Scholar

16

For all of Chexar’s talk about leaving well before dawn, the Moon’s Son had barely left the harbor behind when the leading edge of the sun peered over the eastern waters on Samedi morning, but the ship was sailing almost directly before the wind, and the swells in the gulf beyond the harbor were moderate. The “bunk cabin” was far smaller than the space in the fantail locker on the Diamond, but, although there were two bunks against the aft bulkhead, Quaeryt was the only passenger. For that, he was grateful.

As orangish light flooded diffusely over the ship, he stood by the starboard railing on the poop deck, looking to the southeast at the northern end of the rocky island of Estisle, which held the port of the same name. He couldn’t help but reflect on the past week. Two aspects of his time in Nacliano particularly bothered him. First was the possibility that an innocent cafe owner might be blamed for poisoning Duultyn. Quaeryt hadn’t considered the fact that Duultyn would immediately blame someone when he felt unwell. He should have. People like Duultyn blamed others for everything. Second was the concern that the Patrol chief who followed Burchal might be even worse. While that seemed unlikely, in places like Nacliano the same factors that allowed a man like Burchal to abuse power made it more likely that someone similar would succeed him. On the other hand, Quaeryt was only one man, and a scholar and hidden imager at that, and he couldn’t be everywhere to try to improve things. That was another reason why he had to prove his greater usefulness to Bhayar. That was the first step in what he planned.

Besides, he told himself, it’s better to do something when no one else has done anything than hope that what’s bad will improve itself.

Still … he worried.

His eyes drifted back to Estisle, which had begun as a haven for pirates and smugglers centuries ago-before they all discovered that trading was more profitable and less fatal … and Hengyst had granted them amnesty for their support.

Quaeryt sensed someone and turned to see the captain standing a few yards away, looking forward, then to the helm, before returning his gaze to the scholar no longer attired as such-and who wouldn’t be until after he disembarked from the Moon’s Son.

“You were on board right early yesterday,” observed Chexar. “You in haste to get to Tilbora?” The captain spoke Tellan with what Quaeryt suspected was the thick accent of Tilbor.

Quaeryt laughed. “Not so much that as in haste to leave Nacliano. I’ve seen friendlier ports in my day.”

Chexar nodded. “It didn’t used to be that way. Now…” The captain shrugged. “Most of the crew stays close to the ship these days. We try to off-load and load as quick as we can.”

“What happened? You must know. You’ve spent more than a few days tied up in Nacliano over the years.”

“That’s hard to say. Things happened. Someone burned down the Scholars’ House, and all the scholars left … maybe some of them stayed permanently, you might say. A couple of the older factorages closed. Another caught fire. Who knows? It just isn’t the same. People look strange-like at anyone they don’t know.”

“I saw this one patroller who jumped at anyone wearing brown.…”

Chexar shook his head. “That had to be Duultyn. He hates scholars. Scholars wear brown. His wife, pretty thing she was, ran off with one.”

“He hates scholars and men who wear brown just for that?”

“The scholar was the kind who studied all the old martial arts. It was weeks before Duultyn could walk straight.” Chexar grinned. “They say that he lost more than his wife.” The grin faded. “Don’t think he’s quite right in the head, but he’s the nephew or some such of the City Patrol chief.”

“He sounds like a patroller to avoid.”

“If you’re a seafarer, they’re all to be avoided,” replied Chexar wryly.

“Even in Tilbora? What’s it like there?”

“It’s colder there. More like harvest in summer, fall in harvest, winter in fall, and you don’t really want to be there in winter.” He laughed. “I don’t, and most of the crew doesn’t, and we grew up there.”

“I was thinking about the patrollers.…”

“The ones in Tilbora aren’t like those in Nacliano. They’re like those in most ports. You don’t bother them, and they don’t bother you.”

“What about the governor?”

“I’ve never seen him. They say he keeps pretty much to the Telaryn Palace-used to be the Khanar’s Palace. Stay away from the Telaryn armsmen, though. They can be nasty pieces of work.”

“Why? Do they think Tilbor is going to revolt or something?”

“That’s the way they act. Me … I never saw anything like that. We Tilborans are stiff-necked. That doesn’t mean that we’re troublemakers. Oh … there are a few, call themselves partisans or some such, but most of the real partisans went back to work once things settled down after the war. Life’s tough enough in the north without making trouble for yourself. Except for the hill folk. They’ve always been trouble. The rest of us, we just want to get by. You want troublemakers, go to Antiago or Bovaria.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve never been to Tilbor. What’s a good dish to eat … and what should I avoid?”

Chexar laughed. “Most is like anywhere else, but I’d avoid the white cod. Never liked it as a boy. Still don’t. Looks and tastes like fish jerky seasoned in lye. That’s because it is. It’ll keep forever…” Abruptly, he turned. “Gelas! Bring her a half point more to port.”

“Aye, Captain!” returned the helmsman.

Chexar continued, without looking at Quaeryt, “We need to stay well north of the Wreckers’ Rocks. That’s not really a problem with the weather as fair as it is.”

“I heard that the seas are rougher north of here. How soon will we hit them?”

“On the trip south … we got to calmer weather some four days out of Nacliano. Likely enough, that hasn’t changed all that much.”

“How rough?” asked Quaeryt.

“Not that bad. Swells a yard or two at most. Winter seas, you see swells five to ten yards all the time.” Chexar laughed softly. “That’s why we do winter runs from Nacliano to the south. There aren’t many who run to Tilbora in the winter, and none who sail farther north.”

Since the shortest overland routes from Tilbora to Solis ran through the mountains, Quaeryt wasn’t going to have as much time as he would have liked in Tilbor, not and meet Bhayar’s request for his return. Yet … staying longer in Solis would not have suited either his needs or Bhayar’s, and from what he’d already seen in Nacliano, there were more than a few problems of which the Lord of Telaryn was woefully unaware.

“How late do you leave Tilbora for the last time in the fall?”

Chexar shrugged. “That depends on the weather and the signs.” He grinned wryly. “And if anyone has a good cargo. If things look spare, we leave a few weeks before the end of Finitas, never later than the twenty-third.” The captain nodded, then turned and walked back toward the helm.

Quaeryt thought. It was already the thirty-fifth of Juyn, the last day of summer. That left the two months of harvest and a little over seven weeks of fall-seventeen weeks in all-and it would likely take more than a week to reach Tilbora … if nothing untoward happened.

That seemed more than possible, but … still.