The inn was crowded, as always. Gerard slid into a seat as an elegantly dressed couple finished their meal and stood up. He saw Kaleen serving tables across the room and settled back to wait for her but was startled when Laura stormed over to him instead. She plunked a heaping platter of Otik's spiced potatoes down in front of him and glared, challenging him to object.
Gerard forced a thin smile. "Mm," he managed to murmur.
Laura waited.
Gerard picked up a spoon, thrust it into the pile of potatoes, and drew out a dangerously large mouthful. As Laura continued to watch, he shoveled the spoonful into his mouth. He tried to grin, then chewed slowly under her steadfast gaze. His mouth tingled from the peppery flavor. His stomach was already churning in protest.
Seeing him chew, Laura's expression softened. She smiled and turned away, heading back to her kitchen. When she was a safe distance from his table, Gerard discreetly spat the mouthful out into his napkin and pushed the platter of potatoes aside, his appetite ruined. He glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed his indiscretion. A group of swarthy men in one corner of the room caught his attention. He squinted, trying to see them better, but their cloaks and cowls obscured their faces. One, however, looked familiar; Gerard knew he had seen the cloaked man before, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where.
Then his eyes came to rest on Kaleen and he froze. She was glowering at him from across the room, having apparently witnessed him spitting out the potatoes. Gerard withered under her condemnatory gaze. Reluctantly, he drew the platter of potatoes toward him again and began nibbling on tiny spoonfuls, swallowing with difficulty over the increasingly violent objections of his digestive tract. Presently, the seats in Gerard's immediate vicinity emptied as people sniffed the air and chose to move elsewhere.
Gerard felt himself flush with embarrassment as he shoveled in another mouthful of the spiced potatoes.
CHAPTER 8
The shrill voice wafted into Gerard's room with the cool, predawn breeze. "Three tendays after his death, Sheriff Joyner's murderer has yet to be found."
Gerard bolted upright, cracking his head on the low ceiling that angled sharply across the room. The room was still dark; the sky outside showed the scarcest gray.
"Municipal officials assure this crier that all avenues are being explored and the killer will eventually be brought to justice."
It was a high, piercing voice Gerard almost recognized. He rubbed his head where he had banged it, listening more closely.
"To date, however, no progress has been made and the murderer remains at large."
A kender's voice. That blasted kender who had the job of town crier. What had Palin said his name was? Tangleknot? Tanglefoot? Tangletoe, that was it. Tangletoe Something.
"In other news about town, the two-headed chicken mentioned yesterday turned out to be a pair of chicks standing very close together. Sorry for that. However, I have been assured that one of Mistress Corinne Nestor's laying hens produces only double-yolked eggs."
Now he had it: Tangletoe Snakeweed!
"Those eggs are currently for sale in the town market. Better get there fast, however, as Mistress Nestor says they're bound to go quickly."
Gerard groaned and swung his legs out of bed, working at the stiffness that resulted from sleeping in such a cramped position. The mention of the town market reminded him that he needed to get over there to talk to the Ostermans.
"An invasion of gnomes threatened the town yesterday," Tangletoe continued, his voice receding into the distance. "Thanks to quick action on the part of the town constabulary, the miscreants are now all safely in jail."
Gerard hung his head, remembering he still had to deal with the gnomes. Well, that would come after he had breakfast and talked to the Ostermans.
The kender's voice disappeared altogether, trailing away as the wretched creature turned down another street to shatter the morning peace of other citizens. Well, everyone in Solace should be thoroughly roused by now, Gerard thought grimly. He had no sympathy this morning for layabouts still in their beds. Let the whole town get up in time to watch the sunrise.
He made his way to the inn, where, to his surprise, Laura beamed at him and served him his morning usual-plain porridge without honey or cream-without protest. Evidently, Kaleen had kept his secret, and Laura didn't know that he had spat out Otik's potatoes the previous evening.
