Scholar

24

Quaeryt had intended to slip away early, but Jorem found him in the stable before he had saddled the mare and had insisted on his joining the family for breakfast. Even so, it was well before sixth glass when Quaeryt left the factorage. Daerlae and Jorem stood on the front porch, and Daerlae waved, as the scholar rode northward toward the ferry piers. Quaeryt waved back, a smile on his face at the enthusiasm of the little girl.

Once again, he couldn’t help but wonder what lay behind the fracture in the family. It clearly had something to do with Hailae and the fact that she was Pharsi, yet Rhodyn and Darlinka didn’t seem to be the kind who would object to their son falling in love with a Pharsi girl, especially one who was attractive and able and who had a family of worth. Not only that, but it was obvious that Hailae and Jorem had endured some hardship and still were deeply in love-without the storminess that Quaeryt had observed from a distance between Bhayar and Aelina.

Absently, he wondered if Vaelora could be as stormy as her brother. Although the tone of her missive had been formal, there had been no mistaking the will behind the words. He shook his head. It would be months before he returned to Solis. Yet … why had she written such a formal missive? Why had she written at all? He shrugged. There was little point in speculating, and he certainly wouldn’t find out for seasons … if he ever did. Yet … he had to admit he was intrigued.

The ferry pier was located a half mille or so upstream from where the Albhor River actually entered the harbor and offered several different alternatives, from small boats just for individual passengers all the way up to a donkey-powered paddlewheel craft that could carry two wagons and several horses and their riders. Because the paddlewheel craft was the one that looked the safest and the most ready to depart, Quaeryt paid the five-copper fee, then had to walk the mare into a crude stall and tie her there.

Just as he finished, a one-horse wagon rolled aboard after him, and the teamster paid a silver. When no one else appeared within a quint, not all that surprisingly to Quaeryt, considering that it was early on Samedi, the ferryman groused under his breath and rang a bell. The donkeys began to walk on the slatted platform backed in heavy canvas and wrapped around two rollers, one of which was linked to the rear paddlewheel that churned the gray-brown waters and pushed the unwieldy craft toward the Tilbora ferry piers, close to half a mille away.

Keeping one eye on the mare and the stall, Quaeryt eased over to the ferryman, who was captain, helmsman, and crew, all in one. “Do you know where the Scholars’ House is in Tilbora?”

The ferryman looked blank, but did not shift his eyes from the river.

“The place where scholars stay?” prompted Quaeryt.

“Well … there’s what they call the Ecoliae. It’s a hill, sort of northwest from the ferry piers…”

The scholar had to strain to understand the man’s words; if he happened to be typical, the Tellan Tilborans spoke was almost a different tongue and far more guttural, similar to but not quite the way Chexar had spoken. An instant of sadness came over Quaeryt as he thought about the gruff captain.

“… and there’s an anomen on the next hill to the west … and it has a white dome.… Might be two milles. Could be three. I don’t go that way often. There used to be some teachers there. I suppose there still are … unless the Telaryns got rid of them.…” The ferryman turned his head and spat.

“There’s not a problem with the scholars, is there?”

“No more than anyplace. Not much more, anyways.…”

There was a hint of something there, but Quaeryt didn’t want to interrupt.

“… Don’t know what all that book learning’s good for. They don’t cause troubles, anyway. Not like the Telaryn armsmen or the Pharsi types.”

“I heard there were troubles years back.”

“No more trouble with the Pharsi folk. Good riddance. The armsmen … they’re still trouble.”

Abruptly, the ferryman looked at Quaeryt. “You’re a scholar type, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I traveled here from Solis to write a history.”

“Who’ll read it? Other scholars?” The ferryman turned and spat again, his eyes returning to the waters ahead of the ferry. “Leastwise, His Mightiness Lord Bhayar isn’t the one writing it. Lord and master of all the east of Lydar, and he’s never been here.”

“His father was here, and that wasn’t exactly what anyone wanted, was it?” asked Quaeryt dryly.

“You got that right, scholar!” After a time, he asked, “What you going to write?”

“One of the reasons I’m here is to talk to people about what happened. What do you think I should write?”

“Write what you want. Who cares?”

“I’d like to write something close to the truth.”

“No such thing as truth. Truth is what every man wants it to be for himself. Even the Namer’s imagers think their truth is the only one. A course the last one we found around here ended up chained to the sea stones when the tide came in. Couldn’t image his way out of all that iron.”

