'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.
But Gerard wasted little thought this time on the source of the smith's antisocial manner, for a question had formed in his mind as he sat and out-waited the man. He strode purposefully through town, receiving the salutations of the people he encountered with brief nods. If he hurried, he had just enough time to get to where he was going before he had to be somewhere else. He found the shop he was looking for, ducked in beneath the clusters of drying herbs suspended from the ceiling-he recognized fastbind and haleboar and sweet lady's bonnet among dozens of other specimens-and hailed the proprietor.
'Mistress Hulsey, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.'
Argyle Hulsey straightened from the mixture of herbs and spices she was reducing to a powder with a mortar and pestle. The aroma of mint rose in a heady cloud from the crushed mixture, overwhelming the more delicate odors in the room. She shrugged the tension from her narrow, birdlike shoulders and peered at Gerard. 'Sheriff?'
'You examined the body of the late Sheriff Joyner, did you not?'
She looked at him with a combination of curiosity and irritation. 'You know that I did.'
'Tell me, did you discover anything of an, um'-he thought how he might phrase the question without jiving away the answer he anticipated-'of an
'Unusual?'
'You know, such as strange markings?'
'Well, I would certainly call the word cut into the flesh of his chest unusual in that regard. What was it now? An Elvish word, I believe.
'I mean other than that etched word, of which we all know. Was there anything else?'
She shook her head; then her gaze became more piercing. 'Sheriff, exactly what is it you are wanting me to say?'
He spread his hands helplessly. 'Did you look under the hair on his neck, as you did with the architect, Salamon Beach?'
'Of course.' Understanding lit her face. 'Oh, you mean the tattoo.'
'Precisely.'
'Well, why didn't you simply say so, instead of sounding like Lady Drebble's fool of a son, Nyland?' She brushed away his attempted explanation with an impatient gesture. 'No, Sheriff, Graylord Joyner's body possessed no such tattoo as did the body of Salamon Beach.'
Gerard felt a hoped-for connection between the two deaths slip away. 'You're sure?'
'Of course I'm sure,' she snapped. 'Do you presume to question my professional competence?'
'No, no,' he said hastily. 'I merely… well, I had hoped perhaps there would be such a tattoo, which would suggest a common between the two men.'
She shook her head. 'I knew Sheriff Joyner for a good number of years,' she said with a tightness in her voice that made Gerard think there might have been more to their relationship than simply professional association. 'I can assure you, he had no such tattoo, nor was he a gambler.'
Gerard nodded, although the thought occurred to him that if Sheriff Joyner didn't gamble himself, that didn't mean he wasn't somehow connected with those who did, especially if there was anything about this gambling society that might cause it to run afoul of municipal authorities. In such a case, it would be extremely useful to the members of the society to have the sheriff in their purse.
He thanked the healer and left her shop, no further enlightened than he'd been before coming there. But Gerard made a mental note to discuss with Vercleese the possibility that Sheriff Joyner might have been somehow involved with the gambling society. The deputy was aware of much that went on in this town, and had worked closely with the former sheriff.
Right now, Gerard had an appointment of a very private nature to keep.
