Free The Beloved Land by T. Davis Bunn

old man and entered the shop.
    “See here! This is no way—”
    Jackson took the candle from the old man and began searching the walls. Gordon stepped through the doorway and stood alongside the old man. The entire shop was scarcely the size of a closet and was lined floor to ceiling with glass-fronted shelves. The candle’s flickering light illuminated piles of every imaginable item. Faded medals were stacked like coins along with pistols and silverware and watches and figurines. There were clocks and goblets and stuffed birds and toys. In the corners, muskets and swords were stacked like so much firewood.
    “Here.” Jackson stabbed a finger at a dusty glass. “This is what I saw. Tell me this is what I think it is.”
    Gordon moved quickly across the room to stand alongside Jackson. In the uppermost cabinet, directly behind the shopkeeper’s table, was a tray of jewelry. The centerpiece was an emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. “Let me have the light,” Gordon said, keeping his tone even, though his heart had lurched a recognition.
    “You’re a buyer, are you? Well, that changes things, it does.” The shopkeeper shut and locked the door. “Let me get a better light going.”
    He scrambled around the back rooms, where he no doubt lived, and emerged with a whale-oil lamp. He turned the wick up high. “You’ll walk a score of miles and more to come across an item as fine as that!” he said.
    There was no denying the truth of those words. Even coated with dust, the emerald shone with brilliance.
    John Jackson moved up alongside. “It is Miss Nicole’s?” he whispered.
    “There is no doubt,” Gordon returned. The stone had been a gift from Charles Harrow and had been his mother’s favorite. Nicole had exchanged it for Gordon’s freedom. “None whatsoever.” Jackson coughed again. “I am glad.”
    “Ah, a special lady’s, was it? A friend of the officer’s?” The shopkeeper held the lamp higher still. “No question about it, good sirs, the lady has fine taste. Either that or she kept good company.”
    Gordon turned to the shopkeeper and demanded, “What 68 are you saying?”
    The shopkeeper cringed in the face of Gordon’s ire. “No offense intended, good sir. None at all. You’d think it was the real thing, that’s all I meant.”
    Gordon realized with a start that the man thought the stone was fake. And why not? How else would the item land in such a place as this? He demanded, “How much for the necklace?”
    The hand holding the lamp trembled slightly. “A great amount, good sir. A great and vast amount. I suppose you’ll be wanting the chain as well as the pendant.”
    “Of course the chain. And don’t beat about the bush, man, or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
    “The gentleman was the one who roused me from my bed.” Despite his nervousness, the shopkeeper studied Gordon with a shrewd eye. “Most officers who darken my door come seeking coins for their next meal.”
    “Which you are no doubt reluctant to give,” Gordon shot back.
    “No need for such a tone. No, my good sir, no need at all.”
    “The price!”
    “Ah, well, the price.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “I could hardly set a price on such a piece as this.”
    Gordon laughed shortly. “Then I bid you good night.”
    He turned for the door, motioning John Jackson ahead of him.
    “Wait a moment now, good sirs.” The shopkeeper hastened toward the two. “Wait a moment. I might have been too hasty—”
    “You and I both know,” Gordon said in measured tones, “that in such times you could hold this item for a hundred years and not find a buyer.”
    The old man attempted indignation. “I’ll have you know a fine lady was in here not two days hence—”
    “Hear me out.” Gordon unbuckled his belt and laid its sword upon the counter between them. “Do you know what it is I have here?”
    The gleam in the shopkeeper’s eye said it all. Before him lay a ceremonial sword, presented to Gordon by