Gerard shifted into the man's line of sight, although the man seemed to take no notice of the change. "I need a pair of boots."
The corners of the man's mouth crinkled into a smile. "Ah, boots. Yes, I make boots. I could make you some."
"No, you don't understand, I need them today. Right now."
The man's smile slipped. "Right now? But it takes time to make good boots. Besides, there are other orders ahead of yours. I'll need to measure your feet, and then maybe I can have them by next tenday. Yes, that's right, I can have a fine pair of boots ready for you by then."
"But I need something to wear in the meantime."
The man peered about the floor in a fruitless effort to locate Gerard's feet. "But what are you wearing now?"
Gerard rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I obviously have nothing on my feet right now."
"Huh? You don't? Be careful. You might pick up a splinter or stub a toe."
"I don't have any boots," Gerard said with slow, deliberate emphasis. "I'm not wearing anything on my feet. That's why I'm here. It's a kind of… emergency."
"Ah," the old man said. "An emergency. Don't get many of those."
"Look, do you have something I can wear temporarily? I'll take anything!"
"Well," the old man said slowly, "I might have something that would do the job, as long as you aren't too picky."
"Believe me, I'm not in a position to be picky," Gerard said under his breath as the old man turned to rummage in a worn, ancient sea chest behind him.
A few minutes later, Gerard hobbled awkwardly from the shop, trying to convince himself that any shoes were better than no shoes. The ones he had been loaned were brown and dusty and the worst of it was they were several sizes too big for his feet, so he had to; curl his toes and lift his feet awkwardly merely in order to shuffle along, making a clopping noise.
The cobbler, after much pleading, had agreed to move Gerard's order to the top of his list and have a new pair of boots ready for him the following day.
The barefoot uproar was nothing compared to the public reaction he stirred now, with much laughter and pointing fingers. Many people appeared to recognize the shoes and sympathized with him for wearing them. "So old Jason finally found someone desperate enough to buy those monstrosities, did he?" said one man, clapping Gerard jovially on the shoulder. "He always said they would sell. He just didn't realize twenty years would have to pass first."
"Interesting idea you've got there, Sheriff," said another. "Boots you can grow into, huh?"
Oddly, Gerard found his duties kept him behind his desk all that day, and he didn't hazard leaving the office until well after dark.
That night the inn was more crowded than ever. As the date for the temple dedication neared, more and more people were flocking into town, crowding the streets and leading to arguments and even occasional fights over the town's dwindling lack of accommodations.
At first Gerard and the town guard had been locking disgruntled visitors in the town jail overnight, until Gerard realized that some of those needing a place to stay had staged fights just to find a bed for the night. Down at The Trough, it was said, there was an ongoing wager over how many nights in a row someone could wangle a stay in jail-bed and board at the town's expense.
Gerard had been forced to issue new directives to the guardsmen: short of violent crime, no one was to be held overnight. It was amazing how dramatically instances of civil disturbance had fallen off once participants realized they weren't going to get arrested for it.
Gerard found himself feeling abject and defeated when he finally crawled downstairs from his attic quarters. He slid onto a seat next to Vercleese, who was meeting him for a late-night dinner.
"I told you that Samuval is a snake," Vercleese said, evidently misinterpreting Gerard's malaise. "You shouldn't have gone in there alone. Something like this was to be expected from him."
"You also told me my only chance of getting inside the fortress and talking to him was to go there alone," Gerard objected. "You said if two of us showed up, he'd have cut us down as spies, white flag or no white flag."
"Well, yes, I did say that," said Vercleese, hastily adding, "and it was perfectly sound advice." Gerard stared glumly at the tabletop. "So, at least you got in and out alive. What did you learn?" Vercleese asked with forced brightness. "Anything useful?" Gerard sighed and shook his head. "Nothing? Nothing at all?" Vercleese insisted. "I mean, all that effort and all the grief you went through afterward, coming back without your clothes and all, and he didn't tell you anything you didn't already know?"
