“That’s it? And no one has done anything?”
“What else would there be to say?” asked the bookseller. “The House of Scholars burned, and there are no scholars left in Nacliano.”
“Or none who dare call themselves scholars,” replied Quaeryt.
“One who does not acknowledge who and what he is cannot claim to be such, can he?”
“That is a point many have debated, including Rholan, who said that a name did not equal deeds.”
“Perhaps I should have said that one who neither acknowledges who or what he is nor acts as such cannot claim to be what he believes himself to be.”
Quaeryt nodded. “I prefer to believe that acts rather than words define the man … or woman.”
The bookseller laughed, a sound soft but ironic and edged with a hint of bitterness. “You are neither innocent enough nor cynical enough, for all acts come from words.”
“Perhaps,” said Quaeryt, easing himself from the stool, “but the words need not come from the one who acts, nor the deeds from the one who speaks.” He smiled. “It is always better when someone else tells the story.”
“I take it you have no interest in purchasing a book?”
“A traveler should only purchase books when he is home and can provide for them.” Quaeryt bowed. “I thank you for the story.”
“And I for your patience.”
Despite the apparent politeness of the bookseller, Quaeryt remained ill at ease on the entire walk back to the Tankard, not because he doubted the story, but because he believed it … as well as what had not been said, but suggested, and not spoken, by the bookseller himself. More than that, the hidden semi-parable about the woman who learned to read and what came of it bothered him as well, especially in light of the missive from Vaelora sealed within the document case.
14
Again on Jeudi, Quaeryt rose and ate early, and plied Lily with another three coppers to save the garret chamber for yet another night. Unlike the previous day, he immediately headed toward the harbor Patrol building. He reached there even before the patrollers going on duty left the building. Duultyn and his partner were among the last to leave, and they headed in the direction of the Sailrigger.
Using his concealment shield, Quaeryt followed more closely. After several days, he was beginning to understand the rougher Tellan of the east more clearly.
“… never said what happened last night…”
“She wasn’t there. Old lady Shaalya took me into every room in the place.”
“Then she’s gone.”
Duultyn shook his head. “Just for now. She’ll be back. Then she’ll pay. More than she wants.”
“Your uncle said not to-”
“I told him that she’d been seeing that scholar we chased.”
“Oh … still don’t understand what he has against them. Except for the one … don’t seem any worse than anyone else.”
“They’re worse.” Low as Duultyn’s voice was, the venom was far stronger than the words. “Worse even than imagers.”
“You, I understand. But him? You’ve never said why he-”
“You don’t want to know. Leave it, Thuaylt. Just leave it.”
Duultyn stopped and looked at the taproom, with its shutters and doors all closed. “Be a shame, a real shame, if the place caught fire.”
“Too many people know what happened yesterday.”
“I can be patient. Long enough for people to forget.…” Duultyn turned and resumed his strolling walk toward the piers.
Neither patroller spoke for a time.
“You’re fortunate, Thuaylt,” Duultyn finally said. “Pretty wife who wouldn’t look past you, no matter what.”
“Thank the Nameless for that every day,” agreed the taller patroller.
“I still wonder why…” Duultyn shook his head. “Never will understand women.”
Even from what he’d overheard, Quaeryt knew why the patroller never would.
“Been a hot week.”
“So was last week,” replied Duultyn. “I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s rounds are done.”
“That makes two of us.”
By the time Duultyn and Thuaylt stopped at another cafe for a midday meal, Quaeryt was convinced that he’d discovered all that he was going to by following the pair, and he returned to the first pier. Two more ships had ported, and he inquired about the destination of each. One was heading east, and the other was a Ferran brig headed homeward via Westisle.
Then he eased past another pair of patrollers to get onto the second pier, where a single worn brig had just tied up at the innermost bollard. Even before he reached the ship, he had the sinking feeling that the vessel was the Moon’s Son.
He stood back and studied the ship, but he had to admit, worn as she looked, she was also trim, and nothing looked out of place or in ill repair. While the gangway was already down, he watched the crew for a time before he finally made his way up the plank and requested permission to board from the bosun.
“Come on aboard.”
“I’m looking for passage to Tilbora.”
The bosun replied, “We port there, but best you talk to the captain.”
“That’s Chexar?”
“Aye.” The bosun turned. “Captain … the gent here is looking for passage.”
The man who walked across the deck toward Quaeryt was of average height and build and not notable in any attribute, except for the copper-red brush mustache that matched neither the dull red of his hair nor the brownish red of his eyebrows. “Yes?” His voice was a raspy baritone.
“I understand you might be heading to Tilbora,” offered Quaeryt.
“That we would be, but not until a glass before dawn on Samedi. Passage costs a gold, and three coppers a day for fare. That gets you a bunk cabin in the fantail and the same meals as the rest of us.”
Quaeryt handed across two silvers. “That’s to hold it, the rest when I come on board Vendrei night.”
Chexar took the silvers. “Done. What do we call you?”
“Quaeryt.”
The captain frowned. “Had a mate once, kept talking about a quartermaster type who left to be a scholar … name like that. Said he’d have been a good mate.”
Quaeryt wasn’t surprised. Even halfway decent quartermasters were rare, and captains kept their ears open about mates and others of possible value.
“Might have been me.” Quaeryt smiled wryly. “Might have been someone else.”
Chexar nodded. “Why might you be headed north?”
“I have a patron who sent me there. I need to do what he wants and return before the turn of winter.”
“Might have been better staying a quartermaster,” replied Chexar.
“True enough, Captain, but we can’t live over what we might have done.”
“All too right.” Chexar nodded again, brusquely. “Be aboard before eighth glass tomorrow night.”
“That I will, Captain.”
Chexar turned and walked forward, toward where the bosun was overseeing the off-loading from the forward hatch.
Quaeryt walked down the gangway and headed back toward the harbor Patrol building. When he passed the Sailrigger, he noted that all the doors and shutters remained tightly closed.
Once he reached the street across from the Patrol building, he began to watch, moving from point to point, occasionally using a concealment shield. He continued his surveillance until almost a glass past midday, changing his position, using a concealment shield at times until a coach pulled up. The coach was green and trimmed in polished brass. Quaeryt once more raised a concealment screen and eased along the uneven brick sidewalk until he was within a few yards of the coach, if with his back to the wall of the adjoining cafe.