"They played a fierce game of Regal, Sheriff Joyner and Samuval, from what I hear," Soljack said.
"It sounds like they spent some very companionable time together," Gerard said dryly, finding it hard to summon any affection for the mercenary who had helped overthrow the elves in Qualinesti.
Soljack shot him a sharp look. "Rumor has it the wily old outlaw chief liked Sheriff Joyner as much as the townspeople did. I don't think he killed him, if that's what you're wondering."
Gerard let out a discouraged breath. That's what everybody said. Sheriff Joyner apparently didn't have a single enemy, which left Gerard with a grand total of exactly no one who seemed to have had a reason to want the sheriff dead.
Lady Odila Windlass walked slowly through the grounds of the unfinished temple, relishing the tranquility now that the workday was over. Though the air still smelled of the stonecutters' dust and carpenters' shavings, gone was the din of chisel and saw. For the moment, as dusk settled upon Solace, the site was calm, the grounds fallen strangely quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the soft rustling of the vallenwood leaves. At moments such as this, Odila could imagine how the temple grounds would feel once construction was finished and the unhurried rhythm of clerics going about their sacred duties replaced the chaos of the builders.
As the last red glow of sunset faded behind her, the crest of the mountains to the east, beyond the temple, grew brighter, foretelling the double moonrise soon to follow. Odila paused in her steps to watch, letting her mind sink into meditative prayer. She drank in the night air in slow, measured breaths and felt almost at peace with the world. Or as close to peace as she came these days, since that terrible moment during the war when she had been forced to look deep into Mina's eyes, only to wind up confronting the darkness that reposed in her own soul. All her life since that moment had been dedicated to the struggle against such darkness wherever it dwelt. But she no longer struggled as a warrior did, with knives and swords; rather, she abided by the healing light of Mishakal, which gave her a far more potent weapon.
She hoped in the end it would be enough.
The frightened squeal of an animal erupted nearby, followed by the heavy flapping of an owl carrying off its prey. The attack, though completely natural, nevertheless disrupted Odila's peaceful reverie. She went on into the temple, while Solinari was a mere fingernail of white edging above the mountains and only a reddish glow indicated where Lunitari would soon rise.
Inside, the sharp rap of her steps echoed back at her from the vast emptiness, first of the antechamber, then the main sanctuary. She found herself standing before the statue of Mishakal.
Then other steps intruded on her thoughts, and she recognized the light but confident tread of Kaleen coming from behind her. Kaleen's arrival always prompted a warm smile from Odila, lighting up a face that seldom knew joy these days, and the young woman from the inn usually brought other amenities.
Odila smelled the aroma of freshly brewed tarbean tea. "I thought you might like a mug to ease the tensions of the day," Kaleen said, her voice soft in the reverential silence.
Odila accepted the mug gratefully.
"When was the last time you ate?" Kaleen asked.
"Don't mother me," Odila growled.
Kaleen said nothing, only waited.
Sighing, Odila relented. "I don't know. Breakfast, I guess."
"Perhaps you'd like me to get you something to eat?"
"No need. I'll have dinner presently."
Kaleen didn't move.
"I promise," Odila said.
In the darkness, she could feel rather than see Kaleen considering her answer. "All right," the younger woman said at last, as if she were the one in authority here. "But don't forget. You've promised me."
"I won't forget, you have my word," Odila said warmly.
The sound of Kaleen's footsteps retreated, fading into silence as she left the temple. Once again, Odila was alone in night's embrace. She turned to where she knew the statue stood; she couldn't quite see its details but knew its expression was serene, despite its divine watchfulness. She took a sip from the mug, the steam rising like a faint, steadying breath against her face. "Thank you, Goddess, for Kaleen and others who help support me," she whispered.
Slowly, she sipped the tea, letting her tension ebb away. When she had drained the mug, she felt somewhat restored. She grinned, thinking that tomorrow Kaleen would demand an accounting of exactly what she had eaten for dinner. She had better go make good on her promise.