Gerard considered a moment, then shook his head again.
"Well, maybe he really didn't have anything to do with Sheriff Joyner's murder."
"I don't think he did," said Gerard.
"I mean, if he had had something to do with it, he would have bragged about it long before now," Vercleese continued. "He's far too smug to keep quiet about something like that. Besides, as I keep telling you, he never seemed to have any particular animosity toward the sheriff."
Gerard peered gloomily around the room while Vercleese kept talking. In one corner of the room, a string trio was setting up. As Gerard watched the performers go about tuning their instruments (a viol, rebec, and lute), Kaleen swung past Gerard's table on her way to serving a large family spread over two tables nearby. She shot him a pitying glance. He felt himself flush and looked away. He didn't need pity. All he really wanted right now was a pair of boots that fit.
"So what about Jutlin Wykirk?" Gerard asked Vercleese. "I asked you to pay him a visit. You agreed there's something suspicious about that man."
"Well, it's nothing I can put my finger on," Vercleese answered. "I just never have liked the man, and it's not just because of the way he rants about elves and kender. You hear enough of that right here in town. For that matter, I'm no fan of the elves either. Slippery creatures, they are."
He paused, in case Gerard wanted to say something about elves or kender, but the sheriff remained silent.
"But there is something about Jutlin that gets under my skin," Vercleese agreed inconclusively.
The string trio had finished tuning up and now began playing a fast-paced reel. Gerard would have tapped his toes to the infectious rhythm if his boots didn't feel so heavy and cumbersome-and if he felt like toe tapping. "So you went out there like I asked," he continued, "to Jutlin's. Did you get a look around?"
Vercleese nodded. "He's always very neighborly in that regard. He gave me a tour of the whole place. Everything was neat and tidy. I walked around the barn, poked around inside the shed, even had a cup of tarbean tea with Jutlin and his missus." Vercleese grimaced. "Now there's a sour one. I don't think that woman had one good word to say the whole time I was in her kitchen.
"Anyway, I didn't find anything out of the ordinary, and he insists he never saw Sheriff Joyner that day. He remembers the Ostermans stopping by, though. He has a fondness for their potatoes-and a crush on Sophie, if you ask me."
Silence again descended on the table, in spite of the sprightly music of the trio.
"You must have your suspicions of old Jutlin, too," Vercleese said at last. "Why would you send me over there to visit him otherwise?"
Gerard grinned weakly. "Oh, I was tired of your fussing over my visit to Samuval. I just wanted to keep you busy while I was away."
"Well I'll be!" Vercleese fumed wordlessly a moment. Finally, he stood. "I think it's time for me to turn in." he said stiffly. "I'll see you in the morning."
Gerard let him go. He felt he'd done the right thing, and there was something about Jutlin Wykirk that bothered him. But if Vercleese was still upset in the morning, he'd apologize then.
Across the room, Laura stormed out of the kitchen, a huge, steaming platter in her hands.
To his surprise, she plunked it down in front of him. It held the largest single portion of Otik's spiced potatoes Gerard had ever seen. Then she stood back, tapping her toes and glaring at him.
"U
m…" Gerard began, uncertain what to say.
Kaleen hurried up to the table. "Maybe Sir Gerard would like a little bread and stew instead tonight." She reached to take the platter, but Laura clamped a hand on her arm and shook her head. With a jerk of her head, Laura gestured for the girl to go about her business. Behind Laura's back, Kaleen shrugged sympathetically at Gerard then scurried away.
Gerard scarcely noticed. He kept staring at the huge platter of potatoes. And Laura kept glaring down at him. Gerard picked up a spoon. Summoning his courage, he shoveled up a spoonful. Laura waited. He put it in his mouth… and tried to smile… and chewed.
The string trio launched into a mournful air that seemed particularly appropriate for the moment.
Laura took a seat across from him, still watching. "None of your tricks now," she said sweetly.
