L. Modesitt - Scholar

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.