Saving Solace

CHAPTER 3

They made for Que-Teh following a road that paralleled first the White-Rage River, then Solace Stream. With the rain continuing to fall unhindered around them, they saw little of the countryside through which they traveled, as they were each huddled as far within their cloaks as possible in a vain attempt to keep from getting drenched. Objects, whether trees and rocks in the wilds or buildings in the towns, loomed out of the gloom as they approached, then receded again into invisibility just as abruptly when they had passed.

Occasionally on the road, they passed signs of outlawry-the remnants of a trade caravan, its wagons overturned and burned; a clearing where a battle had raged, the bodies of one side or other left to rot. Twice, Gerard thought he heard skittering among the trees around them, but though he braced for an attack, none came. It could have been elves watching for the patrols of Samuval, the outlaw chieftain whose rogues roamed these parts, he reflected sourly. He glanced over at Vercleese, whose sharp eyes missed little.

At Que-Teh they crossed Solace Stream to Gateway, arriving there in the afternoon. Gerard and Vercleese took counsel, concluded the rain appeared to be lessening, and decided not to stay in Gateway for the night but to push on toward Solace. They proceeded up South Pass, skirting the northeastern edge of Darken Wood, to the bridge at the south end of Crystalmir Lake, where a mill sat alongside Solace Stream. There they turned north for the last couple of miles into Solace proper, just as night was setting in.

The rain had by then returned full force.

Wet, bedraggled, and weary, they finally entered the town, its vallenwoods majestic and its bridge-walks graceful even in the downpour. They came in on the road past The Trough, a disreputable tavern that had been on the outskirts of town the last time Gerard was in Solace, the year before. Now, the sprawling community had engulfed The Trough, making it look even more dilapidated by contrast with the stylish new buildings that seemed to be going up everywhere at ground level, and the new bridge-walks that extended the town's reach overhead. Even in the rain, Solace swarmed with life, with the music of troubadours announcing a party happening somewhere in the tree-tops above, and carriages, wagons, and riders filling the streets below. Several of the wagons, piled high with family belongings, announced new arrivals to town.

Vercleese shook his head, sending raindrops flying. "I've been gone barely two tendays, and already the town's grown beyond where I left it. I'm telling you, boy, don't rest in one spot any too long or they'll erect a building around you."

Gerard peered around in amazement, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the Solace of old, scarcely recognizable in its current state. He halted Thunderbolt to let a group of women cross the street, their passage sheltered under cloaks held aloft by a couple of gallant young men. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere, as if all the citizens were streaming to a festival.

"Is some kind of celebration going on?" he asked Vercleese.

The old knight again shook his head. "Get used to it. This is just the way Solace is these days." He looked about grimly, as if the town offended his ascetic sensibilities, which it probably did, Gerard realized.

Vercleese pointed down the road, toward the center of town. "The Inn of the Last Home is down that way, if they have any rooms left. I'll see you at the mayor's office first thing tomorrow, all right?"

Gerard nodded, remembering the way to the inn from the many times he had visited Caramon there, wondering if the place would still feel the same. Or would it too have changed beyond recognition?

He felt a sudden impulse to visit the Tomb of the Last Heroes before heading to the inn, to pay his respects to the final resting place of Caramon Majere and those other representatives of what seemed from Gerard's vantage point to have been a nobler time. Even the kender Tas was commemorated there, although of course his remains lay elsewhere. Gerard spurred Thunderbolt into starting forward again.

By the time he reached the center of town, more of the older, beautiful side of Solace became evident. Here, the buildings were primarily constructed in the high safety of the trees and linked by a series of suspended walkways. Stairways spiraled around the trunks of a few of the trees, allowing access to the graceful, arboreal community overhead. Only a few buildings stood on the ground, and those only through necessity. One of these earthbound structures was the blacksmith's shop on the south side of the town square. Next to it, Gerard found a large, new stable erected, the smaller one at the base of the tree housing the Inn of the Last Home evidently having been outgrown by the expanding community. Gerard noted this change with approval, for it placed the horses near the smithy where they would be shod. He reined in and swung wearily from the saddle.

