Scholar

15

On Vendrei morning, Quaeryt did not get up quite so early. He didn’t see much point in tracking the patrollers exceptionally close to dawn. He had overheard that Duultyn was on duty, but, if that had changed, it wasn’t something that he could control. Still, he washed up and shaved and finished breakfast before seventh glass, then went out to the high desk in the front hall. The wall shelf remained empty of any pottery or other decorations.

When the gray lady appeared, he said, “Thank you. I won’t be staying tonight.”

“You find a ship?” asked Lily.

“I did.”

“Chexar’s Moon’s Son, I’d wager. He’s one of the few that goes north in summer. Good master, but not the most fortunate, I’ve heard tell.”

“And he’s still sailing?”

“He’s one of the best at sea. He hasn’t always picked the right cargoes at the right time.”

Quaeryt nodded. He understood that, and he didn’t care as much about the cargoes as arriving safely in Tilbora.

“Best of fortune.”

“Thank you.”

After making a few small purchases, including a large number of apricots, Quaeryt arrived across the street from the harbor Patrol building two quints before the ten bells of midday rang out. He took a seat at the cafe from where he could watch the Patrol building, set his small canvas bag between his boots, and ordered a lager and a domchana. He paid the server immediately in case he needed to depart in a hurry. Then, between bites and sips, he just watched.

The only places where the sidewalks were uncrowded were those fronting the Patrol building. Likewise, there were no street vendors there, either.

Quaeryt smiled as he watched a young bootblack persuade a couple to have their boots shined. He wasn’t quite so pleased when he saw a pleasant-faced young woman cozy up to a teamster about to unload his wagon, but he needn’t have worried, because the burly fellow backhanded her cutpurse companion with enough force to throw him into the wagon and leave him stunned. The two thieves scurried off, but their haste was unnecessary because there were no patrollers nearby, even in front of the Patrol building, and the teamster didn’t call for any.

Quaeryt ordered a second lager, not that he intended to drink it all, and kept watching, but also looking toward the harbor time and again, as if he were waiting for someone.

As on the previous day, Burchal did not leave at noon, but at just before a single bell struck the first glass of the afternoon, and he was accompanied by two other patrollers. No coach arrived, for which Quaeryt was grateful, although he had been prepared to follow the coach on foot, since Nacliano’s streets were narrow and crowded enough that coach or wagon movement near the harbor was slow.

As soon as he glimpsed the chief, Quaeryt stood and left, slipping a pair of coppers to the serving girl as he passed her. He moved into a shadowed doorway for a moment and raised a concealment shield, hoping that anyone looking in his direction would simply have thought he had entered the confectionery shop, while anyone watching from inside the shop would think that he had hurried away.

The three patrollers had covered less than twenty yards before Quaeryt had closed enough to overhear parts of their conversation.

“… talk about it later.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“What do you say we go to Ufyeryl’s?”

“The fare’s good there.”

“So are the servers,” replied Burchal with a deep rolling laugh. “It’s close, and I need to be back before half past second glass.”

No more than a block later, the three entered a large cafe. Ufyeryl had to have been the owner or the proprietor, because the signboard outside the stone-faced structure declared it to be the Sea Sprite. Unlike at most eating establishments in Nacliano, the windows were glazed and the shutters painted, if a shiny gray.

Quaeryt had to squeeze in behind the last patroller because he didn’t want people seeing a door open and close with no one apparently there.

“We have your favorite table available, Chief Burchal,” offered a corpulent man in a white shirt and purple vest, gesturing toward the left side of the dining area.

Burchal said nothing, but one of the two patrollers following murmured to the other, “As if he dared otherwise.”

The table was set off from the others by two half walls that were head-high, except for a column at the outer end of each, with pale purple drapes hanging from brackets and filling the space between the half walls and the ceiling.

Quaeryt stood back, as close as he could to the narrow column at the end of the half wall on the side toward the kitchen.

“How about some of that Montagne red, Ufyeryl?” asked Burchal, as he seated himself, in a tone that was more demand than request.

“You will have it,” the proprietor said cheerfully. “Dhaela … the good Montagne red!”

Quaeryt’s eyes flicked to the serving girl addressed by Ufyeryl. He doubted she could have been much over sixteen, for all of her clearly feminine figure, accentuated as it was by the nearly sheer formfitting purple cotton blouse and tight trousers.

In moments, Dhaela reappeared with two carafes, setting both in the center of the table, and leaning forward while doing so in a way to show her charms to their best advantage. Then she hurried off, only to return with three heavy goblets. “Here you are.” Her voice was cheerful, if sultry.

Burchal’s right hand slid down from her waist and caressed her momentarily, before she straightened and eased away.

“We have the special lamb…”

Quaeryt watched the three patrollers as Dhaela recited the available fare, then took their orders, and then slipped away.

Burchal grasped the nearer carafe, filled his goblet, and handed the carafe to the patroller on his right.

“See what you mean by the fare and the servers,” said the youngest-looking patroller.

“They’re definitely fair,” countered the other patroller, filling his goblet.