With the porridge soothing his belly, he made his way to the market. The sun had risen while he was at the inn, and the marketplace was awash in early morning light. Despite the early hour, the marketplace buzzed with activity. Well, maybe not buzzed, exactly, Gerard amended. Rather it squealed and mooed and bawled and crowed, as animals of every kind were sold either for the butcher's block or for farmyard stock. The smells, too, included those of animal waste, overlaid with the more fragrant odors of fresh herbs and produce from townsfolk's gardens and farmers' fields. The sounds of haggling from dozens of stalls were part of the symphony.
Animals and produce weren't the only goods for sale. Citizens of Solace were also buying cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to more extravagant silks and satins and rich brocades, as well as ribbons, lace, buttons, bows, and other items of apparel. Other stalls sold pins and knives, pots and pans, and every kind of kitchen implement. One enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper-green and red and blue, copper and silver and gold-and selling them to harried mothers whose resistance was being worn away by the clamoring of their children. Merchants were turning up from all across Abanasinia for the upcoming temple dedication and festivities. Gerard even noticed Odila with Kaleen in one section of the market, buying scrolls and ink and quills. He nodded at the two, and they smiled back, their arms intertwined as they moved on. That friendship appeared to be blossoming.
He found the Ostermans' stall readily enough, and asked them about their discovery of Sheriff Joyner's body.
"Oh, it was awful, let me tell you," said Tom Osterman, adopting the manner of one relating a well-worn tale. "There were crows everywhere. That's what first alerted me to the fact that something was wrong. I stopped the wagon immediately to investigate-"
"Now, Tom, don't exaggerate," interrupted Sophie Osterman. "You know you got down out of the wagon to look at that field because you long to buy that land."
"Yes, but I did think something was wrong right from the first. I just didn't say nothing until I was certain."
"Ahem, so you found the body," said Gerard, trying to redirect the conversation. "Did anything look out of place?"
"Well, it was a dead body, for one," said Tom Osterman heatedly. "I mean, imagine how you would feel, discovering a good man like Sheriff Joyner sprawled and murdered like that."
"I see." Gerard nodded thoughtfully, trying to tamp down Tom's flash of irritation. He paused as a boy with a paper dragon careened into the Ostermans' stall, then ran off holding the paper dragon aloft as though it were flying. "Uh, what direction were you coming from?"
"Oh, we'd just been to see Jutlin Wykirk," said Sophie. "I remember distinctly, because he was to be our last stop before coming here to the market. And we were arguing about him, Jutlin Wykirk." Tom looked offended. "I mean, we were discussing Jutlin Wykirk. Of course, we forgot all about Mr. Wykirk when we saw Sheriff Joyner's body."
"Hmm," Gerard said. "And why were you discussing this Jutlin Wykirk?"
"A most unpleasant man-" Sophie began.
"But very important hereabouts," interrupted Tom. "He's the town's miller. That's why we had gone there, to get some wheat ground into flour so we could sell it to Brynn Ragulf, the baker."
Gerard remembered the distracted baker with flour smudges all over his face. "Oh, so you do a regular trade with Wykirk?"
"Oh, yes," said Tom. "Everyone around here does, although some folks like having to deal with him less than others."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, old Wykirk doesn't like outsiders," Tom expl
ained.
"Render, dwarves, minotaurs, any creature of that sort," Sophie added. "But especially elves." She grimaced. "He really carries on about elves. Says they're infesting the countryside. I don't know why he gets so upset. Elves aren't really so bad once you get to know them."
"And when have you ever known an elf?" Tom asked, an eyebrow raised.
"I was speaking in the abstract," Sophie said with a sniff. "Now minotaurs or draconians, they are genuinely unfriendly."
Tom snorted. "You're sounding just like old Wykirk."
"Why, Tom, I'll have you know-"
"So nothing looked out of the ordinary when you found the body?" Gerard said, desperately trying to rein in the discussion. "There wasn't much blood, I gather."
Tom frowned in thought. "You know, now that you mention it, there wasn't all that much blood I could see on the ground. Oh, there was some, but I've done my share of butchering animals on the farm, and I'd have expected much more blood to have pooled."
