L. Modesitt - Scholar

“Aye, the wish song!” echoed another voice.

The singer smiled faintly, and raised the lutelin once more.

If wishes rained down from the sky,

porkers could talk and whales could fly …

if Nidar had lived in these days,

then we’d all be drinking his praise,

oh … we’d all be drinking his praise.

If Khanar had had a strong son,

or the envoy been roasted well done,

if Nidar had come back to fight,

we’d all be carousing all night,

we’d all be carousing all night.

But wishes don’t rain; ice isn’t snow,

Boars still snort, and no one will know

the time when the sun and the sea

and the rivers and we run free,

oh … the rivers and we run free.

Cheers followed the song, but as soon as they subsided, the singer immediately began another song, almost as if she wished she hadn’t been asked to sing the wish song.

My man was a strong man, as strong as life would see,

and he was fair and free and good at loving me …

The murmurs died away, and the room stilled, and Quaeryt glanced around. There were tears in some eyes, and the eyes belonged to both men and women.

… but a man and his daughter and a cousin fought,

and now I’ve a daughter with no father, all for naught …

When the singer finished the second song, clearly about the war with Telaryn, she quickly launched into an upbeat tune.

You came home the other night, as tight as you could be,

You woke me up to help you find the finest specialty …

But I’m no shop, and not your very private chandlery …

Laughter broke out, and Quaeryt laughed with the rest.

After several more songs, he paid Selethya for the second ale, which he’d barely touched, adding two extra coppers, and made his way out of Jardyna.

While he was especially alert on the walk back to the Ecoliae, he couldn’t help thinking about the songs that the singer had offered-and that she’d been able to sing the second one without anyone, even from the rowdier taproom side of Jardyna, heckling her … and in fact listening respectfully.

That reaction didn’t fit with what he’d observed of Chardyn, and that was another aspect of the Ecoliae that disturbed him. But then, there had been the two women talking of the sisters and the partisans … and the fact that there had been several tables besides the one adjoining his that had held only women-and that was something he hadn’t seen anywhere else in Telaryn, or even in the few Bovarian ports he’d visited years before.

As he approached the Ecoliae, Quaeryt felt more and more uneasy. Why? Was it because of the questions by Nalakyn, or Chardyn’s remarks? Or the continued interest in when he was likely to depart the Ecoliae? His eyes flicked skyward. Artiema was slightly less than half-full, while the smaller reddish-tinged disk of Erion showed little more than a thin crescent, not that he put much stock in the idea that more violence occurred under the light of a full Erion.

When he reached a spot some fifty yards downhill from the front porch, he imaged a concealment shield. If he happened to be right in his feelings, that would help. If he were wrong, there was no harm done. He slowed his steps so that there was little or no sound from his boots on the bricks of the lane, but it seemed to take forever before he climbed up the steps to the porch. Because there was always a student scholar watching the front door, he walked around the east side of the porch to the east rear side door. It was, naturally, bolted shut, as were all doors except the front one after eighth glass.

That wasn’t a problem, or not one that took terribly long, since he imaged away the catch plate, opened the door, and stepped inside, into the dimness of the side hall. Then he imaged the plate back in place and walked slowly and as silently as he could to the narrow staircase at the east end of the building. From there he crept up the steps and then along the long, long hallway toward his chamber on the west end.

He might be overreacting, but he didn’t think so.

He stopped in the darkness outside the doorway to his chamber, studying the hallway and then the door. There was no glimmer of light in the thin space between the wooden floor and the bottom edge of the door. Nor did he hear anyone breathing or moving on the other side. All he had to do was lift the latch, because, as was the case with any room in any Scholars’ House, there was no lock, only a bar and a bolt that could be slid shut from the inside.

Finally, ever so gently, from beside the door, so that he would not be standing in the doorway, he lifted the latch and then gave the door the slightest push so that it swung inward, creaking slightly. The door came to a halt perhaps three-quarters open.

Quaeryt waited … and waited.

The quiet was overwhelming.

Abruptly, as if from nowhere, a dark figure appeared in the doorway, and made two swift passes with a half-staff, one to each side of the door. The second slammed into Quaeryt’s left shoulder. He dropped back, managing a side kick to the knee of the other, while he dropped the concealment shield, of little use in the darkness, and concentrated on imaging pitricin into the brain of the other.

A second staff blow hit Quaeryt’s arm below the shoulder, and a sharp jab of pain coursed up his arm, before the other convulsed.

Quaeryt managed to jam his forearm across the other man’s mouth to keep him from crying out, then half-carried, half-pushed the still-struggling, if less so with every moment, smaller man into the chamber, restraining him for close to a quarter quint before he slumped and stopped breathing.

Only then did Quaeryt lower the body and close the door. From what he could tell, the scuffle had not awakened anyone. That was not totally surprising, since he’d been given the room for just that reason. He’d wondered how many other visitors had “departed early,” in one fashion or another, minus coins and goods.

He studied the man on the floor. As he’d suspected, it was Chardyn. Quaeryt was impressed at the other’s skills in close to pitch-darkness, although the darkness had effectively reduced the usefulness of his own concealment shield. His shoulder and left arm throbbed. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to face the Sansang master in any sort of combat, or what some, although Chardyn probably hadn’t been one of them, would have called a “fair fight.”

Quaeryt snorted softly. There was no such thing as a fair fight. Someone, in some way, always had the advantage, and usually the one with the advantage was the one calling it “fair.”

Since he doubted anyone but Zarxes and Phaeryn knew what Chardyn had planned, and since none of them could have known exactly when Quaeryt would return to the Ecoliae, he had perhaps a glass, at most, before someone started actively looking for the Sansang master. In that time, Quaeryt needed to dispose of Chardyn’s body, or rather get it out of the chamber and down to the stable. Moving unseen wouldn’t be the problem. Carrying the body unheard would be. After that, he’d have to conceal the body for the time it took him to return and carry his own clothing and gear back to the stable, because there was no way he’d be able to carry both at once.

The first thing Quaeryt did was to pack all his gear into the canvas bag, except it didn’t all fit. So he took the scholar outfits and rolled them up in the thin blanket provided by the Ecoliae and laid the rolled-up garments on the bed beside the bag. Then, with some effort, he hoisted the limp body of Chardyn over his shoulder, raised a concealment shield, and eased his way through the door, latching it behind him.