She walked softly back through the temple, her footsteps quieter now. Just as she was about to step onto the temple porch, however, she froze, overhearing angry voices coming from somewhere outside. Keeping to the shadows of the two great doors of the temple, she peered into the gloomy light the two risen moons now cast upon the yard. She made out Salamon Beach standing between two figures she didn't recognize. The two strange men were pushing Beach back and forth between them, as if he were a ball in some kind of vicious game they were playing. With each shove, they snarled curses or threats, although Odila couldn't quite make out their words. She was just about to hurry to his aid when, with a final push that sent Beach sprawling to the ground, the two men turned away. She got a brief glimpse by moonlight of one man's face, with an enormous, thick mustache that drooped down to conceal his upper lip and a scar that puckered his skin from the corner of his left eye and down his jaw, disappearing beneath his shirt. Then the two men vanished into the dark. Odila rushed over to Beach and helped him stand.
"What was that all about?" she asked concernedly.
He dusted himself off and tried to laugh, although the sound came out forced and hollow. "Oh, it's nothing. Nothing at all. Just a slight disagreement between… colleagues, of a sort."
"That looked like more than a simple 'disagreement,' " Odila said.
"It was nothing, truly. You needn't concern yourself," Beach replied, his tone cutting off further inquiry. "Now I really must be off. I have… matters to attend to." Then he slipped into the night as well, although not, Odila noticed, heading in the same direction as his two assailants.
Odila was left standing alone in the moonlight, the inner peace she had gathered about her now quite shattered. She shook her head, as if to clear it of disturbing thoughts, and trudged off toward the inn to honor her promise of getting some dinner. But trudging along, she was unable to shake the sense that, despite Beach's assurances, something was very wrong.
CHAPTER 10
you're sure this is absolutely necessary?" Gerard asked, still hoping for a reprieve. Nevertheless, he went ahead and swung up into Thunderbolt's saddle.
"The outlying farms are under your care, too," Vercleese said, handing Gerard a set of papers. "Here, I've taken the liberty of writing down the names of all the families you'll need to visit, along with directions for getting to each farm."
"What about something to eat?" Gerard asked, for he hadn't even had breakfast. "It'll be late in the day before I get back."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that too much," Vercleese said mischievously. "I'm sure you'll find something to eat along the way." With that, he slapped Thunderbolt's haunch and sent Gerard on his way.
For his part, Thunderbolt seemed eager for the chance to get out in the countryside, and Gerard felt a pang of guilt at not having seen to it the horse got more regular exercise. But what with the paperwork piling up on his desk and all the petty concerns that he was discovering went with the job of sheriff, there just hadn't been time. "But at least I'll see that you get to stretch those legs a bit today," he promised Thunderbolt, patting the animal's well-muscled neck.
At least it was a beautiful morning for a ride. The rains of a few tendays earlier had dried up completely, and now the weather had settled into the hot, clear days of midsummer. The countryside was awash with verdant growth, from grasses springing up near waist-high along the edge of the road to lush meadows carpeted with dandelions and daisies. Acres of ripening grain-wheat, barley, and rye
-waved placidly in the innumerable fields Gerard passed, each set of fields marking another of the various farmsteads of the region.
List in hand, Gerard stopped dutifully at each farm, introducing himself and getting to know the families.
The first family, Brentwood and Dorla Gibbs and their seven children, crowded around Gerard as expectantly as if he were the first contact they'd had with Solace in a fortnight, although Gerard gathered they had just been in town to market a couple of days before. "Yes, sir, we got a pretty good price for the eggs this tenday, didn't we, Dorla?" Brentwood crowed, sounding as if he had been personally responsible for laying every one of those eggs. He blinked his huge, watery eyes and looked around, assuring himself of his audience's amazement. "A fair price this tenday, indeed!"
Gerard nodded and smiled, unsure what reaction was called for. Dorla beamed at their guest, cradling her infant twins one in each arm, while a couple of slightly older children of indeterminate gender peeked shyly around her skirts. The three oldest children, all girls, hung back, pretending indifference to Gerard's arrival, although he noticed they waited ardently enough to hear anything he might have to say.
"But, here, I'm forgetting my manners," Brentwood went on. "I'm just chattering on, and you haven't even met the little ladies."
