While a few bits of the “dropping” splattered on the dancer, Saerysa pulled back, then wrenched free of Duultyn’s grasp as the patroller gaped at the mess across the front of his uniform. She turned and ran through the door into the building.
“Shit!”
“That’s right.” The other patroller stifled a laugh, but did shake his head. “That raven really got you.”
“Ravens don’t do that!” snapped Duultyn.
“I heard it, and you’ve seen it.”
“I didn’t see any raven, and you can’t miss birds that big.”
“He didn’t miss you.”
An older woman appeared with two large towels, one damp and one dry. “Sir … perhaps these would help.”
Duultyn glared at her. “Where’s Saerysa?”
“You scared her. She ran off. She is no longer here.”
“She is, too.”
The other patroller cleared his throat. “Duultyn…”
“Shit…” Duultyn looked at the older woman. “Tell your little dancer she has a big debt to pay. And she’d better.” He took the damp towel and began to sponge off his shirt.
The older woman retreated into the Sailrigger, closing the door behind her.
“Namer-cursed sow…” muttered Duultyn. “Name ’em all!”
“She’s pretty enough, but is she worth all the trouble?” asked the taller patroller.
“It’s a matter of principle. How would Burchal feel if he knew…” Duultyn glanced down and shook his head. “Still going to have a stain here.”
“Glad the chief’s not a relation of mine.”
“It comes in handy at times.” Duultyn threw the damp towel on the nearest table and blotted his shirt with the dry one. “Old lady Shaalya knows I can find a reason to close her down if Saerysa isn’t more cooperative. You’ll see.”
The dry towel followed the first, then dropped to the brick-paved courtyard floor. Duultyn did not pick it up, but turned toward the gate.
Once the two patrollers left the Sailrigger’s courtyard, Quaeryt followed. He could have done far worse, but he needed Duultyn in good health, at least until he discovered more.
The only problem was that, while he followed the pair for more than three glasses, he learned little that he had not already seen. Duultyn did take coin from two other beggars along the way, speaking cheerfully to both. Just before noon, perhaps a quint before tenth glass, the two returned to the Patrol building.
Quaeryt took a table at a cafe a half block away, where he ordered a lager and a domchana. The batter-fried ham and fresh yellow and red pepper sandwich wasn’t bad, although he’d had better. But then, he’d also eaten far worse.
He did wonder just how long he’d have to wait for the two patrollers before they left the patrol station.
After lingering over his midday meal, Quaeryt waited until Duultyn and his partner reappeared and followed them for another two glasses. He learned little more. He then returned to the harbor and visited the two ships that had ported since the morning. Neither was heading north.
He debated returning to the Sailrigger, but decided that he wouldn’t learn what he needed to know even if Duultyn did return there after his duty shift. Instead, he decided to look to see if he could find a bookseller.
That took more than a glass, because, after one look of disgust from a cabinetmaker who displayed a bookcase in his window, when Quaeryt inquired about a bookstore, he decided that asking was anything but the best policy. In the end, he stumbled onto it, because he had decided that at least a few people who liked good pastries might like books as well and he had made his way to the area around Hill Square. He had just walked by one of the bakeries mentioned by Lily and had noted that it was close to being a patisserie, but he decided he could always stop later.
He had turned the corner and was walking down a narrow side street, passing a felter’s shop, when he noticed that the next building had iron grates on the windows, and an iron-grated door, although the grated outer door was swung back and latched open. Above the door was a sign that read “Cooper.” That was what the faded and stylized letters seemed to signify. The windows were so grimy that he could see nothing, perhaps because there were no lamps lit within the building.
Yet, when Quaeryt slowed and peered through the open doors, he saw bookshelves, despite the pair of half barrels against each side of the entry foyer.
He stopped and considered. The bookshop, if it were indeed that, was well away from the harbor, but less than two blocks from Hill Square. It was also tiny, less than four yards wide, wedged between the felter’s and a cordwainer’s shop.
Finally, he shrugged and decided to enter, if cautiously.
When he stepped inside, Quaeryt was almost overwhelmed by the mustiness, an odor stronger than that in the dankest corner of the library of the Scholarium in Solis. He paused for a moment, then glanced at the shelves, then at the tall silent man standing at the back of the shop, who held a knife with a shimmering blade.
“Go ahead and look,” said another voice, one filled with age.
Quaeryt glanced to his right, locating a man with wispy white hair perched on a stool chair behind a high desk. “I’m sorry. Your guard took me by surprise. So did the sign for a cooper.”
“That’s all right. It’s better that most think it’s the place of a cooper who’s given up coopering. You’d be an outlander, even to come in here.”
“If no one comes in here…?”
“Oh … there are plenty of folk who’d like books. Most of them just don’t walk in. They send notes to a friend of mine, along with the coin, and Eltaar delivers them at night. These days, no one likes being thought much like a scholar.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“I can, and, unlike others in this fear-ridden city, I’d be pleased to tell you.” The white-haired bookseller gestured to a high-backed stool in front of his desk. “That is, if you would care to join me.”
As he saw the gesture, Quaeryt also noted that the bookseller wore tightly fitted gray gloves that ran from his fingertips up under the sleeves of the pale gray shirt and that there were whitish welts on the front of his neck, revealed but slightly by the high-collared shirt.
“I’d like to hear the story,” Quaeryt admitted as he moved toward the stool. He did turn the stool slightly, so that he could keep an eye on the guard out of the corners of his eyes.
“Stories here, you understand,” began the bookseller, “always begin with a phrase such as, ‘In the time of … whoever was famous, it came to pass that…’ I suppose every place has a phrase to signify a story.” A chuckle followed. “In the time of the first years of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn, a strong man became the head of the City Patrol of Nacliano, and that man’s name was Burchal. He had the strength of two men and the cunning of both a weasel and a fox, and like a serpent, he could strike from the darkness. At first, everyone rejoiced, because the Patrol stopped the loaders from soliciting bribes from the shipmasters and teamsters. They were also glad when the taprooms and cafes that drugged the sailors burned to the ground. No one was displeased when the number of beggars was limited to one on each pier, and only to those beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, and with each beggar being given but one day a week to beg…”
Quaeryt listened as the bookseller went through a listing of changes created by Burchal, but he kept his attention split between the storyteller and the guard.
“… and then, one day, a scholar from Cloisonyt arrived in Nacliano. At first, no one even knew he had come to the city, for he repaired to the House of Scholars, but, in time, he began to visit the harbor and to teach some of the women to read, and one of those women was the young wife of Burchal, who was a beautiful girl from outside of Cheva. She could not read and begged the old scholar, and he was old, with hair of silver and a kind face, to teach her to read and to do her numbers so that she could help her husband with the household accounts.” The bookseller laughed ironically. “And from that day was Burchal’s happiness diminished, for the young woman was bright as well as beautiful, and she began to read, and then to look at the account books of the household, and then at another account book.” The bookseller shook his head. “Then she disappeared, never to be seen again, and one week to the day later, a great fire burned down the House of Scholars, and all the scholars within were said to have perished, including the old scholar who had taught the girl to read.” The bookseller stopped.