L. Modesitt - Scholar

“Loaders! Stop him! A silver to anyone who catches him!”

For a silver they well might hazard tackling him. Quaeryt saw an opening in between two groups of men who had turned at the patrollers’ calls and dashed between them, jumping off the pier in the space between the brig and the square-rigger, just hoping that the water was deep enough.

He went under, and down perhaps three yards, then struggled underwater back toward the pier-except his hands encountered a rough stone wall. He concentrated, trying to move along the wall underwater until he could find a space between the sections of the pier built on solid stone and rock supports and the patches of water between them and the wooden supports sunk into the harbor bottom.

His lungs were bursting when he finally surfaced under the pier, but he came up as quietly as he could, immediately creating a slight concealment shield that he hoped just showed water, if anyone tried to look down through the few narrow gaps in the heavy wood of the pier above.

He’d been in dirtier water before, but not in years, and he had to use one hand to clamp his nose to keep from sneezing. The fingers of the other held to an edge in the rough stone.

“He went in over there!”

“More like by the square-rigger.”

“Go after him, Walthar. It’s a silver.”

“In that water? Patrollers can keep their silver. ’Sides, he hasn’t even come up. No sight of him. No sounds. You go in if you want.”

“Where did he go?” demanded a harsh voice.

“He jumped off the pier. Never came up.”

“He might be right underneath you, for all you know.”

“We looked. Don’t see anything.”

“There’s a silver reward for whoever turns him in.”

“We get it if we find his body?”

“Only if he’s alive. He has to answer to the Patrol.”

“What’d he do?”

“Never mind that!”

Quaeryt kept breathing easily and waiting, but it had to have been close to two quints before the patrollers left. He still had no idea why the patroller and his partner had decided to go after him. He’d been polite, and he hadn’t done a single thing except walk down the pier with a duffel. Years before, he’d never had any trouble in Nacliano. Why now?

Once the crowd above slowly dispersed, he eased his way to the other side of the pier, still holding shields, and made his way inshore, half-swimming, half-pulling himself hand over hand along the stone foundations, sometimes having to squeeze through the narrow spaces between pier supports and hulls, until he finally found a ladder up the side of one of the stone pier supports. He took his time climbing it because, while his shield might conceal him, he’d still be leaving a trail of water behind.

He simply rested on the top of the ladder, out of the way, watching and listening, but he saw no patrollers, and the various vendors, loaders, and teamsters traveling the pier appeared to have forgotten the commotion that had occurred half a glass earlier.

Once his browns had dried enough that water droplets did not leave a trail, Quaeryt climbed from the ladder to the edge of the pier and, still holding his concealment shield, walked slowly toward the base of the pier.

Two patrollers walked back and forth on the stone causeway beyond the end of the pier, glancing along it, clearly still looking for Quaeryt.

“Haelan … he drowned.… Even if he didn’t, he’s not going to walk down here toward us.…”

“Scholars … Duultyn said they were trouble … as bad as Pharsi traders or imagers.”

“Duultyn’s pretty hard on ’em,” offered the younger patroller.

“Don’t matter. Can’t have anyone attacking patrollers.”

“Suppose not.…”

“You don’t want Duultyn saying you love scholars. Next thing you know…”

Quaeryt eased by the pair unseen and slowly made his way toward the next pier. There were no patrollers at its base and he walked more quickly out toward the far end where the Azurite was berthed. He passed a brig and a barque, both with Telaryn ensigns, and then a Ferran brig. When he came to where the Azurite had been … the berth was empty.

He stood there looking at the Azurite sailing slowly out into the harbor.

What vessel leaves port in midafternoon? The winds are better in the morning and evening.

That might well be, but the Azurite was gone, and there was no help for it. He’d have to try Captain Fhular and the Regia Nord … if the coaster even happened to be ported at the present.

His browns were almost dry, enough so that most wouldn’t notice, even if his feet felt like they were still sloshing inside his boots. Still holding concealment shields, he eased along the side of the pier until he was in the shadow of a bollard, where he released the shields, several yards from where three loaders stood, watching as two dray horses pulled a wagon slowly toward the two-masted schooner in the berth inboard from where the Azurite had been. He was a little light-headed, both from his exertions in escaping the two patrollers and from having to hold the shields as long as he had.

One of the loaders turned and looked at Quaeryt, a puzzled expression on his face.

“I was trying to reach the Azurite before she cast off,” the scholar explained.

“The jewel ships don’t wait for no one.”

“Have you seen the Regia Nord ?”

“Fhular’s boat? Nah … hasn’t ported yet.”

“Or the Moon’s Son ?”

“Haven’t seen Chexar’s boat lately. Fhular left for Shacchal, let’s see, day before yesterday.” He turned to the man beside him. “Was on Samedi, wasn’t it?”

“What was?”

“Fhular leavin’, coldass.”

“Coldass, yourself. Yah … Samedi.”

“Loaders!” called the teamster.

“You know if the schooner there is headed north?” asked Quaeryt.

The loader shrugged.

Quaeryt took a deep breath.

He’d have to cover all the piers to discover if any ships were ported that might be sailing north-and he’d have to keep a constant watch for the patrollers.

By late afternoon on Lundi, Quaeryt had learned two things. First, there were no ships currently ported in Nacliano that would be headed to Tilbora, or anywhere close, and, second, that the patrollers stayed off the piers unless they observed a malefactor or chased one. As the better part of wisdom, he parted with a silver and bought a dark green shirt of less than perfect quality from a pier vendor and immediately stripped off the scholar’s brown tunic. His sleeveless brown jacket wasn’t identifiable as a scholar’s without the customary brown tunic shirt, which he’d let dry and then wrapped around his midsection under the green shirt.

The vendor had only said, in common Tellan, “Wise man. The patrollers don’t like brown.”

“So I’ve heard. Do you know why?”

The gray-haired vendor shook his head and offered a sad smile. “There is much they do not like. That is why my son rows me to the pier each day. That way I can avoid them. They demand coin for no reason.”

“But they don’t come on the piers?”

“Only to chase someone who has done what they think wrong in the city.”

Is that a rule of the local council? Quaeryt didn’t ask. “Are there any inns that are honest?” He knew nothing of the inns in Nacliano. He’d been in the port only a few times more than ten years ago, and he’d slept in his hammock aboard ship.

The vendor shook his head. “There are but two kinds. There are those who charge too much, and there are those who cheat those who stay.”

“What might be the cheapest of those that charge too much?”