora, although not necessarily all the reasons why. But he could have spent weeks searching out those factors, and he didn’t have weeks.

  He managed to get the mare groomed and fed in less than two quints. Then he washed up-his face and hands-at the pump outside the stables and walked to the main building, looking for Chardyn. Despite the fact that he’d asked Yullyd about tavernas, he wanted to see what sort of a reply he would receive from Chardyn.

  He didn’t get a chance to seek out the Sansang master immediately, because Nalakyn immediately appeared.

  “Scholar Quaeryt, I didn’t see you around today. I feared you had already left us, and I had some questions I hoped you would address.”

  “I have a few moments now.” Quaeryt gestured toward three vacant chairs, set several yards from a larger grouping of seven scholars, in which the only one he recalled by name and face was Yullyd, although he’d certainly seen the others several times.

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Nalakyn did not move, and, after a moment, Quaeryt headed toward the chairs, where he settled into one and waited for Nalakyn to seat himself before saying, “While I am only a young scholar, as scholars go, and certainly without your length of study, I would be happy to address, as I can, your questions.”

  “You have traveled, and I have not. When you talked to the students, you outlined the structure of Lord Bhayar’s government. The fashion in which you described its organization is unlike any other, and I have not heard or read about that anywhere. Yet you seemed quite conversant with it. I have spent my entire life in Tilbora, and so have others, such as Scholar Chardyn, and none of us could have described the governing of the Khanars as cogently as you did the government of Lord Bhayar. Nor is there any document that does so. Without being a familiar of Lord Bhayar, how did you come by this knowledge?”

  Quaeryt smiled easily, even as he wondered if Nalakyn or Zarxes had come up with the question. “Part of that is simply because the Scholarium Solum is but a short walk from the palace of Lord Bhayar, and it is a palace, not an isolated fortress like the palace of the Khanars. One sees ministers passing by, and those who serve in the palace frequent the same tavernas as do scholars. I’ve made the acquaintance of some of the palace guards, and I know a scholar who has occasionally played and recited for Lord Bhayar and his ministers. Another fact is that Solis is far warmer than Tilbora, and there are more people, and they talk. Everyone in Solis talks. I have made a practice of listening. Also, the library at the Scholarium is excellent. There are books about the government of Hengyst and even how Rholan the Unnamer affected the way in which Telaryn is governed today. And, upon occasion, scholars are invited to the palace to provide information to ministers. I have not talked with any of Lord Bhayar’s ministers myself, but I have certainly heard of them and what they do.” Quaeryt shrugged, pleased that he had been able to deliver a perfectly truthful reply that was totally misleading.

  “Truly … Solis must be a very different place, but if it is so wonderful … if I might ask … why are you here?”

  “I believe I have mentioned that. In all of the wonderful library at the Scholarium there is not a single volume that deals with the recent history of Tilbor. A scholar’s future depends in part on his patrons, and in part on his scholarly efforts. In creating such worthwhile contributions, one must provide a patron with a way of … shall we say … establishing a legacy by means that are not considered acts or tools of the Namer. I suggested that such an updated history might reflect well upon my patron … and here I am.” He smiled wryly. “Even getting here proved more difficult than I had anticipated, and only Scholar Sarastyn seems to know much about recent history. Riding through Tilbora helps me match what he tells me to the city itself … but my task is proving more … difficult than I had anticipated.” Quaeryt saw Chardyn step out onto the porch, then walk to the railing and look eastward.

  “You are, if I might say so, among the younger scholars entrusted with such.”

  “An older scholar would have more wisdom and knowledge. That is true, but such an older scholar would be far less willing to take such a journey … and far less likely to need to do so.”

  Nalakyn nodded slowly. “I had not thought of that.”

  “If you will excuse me, I see Scholar Chardyn, and I have been seeking him. I need to make an inquiry of him.”

  “Of course. Of course … and thank you.”

  Quaeryt rose and smiled pleasantly. “You are most welcome.” He walked toward Chardyn.

  The Sansang master turned, as if sensing Quaeryt’s approach, and waited.

  Quaeryt reminded himself to keep Chardyn’s almost preternatural awareness in mind, particularly in the future. “Good afternoon.”

  “The same to you. You have that expression of inquiry, I do believe, Scholar Quaeryt, as befits your name.”

  “I do, but the inquiry is, alas, most mundane in nature. I think I’d like a change for supper this evening. Are there any good tavernas around?”

  “Tavernas?” asked Chardyn. “Are you looking for a good meal, or one of those where it doesn’t matter what you eat, so long as you can drink and listen to singers and spend too many coins?”

