Scholar by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

pier, although it might not have been necessary.
    There were no patrollers at the base of the third pier, and, again, he made his way out and inquired of the ships tied at the pier, but not a single one was headed north.
    As he turned to head back down the pier, away from a schooner that had just arrived from Thuyl, a voice called out. “Dried fruits … the best dried fruit in the east! You can’t do better, sir!”
    Quaeryt smiled as he looked at the bent old man. He liked the man’s cheerfulness, as well as his clean tan shirt and trousers, and the clean tannish cloth that covered his tray. “I doubt I could. What’s the best?”
    â€œDepends on your taste, sir. I’m a tad partial to the sour cherries, but I’ve got some sweet ones, too, and the dried apple keeps well if you’re going on a long voyage.”
    â€œA copper’s worth of the sour ones.” Quaeryt tendered the coin and received a small pile of dried cherries on a clean but small cloth square—a rag, in fact. “You keep track of the ships?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that I keep track of them. I see some more often than not.”
    â€œI’ve been looking for vessels heading to Tilbora. I heard that the Moon’s Son sails there often.”
    â€œRight regular, she does, excepting she’s not in yet.”
    â€œWhere might she tie up?”
    â€œOver on the second pier, way in … cheaper there. That’s because the end berths are easier to catch the wind…”
    When the old vendor finished, and Quaeryt had eaten all the dried cherries, he handed the cloth back. “Thank you.”
    â€œMy pleasure, sir.” The old man nodded.
    Quaeryt grinned before heading back toward the base of the pier. He wasn’t about to ask about the nasal-voiced patroller who hated scholars. People usually remembered when strangers asked about such, and he didn’t want anyone remembering anything, and since he had the time, it was better not to ask.
    He was vaguely surprised to find that the pair of patrollers who had attacked him had stationed themselves at the shore end of the third pier in the time that he’d been on the pier, although that might have been because there looked to be more vessels tied up there than at the other two piers, and the pier was more crowded with vendors, teamsters and wagons, and loaders, as well as at least some travelers. Quaeryt moved back and tried to blend into the nearest bollard, listening as he did.
    â€œâ€¦ Sparrow ’s back…”
    â€œJust sails three ports—Kephria, Hassyl, and here … must like those Antiagonan women…”
    â€œNuanyt likes more than that.”
    â€œâ€¦ don’t see anyone in brown…”
    â€œNot many these days … suppose the word’s out. Might as well swing by the Sailrigger.”
    â€œWhy? Be dead as dead till…” The larger patroller shook his head. “Might have known…”
    As the two turned, Quaeryt raised a concealment and waited until they were headed away, both swinging the iron-tipped truncheons from their leather straps. Then he followed, if at a distance, as the two walked along the avenue fronting the harbor, heading southward. After passing a small café that looked to be closed, the two stopped in front of a legless man sitting on a low-backed stool with stubby legs less than a hand long and strumming a mandolin.
    â€œPharlon! Seen any scholars lately?” asked the nasal-voiced patroller.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œYou will let me know if you do, won’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œThat’s a good fellow.” The patroller bent and scooped a coin from the bowl set before the disabled musician, then continued to the next corner, where both patrollers turned away from the harbor. Two women carrying laundry baskets on their heads hurried across the narrow street and down an alleyway to