Gerard smiled at the cluster of children, expecting to be introduced to them. Instead, Brentwood strode out toward the barn with Gerard in tow, to where a chicken coop stood in the shade of a cottonwood tree. "There!" Brentwood announced with a sweep of his arm. "What did I tell you? The finest little laying hens in all of Solace."
"Ah," Gerard said, wondering how long politeness required him to tarry here. The dozens of chickens in the coop looked no different to him than any others he had ever seen.
Then Brentwood said the magic words that changed Gerard's mind about hurrying on his way: "You'll have breakfast with us, of course."
It wasn't really a question, but Gerard nodded eagerly, for the ride through the countryside at this early hour had aroused his appetite.
"Dorla," Brentwood called, leading Gerard back across the farmyard, "put on a mess of them eggs and fry up some of that fine ham for the sheriff, will you? We need to show him some good country neighborliness."
Dorla Gibbs must have anticipated her husband's request, because by the time Brentwood ushered Gerard into the cozy farmhouse kitchen, the air was already redolent of frying eggs and ham. Gerard accepted a seat gratefully at the large table that dominated the room, while a couple of the older Gibbs girls bustled about, setting places and tending to their younger siblings. Soon, the aroma of fresh biscuits in the oven joined the frying smells in the room.
When everything was done, Dorla carried a platter to the table as proudly as if bringing willing tribute to a king. She set the platter down in the middle of the table with a flourish. One of the girls followed hard on her heels with a serving bowl full of scrambled eggs, while another carried a basket of biscuits and a tub of freshly churned butter. But Gerard's attention was riveted on the platter Dorla had carried. On it rested the ham, which loomed as a huge slab of almost solid fat that wobbled obscenely when the platter came to rest on the table.
Gerard's stomach did a little nervous flutter in dread anticipation at the sight of it. He was about to beg off the ham and ask for just a plate of eggs, when Brentwood caught him staring at the white, oleaginous slab. Brentwood broke into a huge grin. "Raised that porker ourselves, we did. Best bacon in, well, miles in any direction, I'll warrant."
As he spoke, he sliced off a generous hunk and heaped it on a plate, around which Dorla mounded scrambled eggs and piled on two or three biscuits. Belatedly, Gerard realized he was to have no say in what he ate or how much he consumed. Good manners dictated he clean his plate.
He belched softly, already feeling that mass of fat sitting in his belly in an indigestible lump.
The Gibbses, meanwhile, were digging into the food with zest. Gerard managed to work his way resolutely through most of what had been dished up for him, although it required every ounce of self-discipline he had learned as a knight not to disgrace himself by promptly disgorging the meal right there at the table. Dorla and Brentwood tried to urge seconds on him, but he shook his head weakly and forced a thin smile. "I really must see to some of the other farms hereabouts," he explained, his lips drawn tight in an effort to keep everything down.
"Of course," Brentwood boomed. "Why, whatever have we been thinking, wife? We mustn't hog our guest." He laughed at his little joke with a wave that took in the remaining ham on the serving platter. "I'm sure our neighbors will want to show him hospitality, as well."
So Gerard resumed his trek, holding Thunderbolt to an amble and drinking in deep draughts of air, which suddenly felt close and oppressive in the growing heat. The birds in the trees sang more mournfully than before, and the buzzing of the cicadas had turned shrill. Even Thunderbolt's gentle pace threatened to dislodge the contents of Gerard's stomach. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to the next farm on his list, the one farthest from town, belonging to Biggin Styles.
It was immediately apparent why Styles's place, a pig farm, was located so far from Solace: the stench from the pigs was overwhelming. It burned in the nose and coated the tongue, to the point that Gerard could scarcely remember what fresh air smelled and tasted like. His stomach, already burdened by the Gibbses' ham, rolled over heavily.
Styles was a bachelor, shrewd, bitter, and inordinately proud of his farm. He had come to Solace, he informed Gerard with a haughty air, during the war, along with many of the other recent immigrants who had been displaced from their native lands. But he, unlike the majority of others, had not lacked for industry. In a short time, he had turned this farm, which had fallen into disrepair and which he had purchased for next to nothing, into a going concern. On every side, pigs now squealed and rooted in their pens.
