At least that wretched kender wasn't about, Gerard thought. He hated to imagine what fantastic escapade Tangletoe would have made of a peculiar incident like this. It might even top Gerard coming back from Samuval's fortress in his undergarments.
Something flickered out of the corner his eye. Gerard kept walking-or lurching, rather-as if nothing had happened, but he scanned the buildings and alleys around him as he went. Nothing. Yet for a moment there, he could have sworn he had seen something, and that he was being followed.
He kept his guard up after that. He might only have imagined it, he told himself. The incident did, however, serve to take his mind off his misery. Soon he reached the cobbler's shop. "Yes?" said the withered old cobbler, again looking at a spot where Gerard was not. "May I help you?"
Gerard frowned, again stepping into the man's line of sight. It was unnerving to think of having a pair of boots made by a man so nearly blind. How could he see to do his work properly? Yet when Gerard explained who he was and the cobbler brought out the boots for his inspection, Gerard had to admit the cobbler knew his craft. The boots were handsomely made, a rich brown with soft, supple leather that came up to mid calf. He returned the shoes he had borrowed, and eagerly, Gerard pulled on the first boot.
It was a tight fit, what with the swelling in his feet. In the end, the cobbler had to help him. Together, they pushed and pulled as Gerard gritted his teeth against the needles shooting through his foot and up his leg at last the boot slipped into place. To his surprise it fit comfortably. Cautiously, Gerard put some weight on that leg. It was tender, but certainly bearable. He and the cobbler wrestled the other boot into place, and Gerard let out a small sigh of contentment. For the first time since waking up, he wasn't enduring pain at both ends of his body. In fact, now that he had a moment to think about it, he realized the throbbing in his head had diminished and his stomach had settled somewhat. He smiled for the first time that morning. The day was looking up.
This time, however, he resisted the urge to get cocky. He paid for the boots, gladly including a hefty surcharge for the speed of the work. With the cobbler nodding gratefully and bidding farewell to an uninhabited space along the shop wall, Gerard headed back. He was going to be very late. He paused at the doorway and checked the street, but no one seemed to be lurking about.
By the time he reached the temple grounds, people dressed in their finest clothes were beginning to appear, coming the other way. Gerard swore under his breath. He had missed the service entirely. He passed Kedrick Tos, Bartholomew Tucker and his wife (Gerard realized he still hadn't learned her name), Lady Drebble (whose son accompanied her with much put-upon sighing and rolling of the eyes), Brynn Ragulf and his whip-thin wife whose steely gaze missed nothing, Cardjaf and Gatrice Duhar, Argyle Hulsey, and even the glowering Torren Soljack. Each person he encountered stole a glance-some casual, some more pointed-in the direction of Gerard's feet as he nodded and passed. Some even looked disappointed at seeing the new boots on his feet. Gerard felt his mouth pull into a thin, tight line. It seemed the town sheriff had quickly become at object of considerable amusement among its citizens.
He hurried on.
On the temple grounds, construction had been temporarily suspended in order to accommodate the morning's open-air service. Now carpenters and masons milled about in the background, waiting to resume work. The scaffolding had been rebuilt along the wall where the «accident» had occurred, no doubt to the disappointment of some curious individuals who had come that morning hoping to witness a scene of carnage and mayhem. In the temple yard stood the clerics who had just finished conducting the service, including Odila in a brilliant white robe that gave her an ethereal look. Gerard was taken aback. He still tended to think of her as a soldier, a Knight of Solamnia, he realized, and hadn't yet adjusted to seeing her as a cleric. Her hair was done up in the tight, braided coils she favored these days, further emphasizing her new calling.
Next to Odila stood Kaleen, who also looked much different than Gerard was used to seeing, for she was dressed in the simple, severe robe of an acolyte, Unlike Gerard, who still felt like something that had been mauled by a saber-toothed tiger (albeit, that was an improvement over how he had felt earlier in the morning), Kaleen looked composed and rested, none the worse for wear for having spent the previous night dancing. She noticed Gerard as he picked his way through the thinning crowd and flicked him a generous smile that further improved his mood.
