Saving Solace

CHAPTER 19

So did you find what you were looking for?" Vercleese asked as he and Gerard rode back toward town the next morning.

Gerard, half asleep in the saddle after a long, exhausting night, roused himself. "Hmm? What's that?"

"I said, was that worthwhile?" Vercleese said, sounding irritable. "Did you learn anything?'

Gerard frowned, forcing his fuzzy mind to focus. "Maybe. I don't know. I'll have to think on it."

"That sounds vague enough," Vercleese grumbled under his breath.

The horses picked their way down the steep slope of the mountain. The refreshing, pine-scented breeze soon gave way to the oppressive heat of the lower levels, making it even more difficult for Gerard to stay awake. He swayed and rocked in the saddle, giving Thunderbolt his rein.

There had been little sleep after the visit from the elves. The night seemed too full of eyes, too full of arrows eager to sate their points in human blood. Gerard wasn't sure how much of a distinction the elves made between Knights of Solamnia, past as well as current, who had failed to live up to their duty to help restore elves' land, and Samuval, himself a former dark knight, who had seized the majority of that land and displaced its occupants.

Pine trees gave way to aspen and birch as the men descended. The upper leaves of the trees rustled listlessly at ground level, where the day had already grown hot and still. Gerard and Vercleese reached Solace Stream at last, turning toward Solace and passing Jutlin Wykirk's mill. The mill wheel turning indolently, but the place had a strangely deserted look.

By the time they reached town, many of the stalls were already closed in the marketplace, attesting to the lateness of the hour. Discarded cabbage leaves, onion skins, and carrot tops littered the ground. They rode on past Stephen's Grocery, where a large, flatbed farm wagon stood being loaded with enormous crates and boxes marked with such contents as horse feed and flaxseed. Three men were hoisting the boxes onto the wagon. One was Stephen; the second was probably his helper in the store, Gerard thought; the third was Jutlin Wykirk.

"So that's why the mill looked deserted this morning," Vercleese commented. "He's in town picking up supplies."

Gerard's gaze started to drift disinterestedly past the miller, then snapped back. There was something about the man's face… what was it? Gerard was prodded by some buried memory. Somewhere else he had seen that face, perhaps? At last he shrugged. If it were important, it would come to him in time.

The crates and boxes were evidently heavy, for the three men strained under their weight, barely acknowledging Gerard and Vercleese with nods as they worked.

Gerard and Vercleese stopped at the communal well near the town square. Vercleese slid from the saddle and gratefully splashed cooling water over his face. Nearby, the brutal hammering of the smith rang out in the still air.

"I'll be right back," Gerard said, turning toward the smith's shop.

Vercleese grunted and splashed more water on his face.

Gerard stepped into the dim interior of the smithy, where the heat assaulted him. Torren Soljack looked up from his hammering. "Is there something wrong with your sword?" he asked, challengingly.

"No," Gerard said, mopping his brow and wondering how the smith could stand the heat of the forge added to the already sweltering summer day. "It's an excellent weapon, most satisfactory. I wanted to come by and tell you as much."

"Then where is it, if it's so excellent?"

"We ran into a bit of trouble last night, and I loaned it to one of my deputies. But never fear, it's safe and sound and doing its job well over at the jail." As he spoke, Gerard wondered whether things were indeed safe and sound over at the jail. He hoped he wouldn't have any bloodstains to mop up when he got over there.

"Hmph!" Soljack snorted. He resumed hammering as if Gerard was no longer there, hinting he wished that were the case. Gerard ignored the hint, although he felt awkward, owing his next words would probably offend the man. Still, he had to ask. "You know," Gerard said between hammer blows, "I've seen some fine, unusually shaped swords on some folks around here lately. Baron Samuval for one."

Soljack paused, hammer upraised, cocking an eyebrow.

"And Kirrit Bitterleaf, a leader of the exiled elves, for another," Gerard said in a rush, pushing on. "Nice swords. Similar, in many respects."

Soljack glowered, becoming visibly angry. Still he waited without uttering a word.

"Did you make those swords for them?" Gerard finally blurted.