"You can see me in town near any market day, selling the best porkers to be found in all of Solace," he said disdainfully.
Gerard smiled wanly, grateful there was no Goodwife Styles to urge him to sample the bounty of the farm, and hopeful of being able to quickly escape the place and its smell.
"You'll join me for an early lunch," Styles said. Again, it wasn't really a question-more the condescending manner of one bestowing his largess on an undeserving social inferior.
Gerard gulped hastily. "Oh, no, I really couldn't-"
"Nonsense!" Styles waved the objection aside. "I can't have you leaving here, saying that Biggin Styles lacked social graces."
"No, really, I wouldn't think of saying-"
"Sit down. I'll soon find us something worthy to eat."
"Please, just no ham," Gerard begged, as Styles ushered him firmly to a chair.
Styles froze, anger flashing in his eyes. "Why, I'll bet you've been over to the Gibbs place." He shook his head and scowled. "Them and their paltry fare. I'll wager they carried on the whole time about their wonderful ham, didn't they?" He turned back to his kitchen. "As if anyone in this county had pork to compare with Biggin Styles. Well, you won't get any of that kind of ordinary food here." He fished around in a cupboard and came out with a huge pottery jar, which he placed on the table. "There!" he announced grandly. "A Styles farm specialty." He dug into the jar with a long-handled fork and plopped a couple of sodden, vinegary smelling forelegs, complete with split hooves, onto a plate, which he then pushed in front of Gerard. "Now here's real food! Pickled pig's feet. You won't find the likes if 'em anywhere."
Gerard stared at the plate and swallowed hard, pretty certain it was true: he wouldn't find the likes of this particular treat anywhere.
"It really gets your mouth watering, don't it?" Styles continued, evidently mistaking Gerard's reaction. He served up a couple more feet on a plate for himself. "Well, don't stand on ceremony. Dig in!"
Gerard hesitated. He gingerly bit into one of the delicacies, chewing, swallowing, then stifling his gagging as he nearly choked on it. As Styles watch
ed him, he gave a thin smile and finished off the rest. Then, pleading the urgency of his mission as an excuse to leave without eating the second, he said he really must go. Styles stared at the remaining pig's foot balefully. "I guess I'll just have to send that one along with you," he said. "You can have it for your dinner."
While he wrapped up the hoof in an evil-smelling, soggy paper, Gerard asked whether Styles had ever seen Sheriff Joyner wandering this far from town on his excursions through the countryside.
Styles froze then turned on Gerard, his expression glowering. "Joyner! Why are you asking me about him?
Did one of my pesky neighbors say I had something to do with his murder?"
"No, no," said Gerard hastily, palms out to deflect the man's anger. "I'm just trying to get a sense of where the man might have visited before his death, that's all."
Styles cast his squinting glare on Gerard for long moments before finally relenting. "Take advantage of a man's hospitality and then ask him something like that," he grumbled, just loud enough for Gerard to hear, as he finished wrapping the pig's foot. "I must be daft to be so generous with folk."
When he had finished, he thrust the package at Gerard. "Here, something to help you remember the name of Biggin Styles!" he cried. "Now that you know what good pork is, you'll never be satisfied with anything less."
On the road again, Gerard turned the contents of the package over to the first cur he found roaming the countryside. The dog peered at the pig's foot for long moments, studying the item from every side, before finally dragging it off into the weeds, whether to devour it or bury it, Gerard little cared. At least the awful thing was gone.
The next place on his list was the mill belonging to Jutlin and Agnes Wykirk. Gerard was already feeling logy. It seemed everywhere he went people were determined to feed him.
Here, at least, no pork products of any sort were forced upon Gerard, just a hunk of heavy, sour-tasting bread and a mug of bitter beer. The Wykirks sat at the table as he ate, Jutlin watching him with an occasional cackle like a bantam rooster strutting in the chicken yard, while Agnes simply glared at him without saying a word, as if Gerard's mere presence somehow called the propriety of her kitchen into question. A large kettle bubbled on the hearth, but whether it was dinner cooking or whether Agnes Wykirk had been in the midst of making soap, Gerard couldn't tell. He was just glad he wasn't expected to partake of any of its dubious bounty.
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