Quaeryt kept the wince inside himself. Does Tilbor view imagers the way Nacliano sees scholars? “When did that happen?”

“Last week in Juyn, I reckon.”

“So, if everyone’s got a truth, tell me what you think I should write.”

“Someone’s got to rule. Someone always has. Most folks don’t care so long as they got enough coppers to get by. Too many rulers take too many coppers and don’t make things better. That’s history. Oh, you got folks with fancy names and fancier clothes, and someone like you writes it all down, what they do, but no one writes about what I do. Don’t write what the beggar in the square does. Don’t write about the seafarers who sail the storms…” The ferryman stopped. “You won’t write that, either.”

Quaeryt laughed. “You don’t care much for scholars, do you?”

“You ever worked, really worked?”

“I ran away and spent six years before the mast. That was work.”

“Then you might write about real folk. If you do, them with golds won’t read it.” The ferryman spat again. “Can’t talk no more.”

Quaeryt eased away. Even before he reached Tilbora he was getting the feeling that what he had in mind was going to be far, far harder than he’d ever thought … and he’d never thought it would be easy. As the donkey ferry neared the piers on the Tilboran side of the river, he couldn’t help but note that the northern piers looked more worn and dilapidated than those in Bhorael-and the Bhorael piers had scarcely been pristine.

Once he had led the mare off the ferry and mounted, he set out to find the scholars’ place. As was usual in most ports with rivers, there was a road beside the river. This one led northwest from the ferry piers, and Quaeryt rode slowly along it. Unlike the riverside in Nacliano, the ground flanking the river was no more than three or four yards above the water, and many of the structures located between the river road and the water showed watermarks, and stains on the worn wood. Few were constructed of stone above the foundations.

After a mille or so, Quaeryt was sweating in the midmorning sun, which felt more like summer. Although Tilbora was supposed to be cooler than Nacliano, the heat was more like that in Solis. Before too much longer, he found a wider avenue heading north and in the direction of the hills, the top of one of which appeared to have an anomen situated on its crest. It felt like he had ridden far more than two milles past moderate dwellings and small shops, with but handfuls of people on the streets, early as it was, before he reined up at the bottom of what had to be his destination.

The stone block at the base of the brick-paved lane leading up the gentle slope to the buildings above was inscribed with a single word-ECOLIAE. Quaeryt glanced up. The two-story brick structure that sprawled across the rise was not at all similar in form to the Scholarium in Solis, yet he could feel a certain sameness. All scholarly places exuded a definite feel … in some way or another.

He rode up the lane, dismounted, and tied the mare outside the main entrance. A fresh-faced youth in brown, clearly a student, if one likely to be close to finishing his studies, hurried out the door, across the wide covered porch, and down the three, not-quite-crumbing brick steps.

“Good day, sir.”

“I’m here from Solis,” said Quaeryt, “and would like to stay for a bit. Might I see the scholar princeps?”

“You’re fortunate, sir. He is in the front hall at the moment.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt walked up the steps and across the mortared bricks of the porch and into the building, whose ancient wooden floor creaked, as if to announce his presence.

The scholar who turned to face Quaeryt had short silver-blond hair and a square-cut beard of the same colors.

“Scholar princeps?” asked Quaeryt.

“I am. What can I do for you?” observed the scholar princeps in Bovarian.

“I’m Quaeryt Rytersyn. I have been traveling, all the way from Solis,” replied Quaeryt in the same tongue, “and I had hoped to find room here.”

“You know we are not scholars like those in Solis.”

“I did not expect that you would be exactly the same. Nor does the moon have sons she acknowledges openly, yet learning exists under moonlight or sunlight, for all that the hunter may be Artiema’s guardian.”

“Welcome, Quaeryt Rytersyn. I am Zarxes Zorlynsyn. What brings you here?”

“A commission from a patron of scholars in Solis, to update the history of Tilbora.” Quaeryt smiled wryly. “I would have been at your doorstep earlier, but…” With that opening, he launched into a brief explanation of his travels, omitting his difficulties in Nacliano and how he had handled the reavers, concluding with, “… and as a result of holder Rhodyn’s kindnesses I have brought missives from him to his sons Syndar and Lankyt.”

“Not many scholars arrive with their own mount.”

“It was in part a gift from Holder Rhodyn in Ayerne, after the ship I was on was wrecked.” In a convoluted way, the mare had been a gift of sorts, because Zachys wouldn’t have parted with the mare without Rhodyn’s persuasive presence.