Soljack flung his hammer and tongs down and turned from the anvil, busying himself with the bellows that heated the forge, as if making it even hotter could somehow assuage his anger. "Folks are always blaming me for things, just because I got into some trouble once, long ago," he nearly shouted. "But I'm a changed man, believe in Paladine these days. As for elves and the like, I've got nothing against any of 'em, but I draw the line at making swords for rebels and outlaws."

It was the longest speech Gerard had ever heard the man make, and he was taken aback by the extent of the smith's fury, which seemed to swell with the pumping of the bellows, as if the real forge he was heating was the one deep in his own soul. Then the smith ceased working the long bellows handle and slumped down on a nearby barrel, his head in his hands.

"I suppose you're going to persecute me. I'll have to pull up stakes and leave Solace, the same as everywhere else. And just when I was starting to like it here," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," Gerard said, after the man had fallen silent. "I didn't think it was your work, but I had to ask. As for the rest, I really don't know what you're talking about." Truthfully, he was grateful for, if a little puzzled by, the smith's answer, and was more preoccupied by the weapons he had seen at Samuval's fortress and then again in the mountains the previous night. "I wonder if you have any idea who might have made them," Gerard said as diplomatically as possible. "They did have a very distinctive look."

With effort, the smith roused himself. "In what way?" he asked miserably.

"They all had curving blades." Soljack frowned then nodded. "I've heard of a technique for forging blades that results in such a shape. It's supposed to impart greater strength and an ability to hold an edge longer than more traditional methods, although I've yet to hear anyone complain of the more traditional weapons I make. I don't know of anyone who uses such a technique, at least not in these parts."

"Well, it was worth my asking," Gerard said. He started to leave the smithy, then turned back again. "I hope you will rethink your decision to leave Solace," he said. "I know you are highly valued here."

Soljack raised his head, his face an expression of abject misery. He appeared to consider Gerard's words, like a drowning man offered a saving rope.

"And as far as whatever you've done, I'm content to let that rest in the past, where it belongs. No one in Solace needs to know anything about it unless you choose to bring up the matter." He waited, but when Soljack seemed unlikely to respond, started from the shop once more.

"Sheriff," the smith said, his voice barely audible.

Gerard turned.

"Jutlin Wykirk… he has a brother," the smith said.

"What?"

Soljack nodded. "Jutlin has a brother, that's about all I can say. Lives across the sea somewhere. Comes to town every few months. I saw him once by chance, early one morning, heading out to Jutlin's place, driving Jutlin's wagon, which was stacked full of big boxes and crates. One of the boxes had broken open." He hesitated, uncertain. "I can't say for sure, but I thought I saw something gleaming inside." Soljack shrugged. "That really is all I know."

Gerard gave the smith a quick salute and ran out.

Vercleese was lounging beside the well, feeling somewhat refreshed, when he saw Gerard rush from the blacksmith's shop toward the grocery. In the street nearby, Jutlin was just starting to drive off. "Hey, Jutlin!" Gerard called out, running over to him.

Looking puzzled, the miller hauled back on the reins. The wagon creaked to a stop, evidently heavily laden.

Mystified, Vercleese watched Gerard run up to Jutlin. Looking wary now, Jutlin leaned down to hear Gerard whisper something to him. Jutlin pulled away, eyes flashing. Gerard yanked him back, whispered something more in his ear, then turned and strode over to where Vercleese was now rising to his feet. Jutlin drove off, looking back over his shoulder and scowling.

"What was that all about?" Vercleese asked when Gerard reached him.

"Come on," Gerard said, giving Vercleese a hand the rest of the way up. "Let's take these horses to the stable then head over to the jail. I'll fill you in as we go."

"Tell you what," Nyland was taunting the prisoners, "I'll set the keys over here near the cell door, as if I'd accidentally dropped them, then I'll go back to the desk, put my feet up, and maybe take a little nap. That is when you should try to escape. If I'm really asleep, you'll be able to make your getaway." He grinned wickedly. "But if I'm only pretending, I get to run at least one of you through. What do you say? You won't get a better offer than that."

Neither prisoner spoke, contenting themselves with glaring at him contemptuously. Nyland sighed.

