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.
