Once the crowd above slowly dispersed, he eased his way to the other side of the pier, still holding shields, and made his way inshore, half-swimming, half-pulling himself hand over hand along the stone foundations, sometimes having to squeeze through the narrow spaces between pier supports and hulls, until he finally found a ladder up the side of one of the stone pier supports. He took his time climbing it because, while his shield might conceal him, he’d still be leaving a trail of water behind.
He simply rested on the top of the ladder, out of the way, watching and listening, but he saw no patrollers, and the various vendors, loaders, and teamsters traveling the pier appeared to have forgotten the commotion that had occurred half a glass earlier.
Once his browns had dried enough that water droplets did not leave a trail, Quaeryt climbed from the ladder to the edge of the pier and, still holding his concealment shield, walked slowly toward the base of the pier.
Two patrollers walked back and forth on the stone causeway beyond the end of the pier, glancing along it, clearly still looking for Quaeryt.
“Haelan … he drowned.… Even if he didn’t, he’s not going to walk down here toward us.…”
“Scholars … Duultyn said they were trouble … as bad as Pharsi traders or imagers.”
“Duultyn’s pretty hard on ’em,” offered the younger patroller.
“Don’t matter. Can’t have anyone attacking patrollers.”
“Suppose not.…”
“You don’t want Duultyn saying you love scholars. Next thing you know…”
Quaeryt eased by the pair unseen and slowly made his way toward the next pier. There were no patrollers at its base and he walked more quickly out toward the far end where the Azurite was berthed. He passed a brig and a barque, both with Telaryn ensigns, and then a Ferran brig. When he came to where the Azurite had been … the berth was empty.
He stood there looking at the Azurite sailing slowly out into the harbor.
What vessel leaves port in midafternoon? The winds are better in the morning and evening.
That might well be, but the Azurite was gone, and there was no help for it. He’d have to try Captain Fhular and the Regia Nord … if the coaster even happened to be ported at the present.
His browns were almost dry, enough so that most wouldn’t notice, even if his feet felt like they were still sloshing inside his boots. Still holding concealment shields, he eased along the side of the pier until he was in the shadow of a bollard, where he released the shields, several yards from where three loaders stood, watching as two dray horses pulled a wagon slowly toward the two-masted schooner in the berth inboard from where the Azurite had been. He was a little light-headed, both from his exertions in escaping the two patrollers and from having to hold the shields as long as he had.
One of the loaders turned and looked at Quaeryt, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I was trying to reach the Azurite before she cast off,” the scholar explained.
“The jewel ships don’t wait for no one.”
“Have you seen the Regia Nord?”
“Fhular’s boat? Nah … hasn’t ported yet.”
“Or the Moon’s Son?”
“Haven’t seen Chexar’s boat lately. Fhular left for Shacchal, let’s see, day before yesterday.” He turned to the man beside him. “Was on Samedi, wasn’t it?”
“What was?”
“Fhular leavin’, coldass.”
“Coldass, yourself. Yah … Samedi.”
“Loaders!” called the teamster.
“You know if the schooner there is headed north?” asked Quaeryt.
The loader shrugged.
Quaeryt took a deep breath.
He’d have to cover all the piers to discover if any ships were ported that might be sailing north-and he’d have to keep a constant watch for the patrollers.
11
By late afternoon on Lundi, Quaeryt had learned two things. First, there were no ships currently ported in Nacliano that would be headed to Tilbora, or anywhere close, and, second, that the patrollers stayed off the piers unless they observed a malefactor or chased one. As the better part of wisdom, he parted with a silver and bought a dark green shirt of less than perfect quality from a pier vendor and immediately stripped off the scholar’s brown tunic. His sleeveless brown jacket wasn’t identifiable as a scholar’s without the customary brown tunic shirt, which he’d let dry and then wrapped around his midsection under the green shirt.
The vendor had only said, in common Tellan, “Wise man. The patrollers don’t like brown.”
“So I’ve heard. Do you know why?”
The gray-haired vendor shook his head and offered a sad smile. “There is much they do not like. That is why my son rows me to the pier each day. That way I can avoid them. They demand coin for no reason.”
“But they don’t come on the piers?”
“Only to chase someone who has done what they think wrong in the city.”
Is that a rule of the local council? Quaeryt didn’t ask. “Are there any inns that are honest?” He knew nothing of the inns in Nacliano. He’d been in the port only a few times more than ten years ago, and he’d slept in his hammock aboard ship.
The vendor shook his head. “There are but two kinds. There are those who charge too much, and there are those who cheat those who stay.”
“What might be the cheapest of those that charge too much?”
“The Tankard is said not to be too bad. All say to avoid the Silver Bowl.”
“Thank you.”
As he walked away, Quaeryt counted his duffel and spare clothes as lost-and the history as well, but he still had the leather commission case. It was hardly even damp on the outside, because of the wax coating and oilcloth wrapping.
He made his way off the second pier, where he’d purchased the shirt, using an empty wagon as a partial shield from the pier patrollers, although he was ready to lift a concealment shield at any moment. He moved with the air of a man who knew where he was headed, although he remembered so little of Nacliano that he had no idea. It didn’t matter; he only needed to find a chandlery where he could purchase a few items. The sun was low in the sky and in his eyes when he finally found one on a side lane. The door squeaked as he stepped inside, but the red-haired man standing by a side counter barely looked in his direction as he counted out coppers to a customer.
Quaeryt immediately located a small stained and scuffed canvas bag, but it took him far longer to find a small steel razor in a battered leather case. The blade was worn, but still sharp, but even so, it was likely not to be inexpensive. Still, he did need to replace the one lost with the duffel. Any beard he grew was itchy, and before long his skin began to develop sores.
He also found a pair of drawers, a small square of boot wax, and an equally small square of hard soap.
The chandler watched as Quaeryt carried his items over to the counter. “Three for the bag, two silvers and a half for the razor, two for the wax, one for the soap, seven for the drawers-you ought to have a strop for the razor … ruin it quick otherwise.”
“It’s been a long trip,” said Quaeryt with a wry smile.
“You take this strop.” With a smile, the chandler held up a strop as worn as the razor case. “I’ll call it even for four silvers.”
“How about if you throw in a second square of soap?”
“Done.”
Quaeryt eased out a gold. He hated revealing that, but it was likely safer to do so in the chandler’s shop than in the inn, and he only had two silvers left in his wallet.
“You must have had a rough passage coming south,” offered the chandler, taking the gold and returning six silvers.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” temporized Quaeryt.