A young boy hurried from the stable to meet him.

"What's your name?" Gerard asked, handing him the reins.

"Baird, sir."

"Well, Baird, I put a high value on this horse and want to be sure he's treated right."

Baird nodded solemnly.

Gerard withdrew a coin from his purse and pressed it into the boy's palm. "Will you see to it he gets a good rubdown and a portion of oats with his feed?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"Good, because I'm counting on you, young Baird."

The boy grinned up at him and led Thunderbolt inside.

Gerard made his way through the crowded streets toward the Tomb of the Last Heroes, where he had spent so many hours on guard duty during the war. As he drew nearer, the passersby dwindled, and soon he found himself standing in front of the structure, alone except for the omnipresent guards. The tomb hadn't changed much, except that the ornate marble and obsidian structure was perhaps a little more riddled with places where kender had chiseled off bits and flecks of the structure as souvenirs, almost sacred relics, despite the fence that now surrounded the building. Gerard suppressed a shudder as he recalled the swarms of kender that used to gather at the tomb for Midyear Day. It was unbelievable how so many of them managed to sneak past the locked fence and gate to apply their chisels to the structure's elegant surface.

Gerard observed the two Solamnic Knights who formed the honor guard for the tomb as they marched back and forth before the gate: one hundred paces over, one hundred paces back, salute each other, salute the tomb, then do it all over again. How the days of this repetitious duty mounted up beyond seeming endurance, he recalled. A strange ball of heat formed in Gerard's belly as he followed the two guards with his eyes. He recognized it as a deep-seated resentment toward the knighthood; among its many solemn failures was the thriving existence of that freebooter, Captain Samuval (who nowadays preferred the grand title of Baron to the less pretentious but more serviceable Captain), who had occupied parts of Qualinesti since the war.

Baron Samuval's mercenary troops ravaged the countryside at will, and though Gerard had tried to get the Solamnic Knights to work to oust Samuval, the knights had other priorities. One priority, Gerard thought contemptuously, his eyes following the two knights, was guarding old tombs. Vercleese had told him that Samuval's men even passed through Solace now and then.

Standing before the colonnaded facade of the tomb in the rain brought back so many painful memories, reminders that Gerard had spent much of the war stuck in this place because his father's wealth and influence in the knighthood had bought him a safe billet. How Gerard had longed to see action, to test himself in the upholding of an honored tradition. Instead he had paced before this tomb, one hundred paces across, one hundred back, salute, and repeat the process, until he felt he would die of shame and boredom. So much for his father's much-vaunted honor!

The steady marching of the guards lulled Gerard into a familiar state of semiconsciousness, that detached awareness that had enabled him to endure so many days of mind-numbing duty here. And in this state, he could almost hear Caramon's voice: "Come, lad, have some of Otik's spiced potatoes. You hardly eat enough to keep meat on those bones of yours!"

"I eat enough to keep mind and body functioning. That is all food should be for," Gerard said aloud under his breath, feeling his mouth pull up into a crooked smile.

Caramon would have snorted and pushed the heaping plate of potatoes closer, always hoping to tempt Gerard into eating his fill. "Obviously you've never tasted Otik's potatoes, if you can hold such an opinion of food as that. Here, try some. There's more on the stove."

But Gerard had never taken to Otik's famous potatoes. Now he wished he had given into Caramon's good-natured invitation, if only to satisfy the only person who had befriended him the entire time he had been stationed in this town. Now Palin, Caramon's son, had befriended him.

"They need you here, lad," Caramon's voice sounded in his head. "They need you."

"I hope you're right, Caramon," Gerard mumbled. "I hope you're right."

One of the guards, who was passing in front of Gerard at just that moment, cast him a disapproving look, as though to say he would keep his eye on anyone who went around talking to himself. Gerard ignored the man, returning to awareness of the everyday world around him. Then he turned and headed back toward the Inn of the Last Home, slogging through the rain, oblivious to the bustle of people of all races around him. At the vallenwood tree that held the inn nestled among its branches, he began the long ascent up the winding stairway. Already, with evening scarcely begun, sounds of merriment reached his ears from the inn overhead.