This guard duty business was turning out to be far more boring than he could have conceived, and these prisoners weren't doing their part to liven things up.

He eyed the distance to the cell and set the keys on the floor then hurried back to the desk. "Now just give me a few minutes to get ready," he said and closed his eyes, the sheriff's sword lying casually across his lap.

Just then, someone lifted the latch on the outer door of the jail. Nyland's eyes flew open. He looked over at the cell. But no, the prisoners were just then slowly reaching for the keys on the floor.

When the door creaked open, Gerard and Vercleese walked in, looking dusty and smelling of wood smoke. "Interesting! I'd love to know what went through Jutlin's mind when you whispered that in his ear," Vercleese was saying. "It certainly must have caught him off guard."

Gerard waved him to silence and motioned toward the cell then stopped, frowning at the sight of the two prisoners crouched on the floor and frozen in the act of reaching for the keys. He shook his head in dismay and retrieved the keys as the prisoners slunk back to the far corner of the cell.

"Nyland, you've got to be more careful," Gerard said, coming over to the desk. "Those two might have escaped, cutting your throat on their way out the door." He swept Nyland's feet off the desktop and grabbed his sword. "I'd never hear the end of it from your mother if that happened."

Nyland decided it might be best if he didn't mention the little game he had been playing with the prisoners. Somehow, he didn't think the sheriff would approve.

The sheriff yanked Nyland out of his chair. "And speaking of your mother, you'd probably head on home and let her know you're all right. We'll take over with these two now."

"Wait," Nyland said as the sheriff nudged him toward the door. "What about my report?"

"Report?"

Nyland drew himself up to attention. "Deputy Drebble advises the sheriff that the night progressed without undue incident," he proclaimed. Under his breath, he added, "Unfortunately."

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm glad to hear it, uh, Deputy Drebble." The sheriff pushed him out the door. "Thank you. Now go on home. You've earned a good rest after your, ah, dangerous endeavor."

Blinking in the light outside, Nyland yawned and wished the night could have proved more exciting. Then he brightened. His mother wouldn't know any different. In fact, she'd likely be the first to believe he had enjoyed a harrowing experience. He could embellish the story he told her.

He hurried off, thinking up exciting details with which to regale his mother.

Once Nyland had gone, Gerard shut the door and turned to find Vercleese rummaging through the desk. Gerard frowned. "What are you looking for?" he asked.

"I know we put it in here somewhere," Vercleese muttered. "Ah, here it is!" He stood up, holding Copper Mustache's cudgel.

Gerard flinched. "I'm sure there's really no need for that."

Vercleese's only answer was to whack the top of the desk a couple of times, testing the heft of the weapon.

"Really, we should try questioning them first," Gerard said. "There maybe no need to resort to violence, at least not right away."

Vercleese grinned mischievously. "I can always hope, can't I?"

"But what if you accidentally kill one of them?" Gerard asked.

"Why does it have to be an accident?" Vercleese responded. "Besides, the way I figure it, that's the advantage of having the pair of them. That way, if I get careless with one"-he whacked the desktop again, causing Gerard to jump-"we've always got the second as a spare."

In the cell, Copper Mustache merely stared at the two law officers, his eyes betraying little emotion, but an expression of horror spread across the face of his accomplice.

Gerard ran a hand through his hair, then tugged at his beard. "Still, I don't know. It doesn't seem quite right, beating them and all."

"Ah, you're too tenderhearted," Vercleese growled. "That's always been the trouble with you. I haven't gotten to conduct a good interrogation in months. It'll be good to get myself in practice again. I only hope I haven't grown too rusty." Whack, whack.

"What do you want to know? We'll tell," cried the accomplice.

"Shut up, Grudge!" snarled Copper Mustache.

"Grudge?" Vercleese said, peering at the cell. "Well, it's good to have a name, even if it's a strange kind of name. What kind of name is Grudge?"

"Everyone used to complain to my mother that she was always bearing a grudge, so when she had me…" He shrugged helplessly. "It seemed like a good idea… to my mother."

Vercleese turned to Gerard. "Well, I think we should start with our friend Grudge. What do you say?"

"Randolph!" Grudge wailed to his companion.

