Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (17 page)

“That doesn’t always work.”

“No. No one thing always works. You have to find what works for each man and each woman. You also have to learn to recognize those for whom nothing will work.” Rhodyn’s laugh turned bitter. “That was why we had to raze Fairby and the other hamlets to the south.”

“I take it that was costly.”

“It was. So much so that I would prefer we not talk about it.”

Quaeryt was in no position to insist. “My apologies. I did not mean…”

“I was the one who brought it up. You needed to know about how evil the ship reavers are. But then, I believe your own experience has reinforced my mere words.”

Quaeryt smiled wryly. “You do have a way of putting things, sir. And yes, my experience was quite convincing.”

“Experience often trumps words, and that is why what schooling and scholars can do is limited. Some people, perhaps most, only learn from their own mistakes, even when they see others make the very mistakes they will later make because they cannot learn from the failures of others.”

“Rhodyn, dear … scholar … if you would join us for supper!” called Darlinka.

“We’d be delighted!” returned Rhodyn.

As Quaeryt rose, he considered the holder’s words. Certainly, what Rhodyn said made sense, but finding out what worked for all Tilbor … when he knew so little? He was finding problems in Telaryn that he never knew existed—and he doubted that Bhayar did, either, and Quaeryt hadn’t even arrived in Tilbora.

23

Four days later, and with three golds less in his belt, Quaeryt rode toward the southern edge of Bhorael, a town set on low hills on the south side of the Albhor River, across which lay the far larger city of Tilbora. While the holdings and the cots and the croppers’ houses along the road to the town were neat and well-kept, and mostly of lightly fired mud brick of a yellowish brown, Quaeryt noted that almost none were new or recently built. Likewise, the main avenue that looked to be leading to the river was brick-paved, but many of the bricks were cracked or replaced with others of a different shade. Not until he was close to the river, where he could catch glimpses of brownish gray water at the end of several streets sloping downhill, did he begin to pass any buildings above a single story.

Even though he had directions from Rhodyn, it took him close to a glass to find the “river market square,” because all the buildings devoted to trade seemed to run in a swath paralleling the river. By then it was after the third glass of the afternoon. The “square” he sought turned out to be wide and open paved space two blocks south of the river and the ferry piers to Tilbora. There was not even a raised platform for end-day vendors, nor a statue or fountain, but the square and the buildings fronting it were higher than the area surrounding it, as if a low hill had been flattened, so that Quaeryt again found himself looking down a gentle slope when he glanced toward the river.

The produce factorage had no name on the signboard across the front, just paintings of various kinds of produce—onions, potatoes, carrots, peppers, gourds. The paintings had been recently done and showed an attention to detail that Quaeryt appreciated. The two-story building itself was older, but looked to be in good repair, and the windows on both the lower and the upper level were both glazed and shuttered, but the only windows Quaeryt observed on the lower level were two large oblongs flanking the open front door, a door protected from the sun by a roofed porch. Two backless wooden benches graced the unrailed porch. Both were vacant as Quaeryt dismounted and tied the horse to the iron hitching post.

He walked stiffly up the single stone step to the porch, limping more than he usually did, the stiffness the result of too much riding with too little practice in recent years, not that he’d ever had that much experience in the saddle. The wooden planks of the porch creaked slightly as he walked over them and into the factorage itself.

Long and simple wooden tables in rows filled the front half of the building, and on each table were rows of baskets. After a moment, Quaeryt realized that each table held a different kind of produce—with differing kinds of onions and shallots on one, and a range of peppers on anther, potatoes on a third, different root vegetables on another. There were apricots, early apples, a single basket of late cherries.

He turned toward the rear of the factorage and said in Tellan, “I’m looking for Factor Jorem.”

A man who had been bending over a table straightened, then walked forward. He was broad-shouldered and square-chinned, with light brown hair and a slightly tanned face. He showed a far more marked resemblance to Darlinka than to his father, and there was a thin pink scar that ran down the left side of his face from cheekbone to jaw. Quaeryt judged that he was several years younger than Quaeryt himself, and that seemed young to have built or bought such an impressive factorage in a desirable location.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I have a letter here from your family,” said Quaeryt, extending the folded and sealed paper. “They were kind to me in my travels, and since I was coming this way, I offered to carry any messages they might have.”

Jorem took the missive, although his face betrayed concern and curiosity. “It’s not often travelers come from the Ayerne. Nor are such travelers usually scholars.”

“That wasn’t my plan, either. I was on a ship that was wrecked on the Shallows Coast. I barely escaped the reavers, but I fell ill on my escape. I fear that my acquaintance with your parents came because I collapsed on their doorstep while talking to your father. They were most kind and helped me in every way possible to recover.”

Jorem frowned. “You’re not an easterner, are you?”

“No. I’m from Solis. I was traveling to Tilbora when the ship ran afoul of a storm and fetched up on something called the Namer’s Causeway.”

“I’ve heard of that … never saw it, of course.” Jorem paused. “Please look around, if you would, while I read the letter. Oh … and thank you for bringing it.”

“It was truly the least I could do for them.” Quaeryt stepped back and then began to look over the remaining tables of produce. The leeks looked especially good, as did a variety of apples that were a mottled green and red. He didn’t see any cherry wine … or anything similar, but perhaps the factor kept special goods in another part of the factorage.

He also wondered about the specific instructions that Rhodyn had given him with the three letters—that Jorem was not to be told of the letters to Syndar and Lankyt and the two sons studying in Tilbora were not to be told of Jorem’s letter. Obviously, there were problems of some sort, but since Quaeryt wasn’t so sure he would have survived without the care and concern of Rhodyn and Darlinka, he intended to respect the holder’s wishes, particularly since he had sensed what he would have called a wistful melancholy in Rhodyn’s voice when he had asked Quaeryt to carry the missives.

He looked up as Jorem hurried toward him.

“I’m sorry. I was perhaps too brief.” The younger man offered an embarrassed smile. “My father thinks highly of you. He seldom offers that observation. You must have impressed him greatly.”

“He impressed me,” said Quaeryt. “So did your mother. They’re both rather thoughtful people.”

“He writes that you are traveling on behalf of Lord Bhayar.”

“I do have a commission from him for a task in Tilbora.”

“You must join us for supper and tell us about your visit. It has been almost two years since I saw them.”

There was something sad behind Jorem’s words, but Quaeryt only said, “If it would not be an imposition, I would be glad to do so. Thus far, the only truly enjoyable part of my travels was with your parents—after the first few days, when I was so ill that I do not remember much.”

“They are known for their kindness.” Jorem smiled. “Come, I will tell Hailae, and then we will stable your horse. There is an extra stall in the stable in back. He will be safer there while we eat, and you can groom him so that you won’t have to later.”

“She’s actually a mare,” admitted Quaeryt. “I purchased a well-behaved horse, not a cavalry charger.”

Jorem laughed as he led the way toward a door at the back of the front chamber. He opened it, revealing a wide staircase to the upper level. He stopped and called, “Hailae, we have a guest for supper!”

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.”