He must have been mounting the steps rather slowly, lost in thought, for suddenly Gerard was pushed aside from behind. "Out of the way," hissed a voice that made Gerard's hair rise. To his astonishment, two draconians-stout-bodied, reptilian creatures with leathery wings, long snouts, scales, and lizard tails-shoved past him. A few steps ahead, the first of the pair threw a parting shot over his shoulder. "Next time, don't get in the way of your betters, or it'll go worse for you."

Gerard stood unmoving, stunned. Draconians? In the Inn of the Last Home? He thought to call out a warning to the inn's patrons overhead, to let them know of the draconians' imminent attack, but the noise from the inn would have drowned out any warning he could give. Instead, he bolted up the stairs after the pair, frantically trying to decide whether to draw a weapon.

He burst into the inn, out of breath, startled to find the noise of merriment had not let up at the appearance of the new arrivals. In fact, the two draconians were just seating themselves at a table with another of their kind. A half dozen Qualinesti elves, now enduring bitter exile, stared with unbridled hostility at the lizard-men from one corner of the room, but otherwise little attention was being paid to the strange creatures. In fact, it appeared from scowling looks on the faces of the inn's other patrons that the elves were regarded more suspiciously than the draconians. Gerard's head swam. Evidently, more things had changed in Solace than he'd thought.

Even though it was still early, the inn was packed. Gerard managed to grab an empty seat when a rugged-looking man in badly stitched deer-hide clothes got up and shambled from the room. He looked about for a serving maid to order some dinner, but Laura Majere spotted him. "Why, if it isn't Gerard uth Mondar," she said jovially. "And still with a face that would curdle milk! I heard from that brother of mine that you were planning to pay us a visit."

Gerard nodded, tight-lipped. It was hard to take offense at Laura's easy familiarity. "He wants me to be the new sheriff," he said.

"Does he? Well, you'll be good at it, I warrant. You've certainly got the discipline."

Gerard smiled. "I was wondering if you've got a room for the night."

"A room!" She waved to indicate the crowded inn. "I've been turning folks away all afternoon, and the evening's just getting started. These days, there's hardly a spare room to be found anywhere in Solace." She eyed his wet, shivering form and dropped her voice to a whisper. "But for you, I got something nice in the attic. A bit on the cozy side, I'm afraid, but it's the best I can do."

"Thank you," Gerard said, sincerely grateful. Now that he was here, he almost felt at home. He was glad to be in out of the rain.

"Now, what say we get some dinner in you?" Laura continued. "That and the warmth of the fire will take the chill from your bones."

"I'd like some stew if you have any."

"Stew? Nonsense! What you need is some of our spicy potatoes. They'll warm you right up."

Gerard tried to insist that what he really wanted was just some mild stew and a mug of tarbean tea, for spicy food tended to disagree with him. But before he could make his case, Laura had wheeled away and hurried off to the kitchen. Moments later, a pretty, dark-haired serving maid appeared at his side, plunking a mug of ale in front of him.

"Uh, I didn't order that," he said, as she started off toward another table.

"Mistress Laura said you were to have it," the girl said. "Said I shouldn't take no for an answer. First one's on the house!" She hurried away.

Gerard stared glumly at the ale, another item for which the inn was renowned. But Gerard wasn't much of a drinking man. He didn't like hard drink, nor, for that matter, did it much like him. Then again, he was thirsty, and there didn't seem to be any other options. He took a sip and repressed a grimace. He imagined horse piss might taste much like this.

The serving maid was soon back with a heaping platter of spiced potatoes. She set it in front of Gerard, who looked at it almost dolefully. She stood by expectantly.

"Um, did you need something?" Gerard asked after a few moments, toying with a fork of potatoes without i actually putting any food in his mouth.

"I'm to see that you eat. Mistress Laura says you need the benefit of good nourishment."

"I'm quite capable of eating without help, thank you," Gerard said as politely as possible, though he was beginning to get irritated.

Still, the girl didn't budge.

