L. Modesitt - Scholar

“Are you still here?” asked Yullyd. coming out of the dining hall. “I thought … Did I hear someone else?”

“I just asked a student about tavernas.”

“They’d all pick Rufalo’s. The lager’s cheap there. That’s fine, but not if you want to eat. Jardyna’s not bad, and if you’ve got a mount, Terazo on the way into Tilbora is very good. Costly, but good.”

Quaeryt paused. “Sarastyn mentioned the Ice Cleft.…”

Yullyd laughed. “That was the old name of Rufalo’s. It hasn’t been called that for years. Rufalo forgets to tariff Sarastyn for half of what he drinks, but then, he probably waters it as well.”

“Well … I thank you. I’ll keep those in mind.”

“If you stay here too long, you’ll want to keep them more than in mind.” Yullyd paused, then asked, “How long will you be here, do you think? Solayi, you’d said.”

“I’d thought through Solayi or perhaps Lundi. I need to spend more time with Sarastyn. He can only talk so long before he gets tired. You wouldn’t know anyone else who knows history that well?”

“Not here. If the governor will let you into the Khanar’s library … there’s a lot there, I’ve heard. But I’d tell the governor’s people you’re from Solis. Things … well … we avoid the governor, and he avoids dealing with us.”

More and more, Quaeryt could see that there were definite tensions between the scholars and the governor, something he’d have to take into account once he reported to the princeps. “I imagine Chardyn would like to look into the Khanar’s library.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” After another pause, Yullyd added, “You’ve paid lodging and meals through Jeudi morning. If you want to stay longer, let me know.”

“I will.”

Before Quaeryt’s words had died away, Yullyd was on his way down the corridor to his study. Yullyd’s last words had been a reminder to keep paying, as well as an indication of the perilous state of the finances of the Ecoliae.

Quaeryt kept his frown to himself and walked out onto the covered north porch. There he looked in the direction of the Telaryn Palace, where the sky was merely overcast, but a gust of cool wind prompted him to turn to the northwest, where dark clouds had massed and were moving toward Tilbora. Another gust of wind swept the porch, strong enough to shake some of the heavy wooden chairs and to move others fractionally. Then came the patter of rain on the roof, a patter that died away, then repeated itself.

Quaeryt decided against taking a ride, at least for the while. He could always pore over the library, although Sarastyn had been dismissive of the Ecoliae’s holdings. Still, there might be something of value there, even if not along the lines of his purported research, and he might find something else that would shed light on better ways for the governor to deal with Tilbor. He reentered the building and walked to the northeast corner.

The library at the Ecoliae was hardly that-just a large chamber some ten yards long and eight wide, filled with wall shelves and two rows of freestanding head-high, back-to-back bookcases. While a thin graying scholar who had been seated at one of the tables near Quaeryt on Solayi night looked up from the table desk near the door, then nodded pleasantly, there were no bars on the windows and no grated doors guarding the library. Quaeryt did note a solid lock on the door and inside shutters on the windows.

Not knowing what was shelved where, and deciding against asking for obvious reasons, since he had no idea who did, or who didn’t, inform Zarxes or Chardyn, he began by starting at the top shelf on the outer wall and taking down the first book and opening it to see the title- The Practice and Profession of Music . A quick sampling of that set of shelves suggested that all were about music and drama. The books about drama surprised Quaeryt, since only the largest cities had playhouses, and most drama was produced in the smaller theatres of High Holders, as was virtually all orchestral music-except when Lord Bhayar had his band play in the Palace Square on special holidays, such as Year-Turn or Summer-Light.

The next two shelves held various works on philosophy, including one that would have intrigued Quaeryt had he felt he had the time to read it- Rholan as Philosopher . The very title might have gotten the author drowned or burned at one time, but when Quaeryt read the name on the title page, he almost laughed. The book had been written by Ryter Rytersyn. He did thumb through the introduction quickly, and one paragraph caught his eye.

… Rholan is revered to this day, and doubtless will be so for generations to come as the voice of the Nameless, as the Unnamer, as the man who destroyed the sacredness of names, yet few, if any, have remarked upon the fact that he used common nouns, names, to do so … suggesting either conscious irony or even a great sense of humor …

Quaeryt smiled, thinking he might have liked to have met the author, but that was rather unlikely, since, if the date was correct, the man, or possibly the woman, given the pseudonym, had been dead for over a century. Then he moved to the next shelf.

After more than a glass, Quaeryt realized that Sarastyn, if anything, had understated the lack of historical tomes in the library. He found one short shelf of histories, and all seventeen books dealt with other lands-Bovaria, Khel, Tela, Ryntar, Antiago, Ferrum, Jariola-but not Tilbor, or they were rather dated geographies.

His eyes were blurring, almost tearing, when he finally left the library after three odd glasses and made his way outside into the cool air brought by the harvest storm. The heavy rain had begun to turn the brick lane down to the road into a small stream, and the road below into a river. With the rain now coming down in sheets, he wasn’t about to take the mare out for a ride … and if it kept falling, he’d have to suffer through another evening meal at the Ecoliae.

He did sigh quietly at that thought, then decided to return to the library. Perhaps, amid all the dross and irrelevancies, he might find something of value. Perhaps.

The rain was still falling on Meredi morning, if more steadily, rather than in sheeting gusts, but Quaeryt saw no point in trying to ride on roads that were streams if they were paved-which most weren’t-and quagmires if they weren’t. He didn’t see Sarastyn anywhere, and, for lack of anything better to do, he made his way back to the library.

This time he did stop before the quiet scholar apparently in charge of the chamber. “I’ve seen you here and in the dining hall, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Quaeryt.”

“Foraugh. I’m the librarian. I imagine you’ve guessed that.”

The librarian’s heavy and thick Tellan accent suggested he might not be from Tilbora, and Quaeryt asked, “I get the feeling you’re not from this part of Tilbor. Is that right, or am I just too unfamiliar with the northeast of Lydar?”

“No, sir. You’ve that right. I’m from the hills south of Midcote. That’s the oldest part of Tilbor. That was what my grandpere said, anyway. Usually, he was right. He was a potter, and these days folks will fight over his work.”

“How did you come to be a scholar?”

“I spoiled too many pots. My father sent me here. He said that education ruined a man for honest work, but since I was ruined anyway, it couldn’t do me any more harm.” Foraugh offered a crooked smile.

“How long have you been here?”

“Sixteen years. Five as a student-copyist, and eleven as a scholar.”

“The copying paid for your schooling?”

“I doubt that it did, but Master Scholar Phaeryn said it did.”

“I noticed there aren’t many books on history.”