L. Modesitt - Scholar

“He isn’t. I had a patron who sent me here.”

“He must be indifferent to your wishes, then.” The woman’s smile was friendly, her tone bantering.

“Not indifferent. Just wanting me to earn his support.”

She laughed. “I’m Karelya. You can take any of the small tables that are empty-unless you’re expecting more than one person to join you.”

“A small table will be fine.”

“Pick any one that suits you.” She gestured toward her right.

That half of the large room held fifteen or sixteen tables, with a massive ceramic stove in the middle of the end wall. It was covered with plants in pots, most of them flowering. What Quaeryt noted was that the small tables were those set against the oiled pine plank walls, while the larger tables, those seating six or eight and those seating four, were in the middle of the room. Two of the small tables were occupied, one by a white-haired man, and the other by a young couple. Three men wearing the leathers of teamsters sat around a table for four.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt smiled, then made his way to the unoccupied table closest to the stove, taking the seat that put his back to the plants on the stove.

He’d no sooner seated himself than Karelya reappeared.

“Greeter and server?” he asked.

“For the moment, until the evening girls appear. We stay open until ninth glass. That’s later than most, but still means we can close down before midnight.”

“Unless there’s a really good crowd?”

“That sometimes happens on Samedi nights, usually in midfall. In winter, it gets too cold. What will you have?”

“What is there for me to have?”

“The dinners tonight are fowl paprikash with potato dumplings, Skarnan noodles and beef, and mutton cutlets and fried potatoes. Each one is three coppers.”

“The fowl, please. What about lagers or ale?”

“Light and heavy lager, gold and brown ale. Two coppers for any of them.”

“I’ll try the light lager.”

“The light lager it is.” With a friendly smile, she was gone.

If Jardyna was the less expensive taverna, he didn’t want to think about the more expensive places. He glanced to the other side of the taverna, where the tables were all small and crowded together, and where close to fifteen men were already seated and contemplating or drinking from large mugs. Only a surprisingly low murmur oozed into the eating area.

The door opened, and two men entered, attired as if they were factors of some sort, with jackets over linen shirts. They didn’t even pause, but made their way to the table for four nearest to Quaeryt, taking as they did.

“Kinnyrd … said he’d be here…”

“… believe him? He’s always late…”

Quaeryt shifted his attention back to Karelya, who appeared with one of the large mugs and set it on the table. He slipped out five coppers.

“Just leave them on the table for now. Selethya will collect them when she brings your meal.” With another smile she was gone, moving to the pair of men, who’d been joined by a burlier fellow with an enormous brown beard. “What will you three have? The usual?”

“What else?” rumbled the burly man.

Karelya laughed, although Quaeryt thought the sound was slightly forced. Behind them several more people stepped inside Jardyna, and Quaeryt had the feeling that he’d arrived just a few moments before the customary time for most of those who frequented the place.

Quaeryt sipped the lager slowly as he waited for the meal. If the dark amber brew before him was the “light” lager, he certainly wouldn’t be interested in the “heavy” lager or the ale. Then again, maybe the Tilborans needed that heavy a brew in the dark and cold of winter.

Two women, perhaps ten years older than he was, slipped into the table next to him and immediately ordered ale from a serving girl, presumably Selethya, who also wore maroon and who had curly brown hair pulled back from her face and bound at the back of her neck so that the curls flowed down between her shoulder blades.

He tried to listen to the other conversations. That of the women was so low that he could barely hear them.

“… the sisters … worried about backlands partisans…”

“… why?… not affect us…”

At those words, Quaeryt strained to hear more clearly.

“… Maera … brother said-”

“Not here … scholar right behind you.”

For several moments, the women said nothing. Then, one spoke again.

“… hear about Waelya?… cannot believe she didn’t walk out … family … support her…”

“… pride … we … all have it…”

“… pride be named…”

The three men were far louder, so much so that their conversation drowned that of the women, who were clearly keeping their voices down.

“I told you that the late pears would be soft.”

“You’re always saying that you told me or someone else, but none of us remember those words.”

“You don’t want to remember.”

“Excuse me!” interrupted Karelya loudly and cheerfully. “Here you go.” She set the three mugs down, one after the other. Then she grinned and added, “The late pears were a trace soft, but I don’t think Kinnyrd said anything. Not in here. I would have heard it. So would everyone else.”

Even Kinnyrd laughed.

When the three had taken several swallows of whatever was in their mugs, the men’s conversation resumed, if in much lower tones.

“… another scholar … haven’t seen him before…”

“… trust Phaeryn to find a way…”

“… find a way, yes. Trust, no … backlands timber families can be worse than the High Holders…”

“… could be … also could be related…”

With those words, the three immediately begin talking about whether the snows would come earlier or later.

Quaeryt sipped the lager until the curly-haired Selethya arrived with a platter. “Sir … you had the fowl?”

“I did.”

She slipped the platter in front of him.

“Is there a singer tonight?”

“Yes, sir. Daerema will be here in half a glass or so.”

“Thank you.” He offered her the coppers, plus an extra.

“Thank you, scholar.”

The fowl was far better than the fare at the Ecoliae, and the sauce was excellent, especially since the dumplings were a trace firm. Even so, he found he ate everything, doubtless too swiftly. Then he had to sip the lager, slowly, while he waited for the singer. Almost all the tables had come to be filled, and all the conversations blended into a rumble, from which Quaeryt could pick out only phrases, none of which made sense out of context. He found that he had somehow actually finished the lager and ordered another.

The conversation died away when the singer stepped onto the low platform set against the middle of the rear wall, so that those in both halves of the room could hear her. The dark-haired young woman wasn’t all that pretty, not with her sharp nose and broad face. She offered no introduction, just lifted the lutelin and began to sing.

High upon headland, and clear out to sea,

my true love did sing out his song to me …

He sang and he wept and his words sounded true,

that never the night did I think I would rue …

Quaeryt smiled. She might not be a beauty, but her countenance was pleasant, and more important, for a singer, her voice was lovely, and her fingers were deft enough on the five strings of the lutelin that voice and melody blended pleasantly and strengthened the words of the song.

He listened and sipped as she sang, but still kept his eyes moving around the room as he did. After several songs, someone from the taproom side of Jardyna called out, “The wish song!”