Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (37 page)

An amused, if husky, laugh followed.

When he reached the corner, he turned left and crossed the street. The shop on the corner was an apothecary’s, and he entered.

The man behind the low counter, with the rows of shelves behind him, looked up. “I’d not be selling to you.”

“I’m not looking to buy. I’ve been sent—”

“You’re not from the Ecoliae.”

“No. I came from Solis. I’m trying to get information for a history.”

The apothecary nodded. “I don’t know history.”

Quaeryt smiled. “Recent history. What you’ve lived through since the time of Eleonyd. That’s all history is, except after we’re dead, if it’s written down, it becomes history. If it isn’t, more of the truth is lost.”

“Not much to say. Eleonyd was a good Khanar until he got sick. His daughter would have been a good ruler, too. Rhecyrd and the northers and the timber holders didn’t like her. The Guard sat on its honor and lost it, and Chayar came in and defeated Rhecyrd and his clan militia. That’s what happened. Nothing will change it.”

“Why didn’t the southers stand up for her?”

“We couldn’t. All the men in arms from the south were in the Guard.”

“But—”

“I’d rather not talk about it. You’re probably not like the others, but let’s leave it at that.” He turned his back and begin to grind something in a pestle.

Quaeryt eased out of the apothecary’s. He could have pressed some, but his reception hadn’t been that good to begin with.

When he stepped back outside, the door to the adjoining shop was shuttered and closed. So was the adjoining shop. He didn’t think either had been when he entered the apothecary’s.

He shook his head and went back across the street. The silversmith’s door was shuttered. The next shop was tiny, with but a single narrow window beside the door. While the door was unshuttered, the window was not, but the door opened, and he stepped inside.

“You must have the wrong shop,” came a voice from his left.

He turned to see a thin woman adjusting the fabric on a frame shaped like a woman’s figure. The woman didn’t look to be much older than Quaeryt, although there were streaks of gray in her short-cut hair and lines from the corners of her eyes. “Why? Because you’re a dressmaker?”

“I don’t see you wearing a dress, and few scholars have either wives or mistresses. Even if you did, you’d not likely have the coins for what I sew.” She paused and studied him again. “You are a scholar … but you’re not from the Ecoliae, are you?”

“Actually, I’m from the Scholarium in Solis. I’m here to study the history of Tilbor.”

“You do have the wrong shop.”

“I think not. You probably know more of what happened here since just before the war than most.”

“The Khanar wasn’t strong enough. His daughter was. The north didn’t want a Khanara, and neither did the hill people. Those in Tilbora did; the others in the south didn’t want a civil war. We all lost. Things turned out better under the governor than they would have under the Pretender. What else is there to say?”

“Well…” said Quaeryt with a smile. “… there is the question of why it all came to that. What would have been so bad about a Khanara?”

“It wasn’t that she was a woman. It was that she was smart, and she saw that Rhecyrd would lead Tilbor into war with Telaryn. She also saw how the timber holders and the northers were evading tariffs. She was keeping her father alive, and she was really the Khanar. But things worked, and no one said anything. Then Rhecyrd brought all his clan militia—and his imager—south, and Eleonyd got sicker and died, and then the imager imaged Antiagon Fire over the envoy from Telaryn. That was because she would have wed Lord Bhayar to save Tilbor, and Rhecyrd knew it.”

“And Rhecyrd knew she wouldn’t marry him?”

“No woman with any sense would. His wife got sick and died when he needed her out of the way.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Lady Tyrena? She had me sew several riding outfits for her … she was young then.” The seamstress laughed so softly that there was almost no sound. “Weren’t we all?”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“What is there to say? She was young, a bit too strong-featured to be beautiful, but attractive in a handsome way. She was very intelligent, more so than her father, I’d say, and Tilbor might not be a part of Telaryn had he listened to her.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She was the one who truly commanded the Guard. The old commander—Gustraak—knew she understood battles better, and she rode beside him and advised him. Then he died—I still say that he and Eleonyd were both poisoned by Rhecyrd’s imager. Commander Traesk refused to listen to her, and she had the imager killed and forced a Bovarian merchanter to take her away with her personal armsmen. Before she left someone put a knife in Traesk’s ribs, and he died, and the Guard retreated to the palace and closed it off. If she’d been in command … who knows?”