“He wanted to assure you completed his tasks. I have met him but once, although he struck me as a man able to know and judge others well. I also thought he might be excellent at persuading them to his ends … as necessary.”

“About staying here for a week?” prompted Quaeryt.

“For the first night or so, we offer hospitality.” Zarxes cleared his throat.

“And after that?” Quaeryt smiled easily.

“A copper a night for the chamber. A copper for every meal. We would appreciate more if possible. The Khanars were always most generous to the scholars. Now…”

“Now … you must charge for your students and for visiting scholars, as Scholars’ Houses do in most of Lydar.”

“Unfortunately. Even so, there are months where…” Zarxes shrugged.

“I am not wealthy,” replied Quaeryt, “but I can certainly forgo any need for hospitality. I am just pleased to be here.”

“If you do not mind staying in the west wing … there are spacious chambers on the upper level, and the adjoining rooms are currently vacant. The first level can be … less than quiet.”

“Is that where the student scholars are quartered?”

“You have some knowledge of their habits, I see.” Zarxes smiled.

“I was one for many years.”

“I thought you might be.”

Quaeryt ignored the knowing smile. When he’d been given his names, he’d been too young to know that Ryter was the most common name in Telaryn and that a great proportion of orphans bore the surname “Rytersyn.” “My parents died of the Great Plague when I was very young, and in a place where no one knew their names.”

The princeps nodded. “You are welcome here. I will have young Gaestnyr fetch Syndar and Lankyt and then ready your chamber. You can wait for them on the porch. These days it is much cooler there.”

“Oh … and because of the wreck, I will need to make arrangements for another few sets of scholar’s garb.”

“That should be no problem at all. We have a fine tailor.” The princeps strode briskly out the door, and Quaeryt followed, waiting on the shaded porch and standing to catch the light breeze out of the east, while both Zarxes and Gaestnyr vanished in different directions.

Before long, another young man, wearing the uncollared brown shirt and brown trousers of a student, appeared from the east side of the porch, which apparently circled the entire building. He was broad-shouldered and brown-haired and looked much as Rhodyn must have as a young man, Quaeryt thought.

“Scholar … the princeps said that you had a missive for me?”

“I have missives for two students,” Quaeryt said. “You are?”

“Syndar Rhodynsyn.”

Quaeryt lifted both missives from his jacket, looked at the names, and handed one to Syndar. “He wrote this late on Lundi.”

“Who did?”

For a moment, Quaeryt didn’t answer. Didn’t Syndar even know his father’s writing? “Your father did. The other missive is for your brother.”

“Oh…” Syndar nodded. “I’m sorry, scholar. My thoughts were elsewhere. Thank you. I do appreciate your bringing it here.”

“You’re welcome. I was pleased to do it. Your father and mother were most hospitable and kind.”

“They are, indeed.” Syndar nodded again. “I do thank you.”

Then he turned and left.

Almost as soon as Syndar was out of sight, headed around the east side of the porch, another student, this one far more slender, walked toward the scholar from around the west corner of the porch. His steps were quick, almost eager, and he bowed immediately after stopping short of Quaeryt.

“Scholar Quaeryt, sir? I’m Lankyt Rhodynsyn. The princeps said you might have a missive for me.”

“I do indeed.” Quaeryt proffered the remaining missive.

As soon as Lankyt saw his name, he smiled. “Thank you so much, sir. Thank you.”

“Your father wanted to make sure that you got it, yet…” Quaeryt offered a curious expression and let his words die away.

“What is it, sir?”

“Your brother did not seem overjoyed.…”

“He has many things on his mind.”

“That is what he said, but I’m sure you do as well.” Quaeryt paused. “You have another brother. Your mother mentioned him. He’s in Bhorael, as I recall.” Rhodyn had only said not to mention the letters.

“That’s Jorem.”

“Your father didn’t say much about him. He seemed sad when he mentioned his name.”

“Jorem and Father … they don’t see things the same way.”

“I’ve heard that’s often true.”

“You must get along well with your parents, sir,” said Lankyt with a laugh.

“No. My parents died when I was very small. I was raised by the scholars.”

“Oh … I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean…”

“That’s all right. You were saying…”

“It all happened because of the riots … and the Telaryn armsmen. Did you hear about the riots?”

“Only that there were riots.” At the time, Quaeryt had just returned to Solis and hadn’t been that interested in much beside persuading the scholars to take him back. And Jorem had avoided talking about anything like that.

“Old Lord Chayar had told the armsmen to leave the local girls alone. Some of them decided that no one would mind if they took some liberties with the Pharsi girls. Even the Tilborans looked down on them.”