Backed into a corner now and unwilling to offend Laura, Gerard nibbled tentatively at the potatoes, then quickly washed the bite down with a hearty gulp of ale. The potatoes really were spicy! Already, he could feel his stomach rumble. He managed a weak grin for the serving maid, who, fortunately, looked satisfied and went away.

Meanwhile, from their corner the exiled elves launched into a patriotic song, just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Tension filled the room. The three draconians glared at the elves, then sniggered, causing the elves to sing even more loudly and fiercely. When the song ended, one of the elves stood and, with a pointed look at the draconians, began to recite:

"There was a draconian, a Baaz, Who fought his own kind because-"

The draconians fell silent, glowering at the elves.

" 'Though many obey us, Our births still betray us, And we live against all nature's laws.' "

The whole party of elves joined in the last line, their voices full of merriment but their eyes full of hate as they stared at the draconians. One of the draconians-a Baaz, Gerard noticed-started to rise, but a claw from one of his companions stopped him. "Relax," said the companion, speaking loudly enough for the room to hear, "we still have their homeland."

The three burst into laughter so harsh it made Gerard flinch.

In their corner, the elves' jaw muscles stiffened, and their hands drifted toward their weapons under the table. However, one of them nudged the others and the elves resumed singing, louder than before. All other noise in the room had stopped by now. Gerard watched the three draconians turn purplish with rage under their various shades of green, and they began breathing in short, ragged bursts. Slowly the three lizard-men reached for the hilts of their swords.

"Then Arrowswift, noble warrior, Flung back his chair and rose, Leaped into terrible battle, Fought against scaly foes.

"Around him soon bled the dying Filling the air with groans, As Arrowswift turned draconians To nothing but piles of stones."

There was uneasy scuffling around the room, and Gerard noticed that other hands half-hidden by tables were also deftly seeking out weapons. The dark-haired serving maid was frozen near a table where a man had been flirting with her, midway between the draconians and the elves-right in the line of trouble.

Desperately, Gerard tried to think of what he should do or say. The only thing that came to mind, almost unbidden, was a silly, nonsense song he had learned from his nurse as a child. He leaped to his feet.

"I loved my cousin Kate, But waited much too late; She married Uncle Nate, And now has thirteen kids. Sing hey for the life of a fool!

"The first they named Poor Pete, For his brains grew incomplete; He uses them for feet, Which won't do as he bids. Sing hey for the life of a fool!"

The elves fell silent, looking at one another in amazement at this strange human who had stood up in their midst to sing a nonsense song. They were clearly dumbfounded. The draconians, too, turned squinting, distrustful eyes on Gerard.

"The second, name of Wort, Was not the brightest sort; They say he ran athwart Six armless invalids. Sing hey for the life of a fool!'

Gerard, who knew his tuneless singing could be bettered by the bellowing of any run-of-the-mill bull moose, even a very old and sick one, nevertheless belted out the words, grinning broadly, all while motioning to the other patrons in the room, encouraging them to join in. Hesitantly, the patrons did join in, and soon the entire room, except for the elves and draconians, were singing and swaying to the silly song. The draconians glared about them a moment longer, then gave Gerard a particularly baleful glare. "Bah!" the one who had jostled him upon entering cried, downing the rest of his drink and rising from the table. "Let us find somewhere less… congenial," he said and led his fellows from the inn. Gerard fell silent, listening to the clumping sounds of draconian feet descending the stairs. Slowly, the elves rose, grumbling, and also left.

The room relaxed. The dark-haired serving maid came over to Gerard's table, looking relieved and as though she wanted to thank him. Gerard waved it off, embarrassed. He made a mental note to ask someone her name. "These potatoes are, um, fine, miss," he said, though he still hadn't had more than one bite. "But perhaps you could take these back and bring me a bowl of that fine porridge I remember from before. Something really bland, with neither milk nor honey." When she hesitated, he smiled, trying to sweeten his words.

She glanced at his mug, still nearly full of ale, then at the scarcely touched platter of potatoes. Her expression darkened. Without a word, she indignantly grabbed up the platter and swept away. Moments later, everyone in the inn was treated to the sound of Laura swearing like a war-hardened veteran in the kitchen.