Gerard felt himself flush, partly through embarrassment and partly from the spiciness of the dish. When he felt he had chewed as long as he could, he swallowed. The potatoes were a long time going down.
Kaleen appeared at his elbow again, a large mug of ale in her hand. She set it down in front of him and caught his eye. "Otik's fine ale makes the potatoes slide down real smooth," she said.
He took the first of several big swigs and found it was true.
Twenty minutes later, Laura stood, looking smug as Gerard scooped up the last of the potatoes. She set the three empty ale mugs on the now-empty platter and hurried back to the kitchen with a look that told Gerard she had temporarily forgotten her other customers and was just now remembering them. He grinned, feeling unaccountably all right and swaying happily to the infectious music of the trio. Someone belched loudly and Gerard looked around for the culprit before realizing it had been him. He grinned all the harder.
A few tables away, he noticed Blair sitting alone, his eyes hungrily watching Kaleen as she swept here and there through the room, serving customers. Gerard reached for the remaining mug of ale, almost knocked it over, and righted it before it could spill. But when he brought the mug to his lips, he discovered it was already empty.
Darn! Now who had gone and done that to him! He glared suspiciously around the room, his eyes alighting on Kaleen. For a moment, he watched her, giddy with gratitude. She was the one who had kept him from having to eat all those potatoes without the saving grace of Otik's ale. Gerard would never have managed had it not been for her.
He became aware of Blair scowling at him, watching him watch Kaleen. Gerard swung his attention to the sergeant, trying for a flinty glare, then brought his eyes back when they careened right past Blair and off to the side. He hiccupped, feeling a little dizzy from the unaccustomed shimmering of the room. He wished Blair would hold still.
The trio was playing another lively tune. Gerard tapped toes that now felt delightfully numb. Even the itch from the bug bites and the poison ivy had receded into the fog of his mind. He tried to concentrate on what he knew about Sheriff Joyner's murder, but everything was spinning in his brain. Sheriff Joyner, the Ostermans, Usha and her magic painting, the dead architect, the gambling society, the elf-hating Jutlin Wykirk, the elves. The elves. The…
He couldn't keep them all straight anymore. For some reason, he found his whirling thoughts vastly amusing. He laughed at his own foolishness and reflexively reached for his mug, hesitated when he remembered it was empty, then discovered Kaleen had apparently brought him a refill while he wasn't looking.
Good girl, that Kaleen. Steady, dependable. He could see why Blair liked her so.
People had shoved the tables back, crowding them together even more to create a clear space in the center of the room for dancing. Gerard watched the couples whirl and twirl. He swayed zestfully to the music, caught himself from toppling, and applauded the dancers.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up to find it was Kaleen-good old Kaleen! — taking off her apron. She curtseyed charmingly. "May I have this dance?"
"But you're working," he managed to say, despite a mouth that felt strangely full of cotton.
"I just finished for the night." She held out her hand. "Come on!"
"Oh, no, no, I rarely… that is, I never dance! Won't! Can't!"
She pulled him to his feet. "Come on, Lord Porridge, dance with me."
Gerard looked around anxiously, seeking some escape. From his table, Blair was glaring daggers at him. For some reason, that decided Gerard. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll try."
He stood up, kicking off his oversized shoes.
"It's easy. Just follow my lead." She drew him past Blair and into the center of the room.
Kaleen began twirling when she reached the cleared area. Gerard lifted one foot tentatively, then the other, almost forgetting to put the first foot down. He giggled. A few people in the crowd pointed to his bare feet and laughed. Gerard laughed with them. Feeling more confident, he began flinging himself around in time to the music. Some people laughed, some scowled (mostly the ones he bumped into), but everyone pushed back to give him more room. Soon the whole roomful of people had started clapping to the beat. Kaleen spun and swirled gracefully. Gerard showed her some particularly daring moves of his own. The musicians played as though they would never stop.
Laura heard the crowd shouting and clapping and stepped from the kitchen to see what was going on.