“They treat me well.” Burchal’s voice held satisfaction.

Quaeryt mentally supplied the words that the chief had not spoken. Because they know what’s good for them. Then the scholar had to flatten himself against the side of the half wall as a server hurried by.

The patroller across from Burchal looked up and frowned, then shook his head.

“What is it?” demanded the chief.

“The hangings … they were moving.”

The other patroller leaned back. “No one there.”

“Can’t be too careful,” said Burchal cheerfully. “That’s why you don’t talk about anything important in public-or with women. There are ears everywhere. We’re here to eat.” He lifted the goblet, sniffed it, and took a small sip. He nodded and took a larger swallow. “Good as always.”

“Heard your nephew found another scholar. Didn’t know there were any left.”

“That’s part of his job. We need to make sure that imagers and scholars and other undesirable sorts don’t bother folks here.”

“Be easier if Estisle felt the same way.”

“It would indeed.”

Although Burchal’s tone was cheerfully even, there was something behind it, almost as if the chief had plans that extended beyond Nacliano.

Quaeryt nodded to himself. While he could have imaged pitricin or blueacid into Burchal’s gut, what he had in mind was far better for the situation.

Before long Dhaela returned with another server, a young man, and set platters before the three patrollers, as well as a large basket of bread.

After another caress of Dhaela, Burchal looked at the platter before him and smiled. “This is the best lamb in Nacliano.”

The other two exchanged quick glances, then nodded.

Quaeryt watched as the chief took several mouthfuls, then, after Burchal took another swallow of wine, and another mouthful of wine, imaged chunks of lamb into Burchal’s lower windpipe.

Burchal swallowed, then tried to swallow again. He lurched to his feet, upsetting the chair behind him and knocking over the goblet so that red wine poured over the pale purple table linens.

The patroller to his right jumped to his feet and pounded the chief on the back, but Burchal had turned red. His mouth was open, but no sound issued forth.

The older patroller stood and pulled his own chair in front of the chief, trying to bend the chief forward over the back of the chair, but Burchal pushed him away and put his hand into his mouth. The chief staggered, trying to remove the lamb that was beyond his grasp.

Quaeryt waited and watched until Burchal pitched forward.

One of the servers screamed.

Once he was certain that the chief was dead, amid the chaos and with his concealment shield Quaeryt had no trouble in slipping out of the Sea Sprite. He did not release the concealment shield until he was in an alleyway two blocks away in the direction of the harbor.

Now all he needed to do was to locate Duultyn.

He began to walk toward the harbor.

Duultyn and Thuaylt weren’t at the foot of pier one, nor of pier two … nor even pier three. Was Vendrei the patroller’s day off? That seemed unlikely to Quaeryt, given what he’d overheard on Jeudi, especially since Duultyn did enjoy some favoritism from his uncle. But what if Duultyn had gotten ill? After what Burchal had said, Quaeryt didn’t see that as likely, yet … where was Duultyn? Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. Any possible or practical way of tracking the patroller down would require asking questions, and questions would leave tracks, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Nor could he afford to wait for yet another ship heading north.

After retracing his steps to check the first two piers again, Quaeryt was about ready to head in the direction of the Sailrigger when he finally spotted the two patrollers as they approached the second pier. He remained in the shadows of the awning of the chandlery next to which he’d taken a position until the two passed him, moving toward the pier. Then he raised a concealment shield and followed.

“… still think that scholar escaped?”

“… know he must have…”

“Why?”

“Because he jumped into the water like he knew what he was doing … knew we couldn’t follow him … will find him.”

“What if he shipped out already?”

“I have a feeling he hasn’t.”

“… might be better if he had…” murmured Thualyt.

“What did you say?”

“Just that it might have been better for him if he had.”

“I don’t care about what’s good for scholars. I know what’s best for them, and that’s to get rid of as many as possible.”

From where he followed the pair, Quaeryt shook his head, then imaged a jolt of blueacid into the patroller’s stomach.

Duultyn’s step faltered for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“What is it?” asked Thuaylt.

“Must have been that pepper fowl I ate. Gut-ache. It’ll pass.”

“Are you all right?” Thuaylt’s voice held concern.

“I said I’ll be fine.” Even as irritation filled Duultyn’s voice, his free hand went to his forehead. His steps became more uneven.

“Duultyn!”

“Sow-named fowl! Spoiled meat. Bastard Xeryl fed me spoiled meat.” Duultyn staggered to the seawall and leaned over it, gagging uncontrollably. His body began to convulse.

Thuaylt leaned took several steps toward his partner, then halted, as if uncertain as what to do. “Duultyn?”

There was no response, except for several more convulsions before the patroller slumped over the seawall. Before long, even his breathing stopped.

Quaeryt slipped around the pair and made his way onto the second pier, holding the concealment shield while he reached the shadow cast by the first vessel tied there, a coastal schooner. He eased the grass bag holding the remains of the apricots over the side of the pier, but the splash was so small that no one could have heard it, then waited until no one was near or looking before releasing the shield.

He walked purposefully toward the next ship-the Moon’s Son.