“Strategy isn’t everything,” Quaeryt pointed out.

“No. It’s not. Soldiers are important, too, and the men of Tilbor make the best soldiers. Why do you think the governor recruits so many of them.”

At that moment, a muscular man burst through the rear door and moved quickly toward Quaeryt, a stout club in hand. The scholar barely got up a forearm to deflect the arm with the club.

“Haarl! Stop! He’s not one of them!” snapped the woman.

One of whom? The local scholars?

Quaeryt had to block another attempt with the club before the attacker stopped.

“I told you to stop.” The woman’s voice was acid-tinged.

“They’re all the same … don’t care what Thayl or you say…” said the ginger-bearded bear of a man who glared at Quaeryt even as he lowered the club.

Quaeryt wanted to massage his forearm, but he just waited, if warily. “I take it that the local scholars are not exactly in your favor.”

“You’re not from here. You don’t talk like them.”

“I told you that, idiot,” snapped the woman.

“I wasn’t going to wait. Thayl told me one of them was prowling around. Said he was different, as if that mattered…”

“You go and tell your brother that he’s not one of them. Do you understand?”

Haarl looked at Quaeryt. “Sorry … didn’t mean to take you for one of them.” He turned and walked out. His tone was scarcely apologetic.

Quaeryt looked to the seamstress. “Might I ask what offenses the local scholars have committed?”

“You could. Why would it be to my advantage to tell you?”

“Because I might be able to do something about it.”

The woman studied Quaeryt once more. Then she smiled, if faintly. “You might. You’d try, anyway.”

He waited.

“The scholars have always been the tool of the timber holders. Eleonyd and the Khanars paid them to run the school, but it was as much tribute as anything. It was cheaper than fighting. In return, the timber holders built their road and allowed the Khanars to use it without tariffing them.”

“The governor doesn’t pay the scholars for the school. Is that why he is always fighting the timber holders?”

The seamstress shrugged. “I do not know what the governor or the scholars do these days.”

“Go ahead. You were going to say more about the scholars.”

“It has to do with Commander Traesk. He was one of the few officers from the hills. He joined the Khanar’s Guard as a young man. In time, he became an officer, and later, subcommander. All said that he was courageous and a good leader … until he betrayed the Khanara. Traesk’s son was—he still is, I guess—a scholar. He was also a Guard officer during the fighting. I don’t know as he was that good a Guard officer, but he was well-trained in using arms, and he was there to ward his father’s back.”

“So the scholars supported the Guard?”

She shook her head. “Traesk supported Rhecyrd. Most of the Guard officers supported the Khanara, but they would not break their loyalty to the Guard commander.”

“Then who killed Traesk?”

“No man could have killed him.”

“Was the Khanara that skilled in weapons?”

“She was the equal of any man.”

Quaeryt could see the general outline, but parts of what he thought he saw didn’t make sense. “What does this have to do with the scholars?”

“The Khanara had help from … some in the south. The … scholar has vowed to kill all those who helped her.”

Quaeryt looked at the seamstress, taking in the lean muscles he’d thought were merely the sign of lack of privilege. He risked jumping to a conclusion. “He’s after all the Sisters?”

Her face tightened.

“I’m not after you … or them. I’ve overheard people talking about the Sisters, but I didn’t know what they meant. When you explained, though…”

“You are a dangerous man.”

“I doubt I’m near as dangerous as you.” He paused but briefly. “I do have a question. Do you know the name of Traesk’s son? If I ever meet him, I’d like to know it.”

“Chardyn … Chardyn Traesksyn…”

Quaeryt refrained from nodding. That made all too much sense. “And the scholars are still working with the hill timber holders against the governor … because they think the people in the south sold out to Lord Chayar?”

“I cannot say. I would judge so.” The seamstress offered another smile, faint and knowing. “You are not a scholar … or not just a scholar.”

“I’ve been a seaman, but I am a scholar.”

