Saving Solace

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 watched 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.

It was no wonder Jutlin Wykirk was so skinny, if this bread was an example of his wife's cooking.

Out in the mill yard again, Gerard leaned for a moment against Thunderbolt and tried to steady himself. His stomach was roiling. "When was the last time you saw Sheriff Joyner?" he ventured, trying to make conversation in order to forestall the effort required to mount the horse. Jutlin grinned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I gather he used to go visit Samuval from time to time," Gerard said. "And sometimes he went to see the elves. That would put him in the neighborhood of your mill, now and then."

"Elves!" Jutlin spat. "All those wretched creatures- elves and dwarves and every other vile sort-hanging about Solace these days, crowding the place. Even draconians, from what I hear!"

"So you didn't see Sheriff Joyner before he was murdered."

"Depends on what you mean by 'before,' don't it?" Jutlin kept on grinning, reminding Gerard of a young child who has just learned to bandy words with his parents. "I might have seen him a day or two before, or it might have been longer." He shrugged. "I can't rightly say."

"Tell me, did Sheriff Joyner welcome the various races to Solace?"

Jutlin's expression clouded. "No more than anyone else in town. They all like to go on about how growth is good for the community. As far as I'm concerned, what would be good for the community would be to run all them out of town. Keep Solace for human folk."

"So you didn't like Sheriff Joyner?"

"Oh, the sheriff was all right, so long as you didn't get him onto the subject of what he called 'tolerance.' There was never any bad blood between us, if that's what you mean. Yes, I can truly say I liked him well enough."

Gerard nodded and, having put off the inevitable as long as he could, swung heavily into the saddle. He sat for a moment and forced himself to take deep, steady breaths, studying the tumbledown mill and huge, decrepit barn. Then with a wave, he eased Thunderbolt onto the road.

At Corly Ames's place, he was induced to try the sourberry pie, one of the tartest dishes he'd ever tasted, while Trent Linden's wife (Gerard never did catch her name) served him up a generous bowl of cabbage soup. By the time he reached the Ostermans' place, he could barely stay alert in the saddle, and he wondered how he could politely decline any further country fare.

Tom and Sophie were delighted to see him again. They took him around the farm, showing off their chickens (Gerard was beginning to wonder if farmers detected a level of personality in the creatures that was indistinguishable to mere townsfolk, they carried on about their chickens so) and their fields of wheat. "I'm still hoping to acquire that extra field," Tom said with a hint of shy pride. "That would allow me to considerably enlarge the farm."

"You mean the field where you found Sheriff Joyner's body?"

Tom's cheerful expression fell. "Yes. Though it'll bring sad memories, of course, working that field now. I expect it'll take quite a bit of time before it's just another field again."

"Well, thank you for showing me about the place," Gerard said as they arrived back in the farmyard around the house. "I'd best be on my way."

"What! Before you join us at table? Sophie and I wouldn't hear of it! It's a tradition when the sheriff comes calling to sup together. We always looked forward to Sheriff Joyner's visits."

Gerard protested weakly, knowing from the start that his words were falling on deaf ears. All too soon he was seated at the table in a huge farmhouse kitchen that would have sufficed to serve everyone at the Inn of the Last Home on a busy night. Sophie slaved furiously at the stove while Tom droned on about acreage under cultivation and crop yields and market prices. As he spoke, a pungent, peppery odor began to permeate the air, and Gerard felt like weeping.

"Here you go!" Sophie said at last, plunking a large serving dish down on the table. "I know Laura Majere sets great store by her spiced potatoes, and that recipe's a treasured family secret. But I'll wager my spiced potatoes will stand up against anyone's!"

Gerard groaned inwardly. If anything, Sophie's potatoes smelled even more robustly flavored than Laura's. At the risk of committing a grave breach of etiquette, he grabbed the nearest serving spoon and began dishing himself up a modest helping, figuring he was likely to get off with smaller portions if he served himself than if he left the job up to his hosts. Indeed, Sophie frowned at the small amount on his plate and looked ready to object.

"I can't wait to try them!" Gerard exclaimed, shoveling in a mouthful before Sophie could interrupt… and almost dropped his spoon on the table. The potatoes were hot! Not stove hot, but spicy hot, peppery hot, peel-the-skin-off-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot. Gerard gasped and gulped at the mug of ale Tom had set before him. The burning sensation diminished only as long as he kept drinking, for soon as he stopped for breath, the searing pain returned full force. "More!" he choked, finishing his ale and pushing the mug toward Tom. "Please, some more."

Tom laughed good-naturedly and refilled the mug while Sophie beamed as though Gerard had just paid her the highest form of compliment. "I'm glad you like them," she said, blushing.

Gerard didn't try to correct her misapprehension. He continued drinking ale, though at a slower rate. Finally, he was able to tolerate the twinges that continued to plague his trembling mouth. He set the mug down, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and looked at his plate.

One mouthful down, and who knew how many more yet to go. He let out a deep breath and resolutely picked up his spoon. As Tom and Sophie looked at him, beaming, and eagerly beginning to devour their own hefty servings, Gerard began toiling through the rest of the portion on his plate.

By the time he was through, his stomach was heaving and his head was spinning with the effects of the ale. He had to have Tom's help clambering back into the saddle. He headed back into town at the gentlest pace he could coax from Thunderbolt, who was still impatient for a good run. His shadow stretched far into the field on his right. Even at a plodding walk, the potatoes and ale were not long with him. Indeed, all the day's victuals were soon left behind at the side of the road.

He had made an entire sea voyage at the height of a storm, he thought miserably, and never once was seasick. Yet here he was now, unable to keep simple farm fare down on a neighborly visit through the countryside.

From now on, he resolved, he would stick in town where he belonged.