L. Modesitt - Scholar

“How long have you had the factorage?”

“Hailae and I have been the ones operating it for seven years. Her parents had it for twenty-five years, and her grandparents before them.”

“Very established, then. You’re carrying on a tradition.”

“A long tradition. I’ll see you in back.”

Quaeryt nodded and turned. Once he was outside, he untied the mare and walked her down the narrow alleyway to the small courtyard in the rear of the factorage. The stable was on the north side, just beyond the single large loading dock and door.

Jorem stood by the stable door.

While Quaeryt unsaddled the mare, Jorem added grain and hay to the feed trough. The other stall was occupied by a broad dray horse far larger than the mare. In the shed area beyond the stalls was a high-sided wagon-its side panels painted in the same design as the signboard of the factorage.

“That’s a handsome wagon, and the painting is well done.”

“Hailae did that. She has quite a hand.” Jorem’s voice held both pride and affection.

“Do you deliver produce as well or is the wagon for collecting it from growers?”

“Both. Hailae often makes those collections, especially from Groryan. It takes two of us to keep things going here.”

Again, Quaeryt had the feeling that Jorem had left much unspoken, but he did not press and went to work grooming the mare. Even so, it was almost two quints later by the time he reentered the factorage, washed up on the lower level, and headed up the stairs behind Jorem.

As Quaeryt reached the top of the steps, he caught the last few words spoken by a child.

“… eat with you?”

“If you’re good. Father is bringing company. You must listen and not talk unless someone asks you something.”

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

The steps opened onto a foyer with a wide window looking westward, from which the early-evening harvest sun flooded in.

Jorem gestured to the right. “There’s the parlor, but, if you don’t mind, we’ll join Hailae in the kitchen so that she can hear what you have to say.” After a moment he added, “Our daughter is likely there also. She’s usually good.” Those words were followed by a gentle laugh as he walked through a dining chamber that held but a long table and ten plain straight-backed wooden chairs-and a single tall sideboard on the wall opposite the pair of west-facing windows.

The door at the end of the chamber was ajar. Jorem pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen, where he stopped and said, “Hailae, this is Scholar Quaeryt. He is traveling to Tilbora, and he brought a letter from my parents.”

Quaeryt bowed.

The young woman who stood before a table in the kitchen that occupied the southwest corner of the second floor had black hair braided and coiled above an angular face dominated by large black eyes and a skin that was a faint golden almond. Behind her stood a small girl, her face almost a child’s replica of her mother’s, save that her eyes were dark gray and her hair far shorter and unbraided.

Could Hailae be the reason for all the melancholy and sadness between Jorem and his parents and brothers? Quaeryt wondered.

The mother’s eyes widened as she looked at Quaeryt, and she spoke.

He understood the words-though he had not heard them in more than twenty years-and he instinctively inclined his head and replied, again with a phrase he recalled, but only understood vaguely. Then he added in Tellan, “That’s all I remember. I was very young when they died.”

“I am so sorry,” replied Hailae in Tellan. “I did not mean to bring up unpleasant memories.”

Quaeryt smiled. “The memories were not unpleasant. What happened after was not always so pleasurable.”

“But … he’s blond…” said Jorem.

“There are blond Pharsi, and they have the white-blond hair.… That is how I know. They are the lost ones. Besides … can you not tell? His eyes are as black as mine.”

Jorem laughed, self-deprecatingly, and turned to Quaeryt. “My wife is far more perceptive. I saw an educated scholar. She saw more. She often does.”

What Quaeryt saw was that Jorem adored his wife.

“My Jorem,” interjected Hailae quickly, “he is trusting and trustworthy.” Her smile was warm and open.

Quaeryt said nothing for a moment, envying them both. “You are well suited to each other, it would seem.”

“Oh … and this is Daerlae,” said Jorem, gesturing to the girl, who now held to her mother’s gray trousers with one hand.

“Daerlae, I’m very happy to meet you.” Quaeryt inclined his head once more.

Daerlae lowered her eyes for a moment, then peered back at Quaeryt.

“He’s a scholar,” declared Jorem.

“Uncle Lankyt is a scholar.”

“Uncle Lankyt is studying to be a scholar,” corrected Jorem. “So is Uncle Syndar.”

“If we are to eat before the stars appear,” said Hailae gently, “I must finish.” She glanced toward the small ceramic tiled stove.

“Why don’t you tell us how you came to meet my parents?” suggested Jorem. “That way Hailae can hear the story while she’s getting things ready-and I can help as well.” He looked to Daerlae. “And you can hear more about your grandparents. If you’re good.”

Quaeryt couldn’t help smiling.

Jorem hurried into the dining room and returned with one of the chairs. “Here…”

After taking a seat, Quaeryt cleared his throat. “I never thought that I would ever be close to the Ayerne, or meet your parents-and grandparents-when I took passage on a brig out of Nacliano called the Moon’s Son …” Quaeryt took his time in telling the story, trying to emphasize details that might interest Daerlae, while avoiding revealing how he had escaped the reavers by telling exactly what he had told Rhodyn and Darlinka. He also tried to time the story to how the meal preparation was going so that he was close to ending when he saw Hailae nod to Jorem. “… and then the mare carried me up to the front of a factorage that had a wonderful signboard painted with all kinds of fruits and vegetables.” He looked to Daerlae again. “And do you know whose factorage that was?”

“Mother and Father’s!”

“Exactly! And that is how I came to be here.”

“And now it’s time for dinner.” Jorem turned to Quaeryt. “Thank you. You speak well.”

Once they were seated at the long table, with Jorem at the head and Hailae to his left with Daerlae beside her and Quaeryt across from Hailae, Jorem looked to his wife.

She lowered her head and spoke. “For the grace that we all owe each other, in times both fair and ill, for the bounty of the land of which we are about to partake, for good faith among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For all these, we offer thanks and gratitude, both now and ever more, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged…”

“In peace and harmony,” Quaeryt replied almost in unison with both Jorem and Daerlae.

The blessing had to be of Pharsi origins, because the wording was somewhat different from any Quaeryt had heard before, yet not jarringly unfamiliar. Was he really Pharsi? At times, he’d wondered if there had been some Pharsi in his background, because he’d never seen anyone else with black eyes who hadn’t been Pharsi, but with his white-blond hair, he’d only assumed he was part Pharsi at most.

Jorem handed a carafe to Quaeryt. “It’s a decent red.”

“I’m sure it’s more than decent,” replied Quaeryt, “and whatever it is that you prepared, dear lady,” he added, looking at Hailae, “it smells wonderful, especially to a tired traveler.”

“It’s just a fowl ragout that we have for supper often. If I’d known Jorem was inviting company, I could have fixed something special.”