There were Gerard and Kaleen in the center of the room, dancing like mad (if what Gerard was doing could be called dancing) while the rest of the room looked on merrily. She frowned a moment in puzzlement, then broke into a huge smile. Who would have thought, she mused. Those two together. And yet now that she considered it, it seemed a likely match.
Humming to the music, she went back into the kitchen, twirling and doing a little sidestep of her own just before the door closed behind her.
CHAPTER 16
Gerard woke the next morning feeling as though his head were being slammed repeatedly by a door. He groaned and started to roll over, wondering who would want to bludgeon him to death, only to discover that moving about wasn't such a good idea. He clenched his jaw to keep from retching.
After a while, the nausea passed, leaving only the repeatedly slamming door. He risked opening his eyes, winced, then held them open by dint of willpower. He swallowed with great difficulty, for someone seemed to have heaped a great deal of dust in his mouth.
It was probably the same person trying to beat him to death with the door. He rolled his eyes around to find the source of his suffering. His eyeballs hurt, but at least moving them wasn't as bad as moving his whole head. At last his gaze fixed on something that moved with the same rhythm as the pounding in his skull. He blinked, the only gesture of disbelief he could manage. A bird had gotten into his room during the night and was fluttering against the windowpane, trying to get out.
Every time those soft, feathered wings collided with the glass, another explosion went off in his head.
He considered his options: rescue the bird and stop the pounding or give up gracefully right here and die. Then he remembered Kaleen and decided to make the ultimate effort to go on. He gritted his teeth, mouthed a quick prayer to any god who happened to be nearby, and swung his legs out of bed.
They crashed to the floor, sending excruciating pain coursing through his legs. Eyes wide open now in surprise, he eased his head over the side of the bed for a look at the latest sensation. His feet were blotchy with purple bruises, lumpy with blisters, and swollen to twice their normal size.
He had a murky memory of someone-possibly him-dancing wildly with Kaleen at the inn last night. If it really had been him (and he hoped it wasn't, recalling what an atrocious dancer he had always been), then he had undoubtedly danced for hours. No wonder his feet hurt so bad!
But what about the thundering in his head? What about the queasy stomach, the Plains-of-Dust feel of his mouth and throat?
Dimly, he saw one giant mug of ale after another pass through his hands, each one starting out full and mysteriously ending up empty.
No wonder
he felt so rotten. With infinite slowness, he pushed himself upright until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. All right so far. He massaged his feet until the stabbing pains diminished, then forced himself to stand. It was like teetering on shattered glass but gradually felt better.
Sitting up straighter, he opened the window the rest of the way and let the bird out. Without its wings beating against the windowpane, the thundering in his head subsided to the level of breakers crashing a little way out at sea. Here on the shore, there was an illusory sense of calm. Now, with the bird gone, even the breakers gradually stopped crashing. The storm had passed. He was beached like so much flotsam, but everything would be all right.
Sailors are familiar with hurricanes at sea and with the eyes of such storms, where all is gripped in strange and fleeting tranquility. Gerard experienced just such a moment of serene indifference, before the hangover returned full force. He took an experimental step toward the door. Agony radiated from his feet, jerking him upright and slamming his head against the low rafters.
When the room steadied again, he was lying on the floor, uncertain whether to grasp his head, his stomach, or his feet. Everything hurt.
The next time, he was much more cautious.
In due time, he was hobbling down the stairs and making his way to the cobbler's shop. He didn't even attempt to put on his temporary shoes. Instead, he walked gingerly on his swollen, bare feet. He realized he was running late for the service at the temple.
The streets were quieter today, as if everyone were busy somewhere else, attending some important function, which was exactly what he should have been doing, Gerard reminded himself. But at least fewer people meant fewer eyes to stare at his miserable plight, fewer mouths to whisper about "that strange man we heard about with the bare feet," as one woman phrased it to her husband within Gerard's hearing. The husband eyed the footgear Gerard carried under his arm and snickered.
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