Free Scholar by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

truncheon for Quaeryt to move toward him. He spoke in the harsh Tellan of the east.
    Quaeryt recognized the uniform as that of the local patrol, the colors dating back to the time of Hengyst and the Ryntarian despots. The scholar moved carefully, leaving his hands exposed, stopping a yard short of the patroller. He set the duffel on the worn wood of the pier, holding the strap loosely.
    â€œHow did you get here?” The patroller’s voice was deep, but cuttingly nasal.
    â€œI was a passenger on the Diamond . She just ported.”
    â€œWith that duffel? Likely as not, you’ve jumped ship. We don’t need people like you here with your fancy words and your pretty way of trying to talk like real people.”
    Quaeryt could see the problems ahead. If he showed coin, then the patroller would mark him for a confederate not on the Patrol to deprive him of coin and possibly life. If he didn’t, he’d likely end up in gaol for some trumped-up reason. “I’m a scholar, patroller. All scholars wear brown, you might recall.”
    â€œDon’t get fancy with me, fellow. Scholars can’t afford ship passage unless they’re up to no good.”
    â€œWhy don’t we walk back to the ship? You can ask the captain or the mate if what I said was true.” Quaeryt turned just slightly, noting that another, even larger patroller was moving toward him, also with a truncheon.
    â€œWe don’t need to do that to deal with trash like you.”
    The loaders and the four vendors on the northern side of the pier edged away from the three. That told Quaeryt more than he wanted to know, but what to expect.
    â€œYou’re going to come with us, scholar .” The patroller emphasized the already derogatory Tellan term for scholar.
    â€œMight I ask why?”
    â€œNo. Your type doesn’t need answers.”
    â€œWhere do you want me to go?” Too many people had seen him and probably noted the scholar’s browns. That meant he was limited in what he could do in public. Yet he certainly didn’t want to go with the pair of patrollers, not the way they were looking for an excuse to use their truncheons.
    â€œThat’s for us to say. Pick up that duffel.”
    Quaeryt started to lean forward when he saw the second patroller’s truncheon slashing toward him. He jumped back and imaged pepper juice into the man’s eyes, and then into the first patroller’s eyes as well.
    â€œSow-sucking bastard!”
    Both patrollers lurched, and the larger man stumbled and sprawled across the duffel.
    â€œThief! Killer!” yelled one of them.
    Quaeryt looked beyond the end of the pier, but two more patrollers had appeared there. There was no help for it. He turned and ran back down the pier, dodging around two vendors and alongside a wagon whose wheels were blocked in place opposite an ancient brig.
    â€œLoaders! Stop him! A silver to anyone who catches him!”
    For a silver they well might hazard tackling him. Quaeryt saw an opening in between two groups of men who had turned at the patrollers’ calls and dashed between them, jumping off the pier in the space between the brig and the square-rigger, just hoping that the water was deep enough.
    He went under, and down perhaps three yards, then struggled underwater back toward the pier—except his hands encountered a rough stone wall. He concentrated, trying to move along the wall underwater until he could find a space between the sections of the pier built on solid stone and rock supports and the patches of water between them and the wooden supports sunk into the harbor bottom.
    His lungs were bursting when he finally surfaced under the pier, but he came up as quietly as he could, immediately creating a slight concealment shield that he hoped just showed water, if anyone tried to look down through the few narrow gaps in the heavy wood of the pier above.
    He’d been in dirtier water before, but not in years,