"Maybe all the blood soaked into the ground," Sophie offered.
Tom shook his head. "No, I don't think so." But he looked uncertain.
"Well, thank you both," Gerard said. "If you think of anything to add, let me know." He eased away as Tom and Sophie resumed their bickering over the relative merits of the various races of Krynn.
He spotted Laura buying potatoes for the inn. She saw him and waved before returning to her bargaining with a farmer who looked red-faced and ready to fold under her determined assault. Gerard grinned, his sympathies with the harried farmer. He continued on through the market, although he glanced over his shoulder now and then, feeling he was being followed. But he saw no one.
At one booth, Gerard came across a man selling swords, and he stopped to consider the merchandise.
"Finest swords in all of Ansalon," the man boasted, noting Gerard's interest.
Gerard picked up a sword more fanciful than effective, and wasn't surprised to find that the blade was such poor quality steel it couldn't possibly hold an edge, the «jewels» encrusting the hilt were nothing but glass, and instead of balancing close to the hilt, the sword balanced too near the middle of the blade. Nevertheless, he swept the weapon through a couple of practice moves. Suddenly, he was holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying.
"Huh!" the merchant grunted, watching the blade narrowly miss a serving wench who was haggling over a pair of chickens. "Now that's never happened before." He sounded almost sincere, then quickly shifted Gerard's attention to another sword. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good sir. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in all-"
"I know, 'in all of Ansalon,' " Gerard finished for him, declining the proffered sword, which was even gaudier than the first.
The merchant nodded so briskly his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon out for Gerard's inspection. "That's right-all of Ansalon!"
Instead, Gerard picked up a plain, functional leather scabbard, thinking of the much superior sword the smith here in Solace was finishing for him. Gerard would need a scabbard for it.
The merchant winced at Gerard's choice. "Sir, I really couldn't sell you such a miserable specimen as that. Allow me to show you something finer-"
"How much?" Gerard interrupted.
"Oh, a man of your ilk. You really shouldn't buy such a-"
"By the way, you do have a merchant's writ, don't you?" Gerard asked mildly.
"Huh?"
"A merchant's writ. All the out-of-town merchants are required to have them."
The merchant laughed. "Oh, sir, that's a good one. You had me going for a moment."
Gerard studied the man through narrowly slit eyes, letting the silence stretch out.
The merchant began to squirm. "Say, just who do you think you are, anyway?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry, allow me to introduce myself. Gerard uth Mondar. I'm the sheriff hereabouts."
The merchant's belligerent expression sagged. "You're not serious."
"You know, that was my reaction when they first offered me the job."
"You're really the sheriff?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And that business about the merchant's writ?"
"Yes, that is true as well," Gerard said, nodding.
Sweat broke out on the merchant's brow. "Look, I'm sure we could reach some kind of agreement on that scabbard, if you fancy it so."
"How much?" Gerard repeated.
"Tell you what-for you, only twenty steel."
Gerard cocked an eyebrow. "How much?"
"Uh, did I say twenty? Whatever could I have been thinking?" The merchant attempted a chuckle that sounded more like choking. "I meant fifteen."
Gerard stared at him.
The merchant's shoulders drooped. "Twelve," he said miserably. "I can't go lower, even if you are the sheriff."
"I could throw you in the jail, you know," Gerard suggested genially. "We have quite a nice one. The folks here in Solace are very proud of it. It's got a bunch of gnomes in it right now-"
"Yes, well, if I sell you that scabbard for any less, you might as well lock me up, for I'll not being making any profit off this wretched trip," the man said sourly. "Seems no one in town wants a sword these days. Just frippery for this celebration I hear you've got coming up."
Gerard nodded, paid the man, then, taking pity on the merchant, also bought a cheap but serviceable knife. "But if you're going be staying in town, you'd better get a writ," he admonished.
The merchant was already packing his wares. "Stay in this town? Not a chance! I'm heading for Haven, where I hear a man in my line of business stands to make a little steel."