Talking to Odila was Vercleese uth Rothgaard, which surprised Gerard. He hadn't pegged Vercleese as a religious man. The knight was dressed very soberly, with his mustache waxed, his beard trimmed, and his empty sleeve pinned up so it wouldn't flap around.
Gerard hung back, letting Vercleese and Odila finish talking, for it occurred to him they might be discussing matters of the soul. If so, they deserved a little privacy. After a while, Vercleese, who had been listening as Odila spoke, nodded and stepped back. She put a hand on his remaining arm, smiled at him, and turned to Gerard, indicating the private audience was over. He drew closer, feeling awkward when confronted with her in full cleric outfit. "Um, I'm sorry I missed the service." She smiled, lighting a face that looked drawn. Her face was pale, and the circles under her eyes emphasized the pressures she was under. But the smile was as charming as Gerard remembered, all the prettier for the scattering of freckles that spilled over her nose and cheeks. "That's all right," she said. "I'm sure your official responsibilities required your presence elsewhere."
He flushed, thinking that his "official responsibilities" that morning had been to overcome a hangover and pick up a pair of new boots. "Yes, well, hmm…"
"I haven't had a chance to talk with Palin or Argyle Hulsey yet," she continued. "Did the healer's examination of Salamon Beach's body turn up anything interesting?"
"Ah, yes, that proved rather intriguing," Gerard said, warming to the new topic. "It seems your architect was a member of a secret gambling society." He described the tattoo on the nape of Beach's neck, lifting the hair on his own neck as he spoke, to show her where it was affixed.
Odila nodded, her mouth tight in a disapprove scowl. "That explains a lot," she said. "He was always disappearing at nights, off doing something mysterious. He must have been gambling somewhere. I'm sorry. It never occurred to me, though it's so obvious in retrospect."
The Trough would be my guess," Gerard said with grim conviction.
"Well, he was a good architect, even if a somewhat unpleasant, cold man in many ways," said Odila. "May his soul find rest, wherever it has gone. I'm grateful he left us with such a thorough set of plans. Work on the temple will continue and succeed."
As if waiting for that signal, the dwarf Stonegate, who had walked over to them during their conversation, coughed politely into his fist. Odila turned to him, and he gave a clipped, professional nod.
"Ah, I see the workmen are ready to get busy today," she said. "We've held them up long enough. Now it's time for us to get out of their way." She moved to one side of the temple grounds, drawing the other clerics with her. Again, Gerard was reminded of her official status and felt strangely awed. Lady Odila Windlass had made something of her life since leaving the knighthood, whereas he… all he had accomplished so far was to fill a temporary position as sheriff, prove inadequate at solving or preventing murders, and make himself a laughingstock.
Stonegate barked orders to the workmen, who began swarming over the nearly completed structure, picking up their tools and filling the air with the noise of purposeful activity.
"Have you found out anything more about the two mysterious men who assaulted Salamon that night?"
Odila asked quietly, screening her words from any prying ears.
Gerard shook his head. "But I'm on the lookout for the one with the thick, copper mustache and the scarred face. He shouldn't be that difficult for anyone to remember or recognize."
"So do you believe it was an accident or murder?" Odila asked.
Gerard hesitated. "I'm keepin
g an open mind," he said at last, although he was pretty certain it was the latter.
Across the temple yard stood a cluster of clerics, discussing the service and organizing their duties for the day. The sight of all their various robes, each signifying some religious order or level of office, reminded Gerard of the strange cleric he had noticed aboard the ship coming over and then again when the gnomes had demonstrated their invention. Gerard had not seen that particular cleric around the temple and thought to ask Odila about him.
"Do you know all the clerics here?" he asked.
"Well, I either know them, or they inevitably introduce themselves when they arrive and join the activities. So yes, I guess you could say that one way or another I've gotten to know them all. Why?"
"There's one I've noticed, I wonder if you can tell me something about him, or the order he belongs to." He went on to describe the strange cleric to her, or at least the dun-colored robes the man had worn, for Gerard never had clearly glimpsed the cleric's features.
