They made the rest of the journey in unaccustomed silence. When they reached town, it was still early enough that few people were up and about, and their progress through the streets went disregarded except for an occasional hallo from passersby. They returned the greetings with grim nods, and if anyone found them unusually taciturn this day, it was dismissed with a shrug. People had their own affairs to consider, and the peculiarities of farm folk held little interest to the citizens of Solace.

Tom made his way to a quiet side street that housed the shop of Argyle Hulsey, a local healer Tom and Sophie had once consulted about their apparent infertility. Although Mistress Hulsey had been unable to help them conceive, hers was the only place Tom could think of to go now on this graver occasion. Outside the shop, he helped Sophie dismount. "Go find the mayor," he whispered. "The healer's servant will help me get the body inside."

She slipped off down the street as Tom knocked softly on the shop door.

¦ ¦¦¦ ¦

Palin Majere, mayor of Solace, bent over the body laid out on a worktable in the healer's shop and examined the word gouged into its chest. The smell of pungent herbs and potions almost cloaked the scent of death that clung to Sheriff Joyner's corpse. "What do you make of it?" Palin asked.

"Morgoth?" asked the grizzled, one-armed deputy, Sir Vercleese uth Rothgaard. "It sounds like a word out of the ancient elven tongue." He shook his head. "Not that that helps us much. I don't know the word nor the tongue."

Palin glanced at Argyle Hulsey, but she too shook her head before turning back to her mortar and pestle. "It can't have a very friendly meaning," Palin said, "since it looks as though the sheriff was murdered."

"He was a good man," said Sir Vercleese solemnly. "Didn't have enemies to speak of."

"No." Palin studied the body again. "Well, we'll give him a proper burial, of course, but we'll have to start looking for a new sheriff right away." He parted the curtains just enough to peek out the window to where the town now bustled with activity. The new Temple of Mishakal was scheduled to be dedicated in a few tendays, and Solace was full of visiting dignitaries, pilgrims, and other less savory folk, on top of the immigrants and refugees who already had the town stuffed to overflowing. "This is not a good time to be without a sheriff," Palin muttered.

The corners of Vercleese's mouth quirked down, and his brow furrowed for the briefest instant, immediately replaced by the mask of studied detachment that settled again upon his face. Had Palin not been watching the man, he would have missed the expression entirely.

The former knight's dignity had been slighted.

"I'm sorry, Sir Vercleese," Palin said softly. "It's not that you wouldn't do a fine job-"

Vercleese waved him off with his one hand. "I understand, sir. You need a younger, able-bodied man in the job. And I agree." He paused then added, "Did you have someone in mind?"

"I just might at that," Palin said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "But I'll need a message delivered to Southern Ergoth. Will you carry it for me?"

If possible, Vercleese stood straighter, and his chest swelled. "It would be my honor, Your Lordship. I'll leave at once."

"Good. It'll take you a few days to get there, then a few days coming back, with I don't know how much time required in between. All the while, Solace will be at a disadvantage."

"I'll make good time," the old warrior said stiffly.

Palin clapped him on the shoulder. "I know you will."

An hour later, Vercleese mounted his horse and slipped out of town unnoticed. He would follow Solace Stream down to the White-Rage River, which would take him to New Ports. From there, he would seek passage to Southern Ergoth. His departure was accomplished, Palin assured himself, with the utmost prudence. Argyle Hulsey's discretion in the matter could be relied upon. No one in town need be any the wiser for at least several days.

¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦

"Sheriff Joyner was murdered?" repeated an incredulous man in the crowd that had gathered around the Ostermans' booth in the marketplace.

Tom Osterman, still unloading vegetables from the wagon and arranging them enticingly on the crude wooden counter, nodded. "That's what I said."

There was considerable jostling in the crowd as people strained to hear the Ostermans' news. Tom glanced at Sophie, who frowned in apparent disapproval that people had come to hear the gossip rather than to buy the produce. "Got some mighty fine beets," Tom called out, seeking to shift the topic of discussion. "And the potatoes are especially good this year."

"And what did you say was carved on the sheriffs chest?" another voice demanded.

Tom blew out an exasperated breath. "Morgoth, I think it was. Anybody know what it means?"

There was a general shaking of heads, and no one spoke for a moment.

"What do you say, folks? We have some of the best produce in Solace here," Tom said, trying again. He held up a bunch of plump, sweet-looking carrots in one hand, a fresh onion in the other, and gazed questioningly at the crowd.

It seemed the populace of Solace grew more diverse with each trip he and Sophie made into town. Humans still numbered in the majority, but among the milling crowd today were several dwarves-from sober representatives out of Thorbardin to the merest gully dwarf-a cluster of smoke-stained gnomes deep in discussion, an elf or two, a kender with purloined carrot tops peeking out of several of his innumerable pouches, and a couple of well-armed draconians, hissing in that sibilant tongue of theirs and shunned by the rest of the crowd. Across the marketplace there was even a minotaur-a huge, fur-covered man with the head of a bull and great, curving horns-breasting his way through the crowd toward the Ostermans' booth.

Beside him, Tom heard Sophie gasp at the minotaur's approach.

It was now midmorning, and the marketplace was teeming. There was a rich variety of booths, selling swords and knives, silks and satins, and all manner of foodstuffs. The aroma of roasting meat floated above the crowd. The tunes played by musicians competed with the shrill noise of the sword maker's grinding wheel and the bidding of customers.

Not everybody was on their best behavior. Tom watched a fight break out a few booths over as two tinkers competed for the same repair job. They wrestled one another to the ground and rolled about underfoot, at which point the woman seeking to have her pot mended shook her head in disgust and walked away, presumably to find another vendor.

The minotaur reached the Ostermans' booth and addressed Sophie. "Some of those beets and carrots, if you would be so good," he said in a rumbling voice that seemed more command than request. Sophie gulped and hastened to comply.

Tom's attention was distracted by a scuffle that broke out in front of his own booth. "No need to push," Tom said, stepping between a tough-looking human and two elves. "There's plenty of produce here to go around."

"They know what it means," the tough-looking man said, pointing to the elves.

"What what means?" Tom asked.

"Morgoth," the tough said. "Tell 'em." He elbowed one of the elves, who scowled down at the ruffian as though the human were beneath contempt.

"Sir elf, can you enlighten us?" Tom asked as others drew closer, listening.

For a moment, it looked as though the elf-tall, thin, and haughty as were all of his kind, his features sharp and his dark hair only partially covering his pointed ears-would disdain to reply. Then he frowned and said, "Beware. It means beware." With that, he and his companion turned and strode off.

A chill went down Tom's spine, and for a moment all was silent before his booth. Even the minotaur had paused to listen. Then the crowd broke into a multitude of languages and voices, each person striving to make himself heard above the commotion. «Beware» sprang from tongue to tongue, leaping like a squirrel darting though the trees. Beware, beware! But beware of what?