Gerard walked on, idly perusing the goods for sale at the various booths. He still had the uncomfortable sensation of being followed.
The morning was getting on, so Gerard set out for the crossroads outside town where the gnomes' invention was blocking the way. There he met up with Vercleese and Blair, who had brought the whole passel of gnomes with them, along with quite a few townsfolk, who were evidently expecting some kind of excitement. Well, anything involving gnomes often promised excitement.
The contraption in question was the strangest thing Gerard had ever seen, surpassing all other gnome inventions he had had the misfortune to encounter. A huge boiler stood in the midst of six great, flanged wheels that were riding along some kind of track, the rails for which extended behind the device in the direction from which it had come. At the time they were stopped, the gnomes had been busy installing additional rails on the ground ahead of the device, right through the crossroads that formed a major junction into this end of town. Evidently, they had intended to extend these rails through the center of town, bringing the apparatus chugging along with them.
"Does it work?" Gerard asked dubiously.
Nob huffed and snorted. "Does it work! How do you think we got this far?"
That was exactly what Gerard was wondering. The crowd of townspeople was swelling.
Gerard wished he could give Lord Steppenhost of Que-Kiri a piece of his mind.
The gnomes began clambering into and over their machine, firing up the boiler and dragging more rails forward to extend those already on the ground. At first, the vehicle sounded like a herd of incensed bulls, snorting and pawing the earth. Smoke billowed from a stack above the firebox, carrying so many cinders into the air that Gerard was afraid they might start a fire if they got anywhere near the town's vallenwood trees. The racket mounted, sounding like a talon of angry dragons swooping in for an attack. People began looking around nervously.
And the darned machine wasn't even moving yet, Gerard thought, shaking his head. How much worse was the noise likely to be when the thing actually got going?
Gerard motioned to Nob. "How about a demonstration of how well this invention works?"
"Exactly what I had in mind," Nob said. "Of course it's been working fine-better and better after each repair. Still, it has a few kinks, a number
of peculiarities, shall we say."
In the crowd, Gerard saw coins changing hands as people began betting on the outcome of the demonstration.
"Show me," he said, jaw out in stubborn challenge.
"Well, uh…" Nob hemmed and stammered. "Going forwards, we have to take time to lay down more of these rails. That's gonna slow us down some."
Gerard shook his head. "I want to see how fast it goes. Crank up the speed."
"We can go backward," said Nob, pointing. "There's already rails in that direction."
"Hurry up," said Gerard, glancing at the sun. "I'm a busy man. I don't have all day."
"Fine then." Nob gestured to his fellows, and several of the gnomes swarmed aboard the machine. Nob himself climbed on last and made a great show of shifting a huge lever.
Steel ground against steel, and the huge wheels began grinding slowly backward. The machine groaned and squealed. The earth trembled. People in the crowd covered their ears.
The thing lumbered in reverse up a small hill, then, as it hurtled down the far side, it could be heard picking up incredible velocity, spinning faster and faster, raising a deafening cacophony.
Then, from the distance, came a loud explosion, and then another, and another. A cloud of smoke and steam burst above the crest of the next hill, followed by more puffs of smoke and steam. The earth was shaking violently. All this commotion was followed by a long silence.
Gerard went to the top of the small hill and shaded his eyes, peering into the distance. The machine and all the gnomes had vanished in the distance. "Halloooo!" Gerard called out.
No one answered.
He returned to the crossroads, where Vercleese and Blair had already begun pulling up the rails. Soon the crossroads was empty of obstruction. A ripple of applause swept through the crowd of onlookers, many of whom were busy paying off their bets.
Gerard smiled, giving an exaggerated bow. He noticed several familiar faces in the crowd, which made him feel more at home than any time since he had left Daltigoth. Among them was the temple architect, Salamon Beach. In fact, he realized now, Salamon had been among the group he'd noticed at the inn the previous night. Also among the crowd, standing apart, was the cowled figure Gerard remembered seeing on the ship on the way over here. Probably some cleric come for the temple dedication, he thought. Some of those clerics were a pretty strange lot.
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