Odila frowned. "He doesn't sound like anyone I've seen or met, lately. I don't recall ever having seen anyone wear that particular type of robe. He may not be a cleric at all. It sounds like the kind of robe sometimes worn by outlanders from the area around Khur. I hear sometimes they get mistaken for clerics. Apparently it's a common manner of dressing in that land."
"Ahem," said Stonegate, who had again come to stand by Odila's elbow. The dwarf looked about him with apparent unconcern, but it was obvious he desired Odila's attention.
Odila gave Gerard a wan smile. "I'm sorry, but I really must go. My duties beckon." She hurried toward the site, plunging deep into discussion with the dwarf.
Gerard looked around for Kaleen, but she too had disappeared. He was sorry to have missed her, for he was hoping for a word with her before she left-all very casual and above board, of course!
He headed for Palin and Usha's house, eager to find sanctuary there. As he walked, savoring the increasing comfort of his new boots, his hair began to prickle on the back of his neck, and again he had the feeling of being followed. Perhaps it was that the birds along the side of the road were falling just a little too quiet as he approached, as though his wasn't the only presence that disturbed them. But though he listened hard, he heard no rustling of the underbrush or other indication that anyone was on his heels. Then, just as he had about lulled himself into a feeling of complacency, of having been needlessly apprehensive, something whizzed past his head and stuck with a bone-chilling thunk in the trunk of a tree, just inches from his face. Gerard had just time enough to register the fact that it was a knife with a piece of paper impaled on the blade.
He dropped to a crouch and scanned the surrounding woods. He eased his dagger from its sheath, feeling very exposed. If the person had been just a little more accurate with his throw, the knife might have been protruding from Gerard's ribs even now.
The forest was silent, as if holding its communal breath against the death struggle that surely must ensue.
Except that nothing happened. Gerard saw nothing, heard nothing else, despite the fact his senses were keyed to full alert. He seemed all alone in the woods. Only the knife protruding from a tree, still trembling with force, attested to things being otherwise.
After a while, he realized the finches and sparrows were again chirping and flitting amid the underbrush. Slowly, Gerard stood and resheathed his dagger. He made a mental note to check with Torren Soljack on the progress of his sword, feeling ridiculously underarmed should real conflict erupt. And apparently that time was fast approaching. He wrenched the knife from the tree and read the appended note. The message was clear enough. Morgoth. Beware! But was the word intended for his eyes to see, or were the townspeople expected to have found the message pinned to his corpse?
He tucked the note away, slid the knife into his belt, then continued on into town, warily now. Nothing further interrupted his progress, and soon he stood at Palin and Usha's door. Palin's eyebrows lifted questioningly as he ushered Gerard inside. When they were seated, Gerard handed Palin the knife and note. Palin's eyebrows rose even higher. Gerard related the incident in the woods.
"I don't like this at all," Palin said, when Gerard had finished. He turned knife and note over and over, as if willing some further facts to be gleaned from them. "First Sheriff Joyner, then Salamon Beach, and now a warning you were apparently meant to deliver, dead or alive. It's beginning to look like there's a concerted effort afoot to undermine authority in Solace, inviting anarchy and chaos. I can't help thinking the temple dedication is somehow involved."
"Perhaps," Gerard said.
"And I understand you ran into a stone wall with Baron Samuval, too."
Gerard rubbed absently at the bug bites that still itched all along his arms. "News travels fast in this town."
"I'm afraid you can blame Tangletoe Snakeweed for all the local gossip," Palin said.
"Samuval's a dangerous fellow, to be sure," Gerard went on. "But I can't say I feel certain he killed either the sheriff or the architect. In fact, if pressed, I'd have to say my hunch is that he didn't. He didn't have any real reason. Besides, it's hard to figure why he'd-let me go free from his fortress, only to sneak into town a couple of days later and try to aim a knife at my ribs."
"There is something in that," Palin said, looking thoughtful.
Silence stretched for a moment between them.
"I was hoping to speak with Usha," Gerard said at last. "I wanted to talk to her about Beach's death and see whether there's been any unusual changes in her painting lately."