“Your eyes say that you are more.”

“No more than you,” he replied.

She laughed. “You did not give your name.”

“Quaeryt Rytersyn.”

“Your name says it all.”

He frowned.

“The questioner of every man.”

“And yours?”

“Syen Yendradyr.”

“That says that your mother…”

“We do not take our father’s names.” She nodded. “You know enough for now.”

“I might be back.”

“Don’t come too soon. Talk to others.”

“I will.” He inclined his head, turned, and departed.

Once he was outside the shop, he shook his head. He’d never thought he’d risked being killed for being a local scholar. Had the patroller who’d recommended Thayl’s stable the first time he’d ridden through the harbor done so for reasons other than courtesy?

He massaged his sore forearm with his left hand. The injury, slight as it was, again reminded him that he did need to think more about how to create some sort of shields.

You can’t keep putting it off.

He glanced back at the silversmith’s, but the door was still shuttered. So he walked past the café and entered the chandlery.

A man within a few years of Quaeryt’s age turned, then frowned.

“Greetings,” Quaeryt said quickly. “I’ve recently arrived from Solis.”

An expression close to relief crossed the man’s face.

“I’m a scholar, and I’ve been sent to write about the history of Tilbor from the time of the last Khanars until now.”

“Were you raised in Solis?”

“I was an orphan left in Solis as a young child when my parents died in the Great Plague. I’d guess I’m as much from Solis as from anywhere.”

“Better there than some places.”

“I was hoping that you could tell me what you recall…” From there Quaeryt went on, asking a question here and there. After two quints, it was clear he wouldn’t learn much more, and he left for the next shop.

He visited almost a score of shops, but people were wary, and no one told him as much as Syen had. He never did find a bookstore, nor a cooperage in the harbor area, and it was more than three glasses later when he finally returned to Thayl’s and paid the extra copper. Instead of riding back directly, he headed north from the harbor area, through an area of dwellings that were slightly larger than those he’d passed to the northwest of the harbor on his way in, but all had higher-pitched roofs than he’d seen anywhere but in Tilbora, and narrower windows. No one looked askance at him, and several women and older men waved.

By midafternoon, the sky had clouded over, and the wind had shifted from the northwest. A light sprinkling of rain had begun to fall when he finally returned to the palace grounds just after third glass. By the time he’d logged back in, unsaddled and groomed the mare, and washed up, it was close to fourth glass. Even so, he did return to his study, but found no more envelopes and messages.

At half past fourth glass, he made his way down to the mess, where, as Dueryl had explained, there was a pay table. He waited behind several undercaptains until it was his turn.

“Scholar Quaeryt … yes … here you are, sir.” The ranker clerk eased three silvers and five coppers across the pay table.

“I thought meals were a copper each.”

“They are, sir, except for mess night, and that’s two.”

“Oh … thank you.” Quaeryt certainly didn’t mind the charges. The food was better than it would have been in Tilbora, at half the price, and certainly better than at the Ecoliae.

As he stood there, waiting for supper, he couldn’t help but wonder about the fare. Yet both the princeps and Major Skarpa had insisted that what the rankers got was about the same as what the officers got. Somehow, if that were true, and he suspected it happened to be so, he doubted that such was the case for rankers elsewhere in Bhayar’s service.

45

Samedi morning, Quaeryt lingered over breakfast, talking to another set of undercaptains, not learning anything new, but more of what he’d already picked up, if from a slightly different viewpoint. In a way, that suggested there might not be that much else truly new that he could learn from the junior officers about the regiment itself, at least for the moment, because what he could ask was limited to some extent by what he already knew … and what he didn’t.

After breakfast, he hurried up to his study, arriving just before seventh glass, where he sat down and tried to think about what he had discovered so far and how he could recommend—if he could—a reduction in troops in Tilbor. If he couldn’t, what could he do … that wouldn’t leave him in a precarious position with Bhayar? The other problem he faced was the scholars. He’d been seeking a way to bolster and improve their position in Telaryn as a first step toward what he really envisioned, but so far all he was discovering was how they were destroying their support among both the landholders and the people.