  “A decent meal, and a decent singer or two would be nice,” replied Quaeryt.

  Chardyn frowned. “Terazo probably has the best food, and the lager’s the cheapest at Rufalo’s. The food’s decent, sometimes better, at Jardyna. All three have singers, and so does Sullah’s, but you’d be fortunate to walk away from Sullah’s without losing your wallet or more. If you want to ride farther and don’t mind spending a silver or two, I’ve heard that Svaardyn is outstanding.”

  “That sounds a bit rich for me.”

  “Of those closer, the food’s better at Terazo, and the singing better at Jardyna,” offered Chardyn.

  “Thank you. I’ll have to give each a thought.” Quaeryt paused, then went on. “I was talking to Sarastyn the other day, and he mentioned a group who called themselves partisans. He didn’t seem to think that highly of them.”

  Chardyn laughed. “When life is calm, no one likes those who call themselves partisans, but when a ruler becomes tyrannical or a land is ruled by an outsider, the partisans are considered champions by those who feel oppressed.”<
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  “And now?”

  “Some think they’re brigands and thieves, and others think they’re champions.”

  “Who’s likely to think they’re oppressed?”

  “I think every man in Tilbor would have a different opinion,” replied Chardyn with a smile.

  Quaeryt nodded. “That’s likely true anywhere, from what I’ve seen. Oh … by the way, I haven’t seen Sarastyn today. Have you?”

  “He had a few too many of his ‘medicinals’ and didn’t feel well this morning. Scholar Tharxas has been looking in on him. I’m certain it will pass.”

  “I do hope so. He has proved most helpful.”

  “I am certain he has, but … he does have … certain lapses of memory, certain beliefs that are of the past, rather than the present.”

  “Such as his belief that the taverna where he takes his ‘medicinals’ is still the Ice Cleft?”

  “Precisely. When names change, more changes than the name.”

  “That is a very good point.” Quaeryt nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  “Thank you … and if you will excuse me…”

  “Of course.…”

  As he walked westward toward Jardyna, Quaeryt considered several things. He didn’t like the fact that Chardyn had known Sarastyn’s condition so precisely, but, while Quaeryt couldn’t help wondering about Sarastyn, he couldn’t very well accuse Chardyn of ill-treating Sarastyn, nor could he keep track of Sarastyn’s every move. He also hadn’t cared for Nalakyn’s inquiries. Both suggested it was time for him to move on … and sooner than he had told anyone.

  Lankyt’s directions proved adequate. It took far less than two quints for Quaeryt to reach the crossroads that held Jardyna on the southeast side and Rufalo’s some hundred yards to the north, on the west side, past a local chandlery and wool factorage. The painting of the garden on the signboard was far less artistic than the painting on Jorem and Hailae’s factorage, and while the signboard had been touched up, there were still parts where the paint was threatening to peel. The single oversized door, hung with massive iron straps, was of well-oiled oak, and the scents of food did not carry the odor of burned grease.

  Quaeryt opened the door and stepped inside. A slender woman dressed in a deep maroon tunic over black trousers turned. While her figure was girlish, the silver and blond hair and the slightly lined face were not.

  “Drinks? Or food?”

  “Both,” replied Quaeryt. “More food than drinks.”

  “You’re from the west, aren’t you?”

  “From Solis.”

  “I didn’t know Phaeryn was seeking scholars from there.”

  “He isn’t. I had a patron who sent me here.”

  “He must be indifferent to your wishes, then.” The woman’s smile was friendly, her tone bantering.

  “Not indifferent. Just wanting me to earn his support.”

  She laughed. “I’m Karelya. You can take any of the small tables that are empty-unless you’re expecting more than one person to join you.”

  “A small table will be fine.”

  “Pick any one that suits you.” She gestured toward her right.

  That half of the large room held fifteen or sixteen tables, with a massive ceramic stove in the middle of the end wall. It was covered with plants in pots, most of them flowering. What Quaeryt noted was that the small tables were those set against the oiled pine plank walls, while the larger tables, those seating six or eight and those seating four, were in the middle of the room. Two of the small tables were occupied, one by a white-haired man, and the other by a young couple. Three men wearing the leathers of teamsters sat around a table for four.

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt smiled, then made his way to the unoccupied table closest to the stove, taking the seat that put his back to the plants on the stove.

  He’d no sooner seated himself than Karelya reappeared.

  “Greeter and server?” he asked.

  “For the moment, until the evening girls appear. We stay open until ninth glass. That’s later than most, but still means we can close down before midnight.”

  “Unless there’s a really good crowd?”