"Ah yes, Usha." Palin rolled his eyes with a dramatic flair and pointed to a poorly made sandwich nearby. "She's acting very secretive and preoccupied. After learning about Salamon Beach's death, she locked herself inside her studio, vowing not to come out until she's done with the painting."
"How long will that be?"
Palin raised his hands, palms up. "Who knows?"
"Can't we…?" Gerard made furtive gestures in the direction of the studio.
"Interrupt her?" exclaimed Palin. "Only at the risk of certain death, I'd say. You were better off in the woods paired off against an invisible assailant. Usha doesn't take kindly to interruptions when she's preoccupied with one of her paintings. And you know, Gerard, artists have deadlines, too, just like architects. When Usha gives herself over to a deadline… well, Takhisis herself couldn't get her to budge. No, I'll give her your message when she emerges-if she emerges- and shows any desire to communicate." He shuddered. "If the painting doesn't go well, that's not always the case. Meanwhile, carry on as best you can, my friend. Carry on."
CHAPTER 17
First thing the next morning, Gerard donned his doublet and hose and pulled on his new boots, sighing with satisfaction at the smooth fit of the leather enveloping his feet. Then he went to see Torren Soljack.
"It's not ready yet," the smith growled when Gerard asked about the new sword.
"All right," Gerard said, looking around the shop until he located an upended barrel. He sat down on it, putting on a considerable show of making himself all ease.
"What are you doing?" Soljack demanded.
Gerard looked up as if startled at the question. "Waiting."
"You can't do that. Not there."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm comfortable enough," Gerard said. "This will do just fine."
The smith scowled at Gerard for a long moment before finally turning his back on the sheriff and resuming his work. He heated an axe blade to a red-hot glow at the forge and hammered on it with his massive hammer atop the anvil, striking off showers of sparks. His blows seemed to Gerard a trifle more forceful than customary. All at once, the axe blade cracked. Soljack flung down the hammer and swore. Then he turned on Gerard.
"How long do you plan on sitting there, spying on me?"
"Why, until it's ready," Gerard said, with as much innocence as he could muster, neglecting to mention that he had somewhere else to be soon and wouldn't be able to wait
at the smithy much longer. He had given Vercleese the slip that morning without the wily old deputy becoming suspicious. "I assume it's just a matter of applying a few finishing touches at this point," he said to Soljack, then frowned at the damaged axe head where it lay cooling on the anvil. "Although I gather that wasn't supposed to happen."
Soljack drew in a deep breath, swelling up like a bladder full of air, or like the bellows he used to heat his forge. "What in the name of all that's holy would you know about it?"
Gerard shrugged. "Nothing. That was merely a casual observation from a disinterested observer."
"Well, you're right. It's ruined! I'll have to start all over."
"In the meantime, then, I suppose you'll have time to finish my sword."
Soljack glared at him. Gerard met his gaze without flinching. All at once, the smith threw back his head and laughed, a huge, bellowing rush of sound that pushed at the ceiling and walls of the shop and spilled out onto the street, causing people to stop and stare in surprise.
It was the first time Gerard had seen the man so much as smile, let alone laugh. He suspected it was an expression as foreign to the other townspeople as it was to him.
"By the gods, but you're a stout one," Soljack said at last, wiping an eye. "Not many men would stand up to me." He grinned a moment, before subsiding into his usual dour expression. "Very well, Sheriff, you shall have your sword, and that right quick."
It was as though a window had been briefly blown wide, only to be slammed shut again as soon as the owner of the house found it standing open. Yet as the smith began working on the sword, attaching the hilt and grip, then touching up the blade and sharpening it to a fine edge, Gerard felt himself no longer the focus of the man's ire. Whatever Soljack's gripe with the world, Gerard suspected the smith himself stood at the center of it, and not anyone around him who intruded upon that internal, personal storm.
Less than an hour later, Soljack barely acknowledge Gerard's gratitude as the latter accepted the finished sword and belted it in place. By the time Gerard left the smithy, Soljack was back to studying the cracked axe head morosely, his face again fixed in its usual scowl, seeking a way to salvage the time he had invested in the offending implement.
Saving Solace c-1 Page 17