Quaeryt let himself wince.

“I see you know about Pharsi women.”

“I know that the women are the ones who run the households and that their husbands are usually the ones who do the obeying.”

“Some of the soldiers ended up dead, and some were wounded. The governor-the old governor-sent the garrisons out to patrol the streets and then had his engineers destroy the four whole blocks where the armsmen were killed. Some of the dwellings and shops weren’t owned by Pharsi families, and the owners protested. The governor ignored them. He said they were all Tilborans, and he didn’t care who believed what. People started throwing rocks at the soldiers, and things got worse, and more people and more soldiers got killed, and then the armsmen killed a lot more people…” Lankyt shrugged. “I wasn’t here then, but that’s what the old scholars say happened.”

“Those sorts of things can get out of hand, but I don’t understand what that has to do with your brother.”

“Oh … he rescued a Pharsi girl and her parents. They were visiting their cousins, trying to help them leave Tilbor. The parents were badly hurt in the riots, but Jorem managed to get them all back to Bhorael. They had a produce factorage.”

Quaeryt forced himself to wait.

Lankyt finally went on. “He kept seeing Hailae, and they fell in love. After two years, when he was about finished with his studies, he wrote Father saying that he intended to marry Hailae. Father wrote back saying that was fine, and that he looked forward to having his son and new daughter taking over the holding. That was where the trouble started.”

“Hailae wanted to stay near her family?” asked Quaeryt.

“She was their only child, and they were ill. Father offered to bring everyone to Ayerne, but Hailae and Jorem said that they wanted to carry on the factorage. He did not wish to ask Hailae to give up all that her parents had sacrificed for, and their injuries were too great for them to run the factorage. Father was hurt, I think. That was when he sent Syndar here to study. I came a year later.”

Quaeryt nodded slowly. “Your brother-Syndar-seems rather quiet. Withdrawn, almost.”

Lankyt nodded. “He wants to stay and be a scholar. He never liked all that went into running a holding.”

“And you?”

“I’m ready to go back to Ayerne any time. Father wants me to stay until Year-Turn. I think he hopes Syndar will change his mind.”

Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. So often brothers fought over an inheritance, and in the case of Rhodyn’s sons, it seemed as though the father would have preferred either son who didn’t want the holding to the one who did. “You really like Ayerne, don’t you?”

Lankyt’s face brightened once more. “I’ve always loved it. I’ve studied about plants and trees, and I think there are things I could do that would make the holding even more prosperous. I’ve even visited the growers around here, the ones that the scholars say are the most successful…”

Quaeryt nodded pleasantly, trying to hide a smile at the young man’s enthusiasm, as well as his own sadness, knowing that the expectations of others might well dampen those feelings.

“… and Caella has already tried some of what I wrote her, and it’s working with her orchards.”

“Your mother mentioned that.”

“They didn’t think she could do it, either.” Abruptly, Lankyt stopped. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t. I think you’ll make a fine holder.” If they’ll just give you the chance. “Just remember that no one likes change away from what’s familiar. If you can, show them how what you want to change is just another way of accomplishing the familiar. Show them with little things first. It only seems to take longer.”

“Sir … it only seems…?”

“When you fight to change people’s minds, they resist. When people resist, it takes longer.” Quaeryt laughed. “Now I’m the one who must apologize for acting like a chorister of the Nameless. And I do apologize.”

“There is no need to apologize to me, sir … and I do thank you for bringing the missive to me. Will you be staying at the Ecoliae?”

“For a few days, a week, perhaps a little longer.” After a smile, the scholar added, “I should not keep you longer, and I do need to get my mount out of the sun.”

“Oh … yes, sir. Thank you again.” Lankyt nodded a last time, then hurried off clutching the missive in his hands.

Quaeryt walked down from the porch and untied the mare from the old iron hitching rail, thinking about the differences between the three sons.

As if he had been watching, Gaestnyr reappeared from the west end of the porch. “If you would follow me, sir?”

“I’d be happy to, thank you.”

As he led the mare behind young Gaestnyr around to the west end of the main building, presumably to the stable, and then to his quarters, his eyes ranged across the hillside below. Hot as the day was, he saw the signs of how far north Tilbor was. There were far fewer leafy trees, and those that he saw were mainly oaks and maples, while there were evergreens everywhere. Did the kind of trees affect people? Did those who lived around prickly evergreens tend to be more stiff and sharp?

He suspected he would find out before too long.