Animals and produce weren't the only goods for sale. Citizens of Solace were also buying cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to more extravagant silks and satins and rich brocades, as well as ribbons, lace, buttons, bows, and other items of apparel. Other stalls sold pins and knives, pots and pans, and every kind of kitchen implement. One enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper-green and red and blue, copper and silver and gold-and selling them to harried mothers whose resistance was being worn away by the clamoring of their children. Merchants were turning up from all across Abanasinia for the upcoming temple dedication and festivities. Gerard even noticed Odila with Kaleen in one section of the market, buying scrolls and ink and quills. He nodded at the two, and they smiled back, their arms intertwined as they moved on. That friendship appeared to be blossoming.

He found the Ostermans' stall readily enough, and asked them about their discovery of Sheriff Joyner's body.

"Oh, it was awful, let me tell you," said Tom Osterman, adopting the manner of one relating a well-worn tale. "There were crows everywhere. That's what first alerted me to the fact that something was wrong. I stopped the wagon immediately to investigate-"

"Now, Tom, don't exaggerate," interrupted Sophie Osterman. "You know you got down out of the wagon to look at that field because you long to buy that land."

"Yes, but I did think something was wrong right from the first. I just didn't say nothing until I was certain."

"Ahem, so you found the body," said Gerard, trying to redirect the conversation. "Did anything look out of place?"

"Well, it was a dead body, for one," said Tom Osterman heatedly. "I mean, imagine how you would feel, discovering a good man like Sheriff Joyner sprawled and murdered like that."

"I see." Gerard nodded thoughtfully, trying to tamp down Tom's flash of irritation. He paused as a boy with a paper dragon careened into the Ostermans' stall, then ran off holding the paper dragon aloft as though it were flying. "Uh, what direction were you coming from?"

"Oh, we'd just been to see Jutlin Wykirk," said Sophie. "I remember distinctly, because he was to be our last stop before coming here to the market. And we were arguing about him, Jutlin Wykirk." Tom looked offended. "I mean, we were discussing Jutlin Wykirk. Of course, we forgot all about Mr. Wykirk when we saw Sheriff Joyner's body."

"Hmm," Gerard said. "And why were you discussing this Jutlin Wykirk?"

"A most unpleasant man-" Sophie began.

"But very important hereabouts," interrupted Tom. "He's the town's miller. That's why we had gone there, to get some wheat ground into flour so we could sell it to Brynn Ragulf, the baker."

Gerard remembered the distracted baker with flour smudges all over his face. "Oh, so you do a regular trade with Wykirk?"

"Oh, yes," said Tom. "Everyone around here does, although some folks like having to deal with him less than others."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, old Wykirk doesn't like outsiders," Tom explained.

"Render, dwarves, minotaurs, any creature of that sort," Sophie added. "But especially elves." She grimaced. "He really carries on about elves. Says they're infesting the countryside. I don't know why he gets so upset. Elves aren't really so bad once you get to know them."

"And when have you ever known an elf?" Tom asked, an eyebrow raised.

"I was speaking in the abstract," Sophie said with a sniff. "Now minotaurs or draconians, they are genuinely unfriendly."

Tom snorted. "You're sounding just like old Wykirk."

"Why, Tom, I'll have you know-"

"So nothing looked out of the ordinary when you found the body?" Gerard said, desperately trying to rein in the discussion. "There wasn't much blood, I gather."

Tom frowned in thought. "You know, now that you mention it, there wasn't all that much blood I could see on the ground. Oh, there was some, but I've done my share of butchering animals on the farm, and I'd have expected much more blood to have pooled."

"Maybe all the blood soaked into the ground," Sophie offered.

Tom shook his head. "No, I don't think so." But he looked uncertain.

"Well, thank you both," Gerard said. "If you think of anything to add, let me know." He eased away as Tom and Sophie resumed their bickering over the relative merits of the various races of Krynn.

He spotted Laura buying potatoes for the inn. She saw him and waved before returning to her bargaining with a farmer who looked red-faced and ready to fold under her determined assault. Gerard grinned, his sympathies with the harried farmer. He continued on through the market, although he glanced over his shoulder now and then, feeling he was being followed. But he saw no one.

At one booth, Gerard came across a man selling swords, and he stopped to consider the merchandise.

"Finest swords in all of Ansalon," the man boasted, noting Gerard's interest.

Gerard picked up a sword more fanciful than effective, and wasn't surprised to find that the blade was such poor quality steel it couldn't possibly hold an edge, the «jewels» encrusting the hilt were nothing but glass, and instead of balancing close to the hilt, the sword balanced too near the middle of the blade. Nevertheless, he swept the weapon through a couple of practice moves. Suddenly, he was holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying.

"Huh!" the merchant grunted, watching the blade narrowly miss a serving wench who was haggling over a pair of chickens. "Now that's never happened before." He sounded almost sincere, then quickly shifted Gerard's attention to another sword. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good sir. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in all-"

"I know, 'in all of Ansalon,' " Gerard finished for him, declining the proffered sword, which was even gaudier than the first.

The merchant nodded so briskly his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon out for Gerard's inspection. "That's right-all of Ansalon!"

Instead, Gerard picked up a plain, functional leather scabbard, thinking of the much superior sword the smith here in Solace was finishing for him. Gerard would need a scabbard for it.

The merchant winced at Gerard's choice. "Sir, I really couldn't sell you such a miserable specimen as that. Allow me to show you something finer-"

"How much?" Gerard interrupted.

"Oh, a man of your ilk. You really shouldn't buy such a-"

"By the way, you do have a merchant's writ, don't you?" Gerard asked mildly.

"Huh?"

"A merchant's writ. All the out-of-town merchants are required to have them."

The merchant laughed. "Oh, sir, that's a good one. You had me going for a moment."

Gerard studied the man through narrowly slit eyes, letting the silence stretch out.

The merchant began to squirm. "Say, just who do you think you are, anyway?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, allow me to introduce myself. Gerard uth Mondar. I'm the sheriff hereabouts."

The merchant's belligerent expression sagged. "You're not serious."

"You know, that was my reaction when they first offered me the job."

"You're really the sheriff?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And that business about the merchant's writ?"

"Yes, that is true as well," Gerard said, nodding.

Sweat broke out on the merchant's brow. "Look, I'm sure we could reach some kind of agreement on that scabbard, if you fancy it so."

"How much?" Gerard repeated.

"Tell you what-for you, only twenty steel."

Gerard cocked an eyebrow. "How much?"

"Uh, did I say twenty? Whatever could I have been thinking?" The merchant attempted a chuckle that sounded more like choking. "I meant fifteen."

Gerard stared at him.