Odila and Kaleen exchanged a glance. "The day is young," Odila said. "Even hard-pressed clerics deserve a break once in a while. Meanwhile, Stonegate is there with his workmen even now, seeing to the finishing touches. There isn't much we can do now until they're done with the interior."
"Will it all be ready in time?" Gerard asked. For a moment Odila looked drawn. With effort, she brightened. "It had better be, or there will be an awful lot of disappointed people coming for the inaugural service tomorrow morning. But Stonegate assures us everything will be in order before then."
"He seems a good man," Gerard said. "I'm sure if he tells you everything will be all right, you can be assured it will be." He turned to Kaleen. "And what about you? What will you be doing later, while Odila's over at the temple?"
"Oh, I'll be busy as well," she said vaguely. "Lots to do."
Gerard shuffled for a moment, self-conscious because he didn't quite know where he was leading the conversation, or how to end it either. "Well, I suppose I'd better be…" he offered after a moment.
Odila smiled broadly, as if aware of his uncertainty. "Yes," she said, taking pity on his plight. "We had best be on our way as well."
Gerard nodded to each of them again, but before he could move away, Kaleen abruptly leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she and Odila strolled away, chattering conspiratorially, their heads together and laughing. Over her shoulder, Odila gave Gerard a teasing wink.
Gerard found himself suddenly warmer than the day alone could account for.
As Gerard walked on, he came upon Torren Soljack, away from his forge for once, standing in line to buy a skewer of meat from a vendor. Soljack reached the head of the line and pulled out his purse to count out the necessary coins. Before he could do so, however, Gerard stepped forward and pressed coins from his own purse into the vendor's hand. Soljack turned, surprised. "Thanks," he said gruffly upon seeing Gerard. His eyes flicked over the sheriff, taking his full measure. His expression, if possible, became more dour. "Still not wearing your sword, I see," he added. "You didn't happen to leave it with a deputy again, did you?"
"Yes, but only because doing so made him the best-armed man in Solace," Gerard said expansively, trying to stoke the smith's pride.
Soljack said nothing but went off chewing his meat, apparently satisfied.
One booth was attracting particular attention as Gerard drew near. A small target, hardly bigger than the bottom of an ale mug, had been mounted about heart-high on a post. The target was connected, by means of a system of levers and pulleys any gnome would envy, to a seat mounted above a large tub brimming with water. Cardjaf Duhar occupied the target seat in all his usual finery, looking a little embarrassed at being found in such an undignified situation.
For a modest sum, onlookers received three small bags filled with sand to hurl at the target. A long line of people eager to test their skill wound from the booth and out into the field. So far, no one had been able to hit the target. Cardjaf Duhar sat secure and dry, for all his chagrin.
"Excuse me," someone was saying as Gerard approached. "Excuse me, please."
The people waiting their turn parted to allow a very determined-looking Gatrice Duhar to step the front of the line. She smiled her apologies at those she had displaced, who appeared to accept her right to preeminence in this matter, and paid her sum to the man working the booth. When she had received her bags of sand, she hefted one, considering its weight.
"This is for uprooting me against my will from my home in Palanthas," she cried loudly, and lobbed the first bag.
It missed by a wide margin, sending a chuckle rippling through the crowd of onlookers. Duhar shifted nervously on his seat.
"This is for bringing me to such a"-she hesitated, considering the people around her-"such a bucolic paragon of social distinction."
As onlookers looked questioningly at their neighbors, trying to decipher her words, she threw the second bag. It too missed, though by a narrower margin.
"And this," she announced, hefting the final bag, "well, this one, Cardjaf Duhar, is simply because. After twenty-five years of marriage, I'm sure I must owe it to you for something."
She hurled the bag, putting her whole body into the effort. The bag smacked into the target, setting levers and pulleys in motion and dumping Duhar into the tub. He landed with a splash that sent onlookers scurrying back from the spray. For a moment, he disappeared beneath the surface. Almost immediately, he burst forth again, sputtering and gasping at the shock of cold water. The onlookers laughed and hooted. Gatrice Duhar beamed at her success.
"And try not to track water all through the house when you come home!" she warned her husband as he struggled to clamber over the side of the tub. "I just had the floors cleaned and would hate to have the work all undone so soon."
With a haughty toss of her chin, she turned and strode away. The revelers doffed their caps and parted before her as if making way for a queen, which in a way is exactly what she felt herself to be. Gerard grinned and went to help Duhar as he sloshed and squished the short distance from the tub to a ladder. As Gerard held the ladder steady, Duhar climbed with injured pride back into his seat, where he awaited the next onlooker eager to try his skill.
Gerard was about to wander on, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," said a boy, who looked nervous at addressing the sheriff, "but they sent me to say it's time for the swordplay demonstration."
Gerard nodded and followed the lad to a square ring marked off with ropes. The boy hung back as Gerard climbed over the ropes and into the ring. Vercleese was already waiting, a crimson sash around his waist designating him as the referee. He pointed to a pile of armor in one corner of the ring, and Gerard put it on, strapping and buckling the burnished plates in place. When Gerard had everything arranged to his satisfaction, including a serviceable, blunted sword at his waist, he turned, cradling the helmet under one arm, and faced his opponent in the opposite corner. Blair Windholm stood similarly attired, a deep scowl on his face as he studied Gerard.
Vercleese motioned them forward into the center of the ring. "No thrusting with points, no blows with the sharp of the blade," the knight told the two contestants. "They're dulled but still dangerous. We want to give the citizens an exhibition of skill, not a bloodbath."
Gerard nodded his agreement. So did Blair, though his expression suggested he would have preferred to have done otherwise.
"Then let the competition begin," Vercleese announced, stepping aside from the two combatants. They settled their helmets into place and squared off, feinting and circling at first to feel out their opponent's weaknesses. Blair roared and charged, slamming into Gerard and catching him a stiff blow with the flat of his sword. Gerard careened away, momentarily off balance.
The ferocity of the charge startled Gerard. He quickly resumed his stance on the balls of his feet and shifted his weight from side to side, letting his body remember the feel of armor, rediscovering the moves the armor permitted. When Blair again charged, foolishly attempting the same maneuver, Gerard was ready. He deftly sidestepped and sent Blair sprawling by slipping his sword between the sergeant's frantically churning legs. Then he waited for Blair to regain his feet.
Blair was more wary after that, although his style continued to rely more on brute force than on technique. After the initial attack, Gerard easily parried most of his blows, treating Blair as he would have treated a raw initiate into the knighthood who still possessed more enthusiasm than polish. Frequently, he sent Blair reeling across the ring, howling with frustrated rage. Gerard wondered at the vehemence of the sergeant's attacks, and several times Vercleese had to hiss a reminder not to use the sharp of the blade as Blair hacked away furiously at Gerard.