Free Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio by L. E. Modesitt Page B

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