"I told you, shut up!" Randolph with the copper mustache hissed.

"But they're going to hurt me!" Grudge was blubbering now.

"They're not going to hurt you, stupid." Randolph grinned fiercely at Gerard. "Are you, Sheriff?"

"Oh, I won't, but I can't be sure about my deputy," Gerard said. "He's a real loose cannon. Please, you'd better tell us what we want to know. I'm not sure I can stand to watch him go through another interrogation. The last time he nearly kicked a prisoner to death. Seemed to enjoy himself, too."

Gerard waited. Grudge huddled in the far corner of the cell, his hands over his head, sobbing. Randolph, however, stared back at Gerard, unmoved.

Gerard sighed, letting his shoulders sag. "All right," he said to Vercleese, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "You can have Grudge. I'll see if I can talk some sense into this one." Gerard shuddered. "But take him out back. I can't stand to watch you going about your work."

Vercleese grinned and walked over to the cell. He motioned Randolph away from the door, unlocked it, and hustled Grudge out, locking the door behind him.

"Randolph!" Grudge whined. "For pity's sake, tell the sheriff!"

"Tell me what?" Gerard asked, a hand up to restrain Vercleese. But when Randolph stared silently back at him, Gerard nodded to Vercleese, who shoved Grudge out the door. Gerard could mark their progress as they went around to the back of the jailhouse by the pitiable crying of Grudge. For a long moment, there was silence; then Grudge let out a blood-curdling scream.

"You're next," Gerard said to Randolph. "That is, unless you start talking.

Behind the jail, Vercleese held the cudgel aloft. "Again," he said softly. "Put your lungs into it."

"Or what?" demanded Grudge. "You'll really start hitting me?"

"Just give me an excuse," Vercleese said grimly.

Grudge stared fearfully at the upraised hand and obliged with another terrified scream.

"So how about it?" Gerard asked after the screaming had died down.

"Oh, I could tell you a few things, all right," Randolph said. "Starting off with your parents."

"Uh-huh. No, thank you. I mean, do you have anything you want to tell me about Sheriff Joyner's death?" Gerard asked, cutting short any crudeness Randolph intended.

"Sheriff Joyner?" Randolph snorted. "I don't know anything about any Sheriff Joyner. Not that I'd tell you if I did."

"Next thing you know, you'll be trying to convince me you don't know Jutlin Wykirk either."

Randolph grinned, almost with relief. "Who? Am I supposed to have killed him, too?"

That evening, Gerard sat in the inn, staring morosely at a plate of untouched food-not, thank all the gods, spiced potatoes. He was tired and discouraged. Their charade had failed miserably, and they hadn't gotten any useful information out of Randolph or Grudge.

Now Gerard sat, ignoring the strains of music from the same trio as a few nights earlier. He felt no closer to solving the murder of Sheriff Joyner, the mysterious death of Salamon Beach, or the fumbled attempt on his own life. He had to admit it was possible neither prisoner knew anything about any of the ominous events. It was just possible, he told himself, they were both innocent.

But he didn't believe it for a moment.

His musing was interrupted when someone came to stand beside his table. "I'm sorry, Laura, I'm just not hungry tonight," he apologized, before looking up into the face of-not Laura-Kaleen. "Oh," he said. Then, feeling his greeting had been inadequate, he added, "Hello."

"And good evening to you, too, Lord Porridge." Her laughter dispelled some of the weariness evidenced in her face. "Why so morose? You look as though you just lost your best friend."

"Nothing like that," Gerard said quickly, shaking his head. "It's just… business," he concluded lamely, unwilling to confide his thoughts or confess his failure.

"May I?" she said, pointing to an empty chair across the table.

"Of course."

Just then, the trio struck up a lively tune. Gerard looked around the room. There, right on cue, was Blair, sitting nearby and treating him to an icy stare.

"That is unless"-he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face-"you'd care to dance."

"Why, your lordship, a reprise?" she said with a curtsy. "I'd be honored."

He led her to the center of the floor, where the tables had again been pushed back, right past-quite by chance, of course! — the table where Blair sat. Once out in the dance area, Gerard proceeded to demonstrate all the flourishes his instructor had been at such pains to teach him.