  “That sometimes happens on Samedi nights, usually in midfall. In winter, it gets too cold. What will you have?”

  “What is there for me to have?”

  “The dinners tonight are fowl paprikash with potato dumplings, Skarnan noodles and beef, and mutton cutlets and fried potatoes. Each one is three coppers.”

  “The fowl, please. What about lagers or ale?”

  “Light and heavy lager, gold and brown ale. Two coppers for any of them.”

  “I’ll try the light lager.”

  “The light lager it is.” With a friendly smile, she was gone.

  If Jardyna was the less expensive taverna, he didn’t want to think about the more expensive places. He glanced to the other side of the taverna, where the tables were all small and crowded together, and where close to fifteen men were already seated and contemplating or drinking from large mugs. Only a surprisingly low murmur oozed into the eating area.

  The door opened, and two men entered, attired as if they were factors of some sort, with jackets over linen shirts. They didn’t even pause, but made their way to the table for four nearest to Quaeryt, taking as they did.

  “Kinnyrd … said he’d be here…”

  “… believe him? He’s always late…”

  Quaeryt shifted his attention back to Karelya, who appeared with one of the large mugs and set it on the table. He slipped out five coppers.

  “Just leave them on the table for now. Selethya will collect them when she brings your meal.” With another smile she was gone, moving to the pair of men, who’d been joined by a burlier fellow with an enormous brown beard. “What will you three have? The usual?”

  “What else?” rumbled the burly man.

  Karelya laughed, although Quaeryt thought the sound was slightly forced. Behind them several more people stepped inside Jardyna, and Quaeryt had the feeling that he’d arrived just a few moments before the customary time for most of those who frequented the place.

  Quaeryt sipped the lager slowly as he waited for the meal. If the dark amber brew before him was the “light” lager, he certainly wouldn’t be interested in the “heavy” lager or the ale. Then again, maybe the Tilborans needed that heavy a brew in the dark and cold of winter.

  Two women, perhaps ten years older than he was, slipped into the table next to him and immediately ordered ale from a serving girl, presumably Selethya, who also wore maroon and who had curly brown hair pulled back from her face and bound at the back of her neck so that the curls flowed down between her shoulder blades.

  He tried to listen to the other conversations. That of the women was so low that he could barely hear them.

  “… the sisters … worried about backlands partisans…”

  “… why?… not affect us…”

  At those words, Quaeryt strained to hear more clearly.

  “… Maera … brother said-”

  “Not here … scholar right behind you.”

  For several moments, the women said nothing. Then, one spoke again.

  “… hear about Waelya?… cannot believe she didn’t walk out … family … support her…”

  “… pride … we … all have it…”

  “… pride be named…”

  The three men were far louder, so much so that their conversation drowned that of the women, who were clearly keeping their voices down.

  “I told you that the late pears would be soft.”

  “You’re always saying that you told me or someone else, but none of us remember those words.”

  “You don’t want to remember.”

  “Excuse me!” interrupted Karelya loudly and cheerfully. “Here you go.” She set the three mugs down, one after the other. Then she grinned and added, “The late pears were a trace soft, but I don’t think Kinnyrd said anything. Not in here. I would have heard it.
So would everyone else.”

  Even Kinnyrd laughed.

  When the three had taken several swallows of whatever was in their mugs, the men’s conversation resumed, if in much lower tones.

  “… another scholar … haven’t seen him before…”

  “… trust Phaeryn to find a way…”

  “… find a way, yes. Trust, no … backlands timber families can be worse than the High Holders…”

  “… could be … also could be related…”

  With those words, the three immediately begin talking about whether the snows would come earlier or later.

  Quaeryt sipped the lager until the curly-haired Selethya arrived with a platter. “Sir … you had the fowl?”

  “I did.”

  She slipped the platter in front of him.

  “Is there a singer tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Daerema will be here in half a glass or so.”

  “Thank you.” He offered her the coppers, plus an extra.

  “Thank you, scholar.”

  The fowl was far better than the fare at the Ecoliae, and the sauce was excellent, especially since the dumplings were a trace firm. Even so, he found he ate everything, doubtless too swiftly. Then he had to sip the lager, slowly, while he waited for the singer. Almost all the tables had come to be filled, and all the conversations blended into a rumble, from which Quaeryt could pick out only phrases, none of which made sense out of context. He found that he had somehow actually finished the lager and ordered another.

  The conversation died away when the singer stepped onto the low platform set against the middle of the rear wall, so that those in both halves of the room could hear her. The dark-haired young woman wasn’t all that pretty, not with her sharp nose and broad face. She offered no introduction, just lifted the lutelin and began to sing.