A Distraction is Arranged
Idgen Marte waited on the quay impatiently. She wanted to wrap herself in darkness, disappear into the shadow. Standing there in plain darkness made her feel exposed. She had a feeling Tibult might not take it well if she disappeared on him. He was getting edgy as it was, grimacing and trying to find a comfortable position for his leg. More than once she started to scold him, only to stop herself short.
Patience, Idgen Marte, patience, she thought to herself. You’ve never had a wound like that. One hand strayed to her throat.
Finally, after an interminable wait, she heard the click of oars in muffled locks and a boat glided into view. Nothing fancy, a simple tar-smeared fisherman’s rowboat, with Torvul a dim, round shape at the stern. He tossed a rope without a word and she caught it with a graceful shift of her wrist, pulled the boat alongside the quay, and tied it neatly on a cleat.
Torvul hauled himself up onto the quay with surprising speed, and even in the darkness she could feel his gaze slide questioningly towards Tibult.
“Thought Allystaire was the one more like t’collect hangers-on,” he muttered.
“Tibult, meet my friend Torvul. Torvul, Tibult,” she said, moving briskly past the dwarf’s disapproval. “Man’s hungry, dwarf,” she added quietly.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“It’s got to do with whatever food you’re carrying,” Idgen Marte said.
“What makes you think…”
Idgen Marte sighed and stepped closer to Torvul, lowering her head towards his. “Dwarf, take a closer look at the man and produce some biscuit or some dried meat, for the Goddess’s sake.”
Torvul stepped closer to Tibult, reaching for a large pouch on the side of his belt, drawing from it a cloth wrapped bundle that proved to be a thick wedge of cheese so white it was almost luminous in the dark.
“Some of the best your city has to offer,” Torvul said, holding it out to the man. “Fresh goat’s milk packed in honey,” he said. “I’ve often thought that the finest part of living on the world above is the abundance of cheese. Go on.”
“Why’re ya doin’ this? What’ll ya want?” Tibult reached out and took the proffered cheese but held it cautiously.
“I told you. Nothing more than a word or two dropped in the right tavern. And gold in your palm for the trouble,” Idgen Marte calmly replied.
“How’m I gonna make it to the right tavern,” Tibult said, around a mouthful of expensive cheese. “My crutch is on the bottom o’ the bay. I can barely walk.”
“Might be I can do somethin’ about that,” Torvul said. “Nothin’ permanent, mind. But I can ease the pain for a bit, make walkin’ easier.” The dwarf patted the pouches on his chest, fingering them as if he could divine the contents with the touch of a hand. He slipped one bottle out and held it towards the veteran.
“I’ve had enough o’ freezin’ potions and their peddlers,” Tibult said with a snarl, one hand curling into a fist.
“You haven’t had any like mine.”
“That’s what the last one said, after I saved up for months, hidin’ links and starvin’ myself—”
“The last one? You bought from a dwarfish alchemist? There is one in the city?”
“Dwarfish? No.”
Torvul’s voice went a little cold. “Then you bought from a false alchemist. This art has belonged to my people and mine only, and if there are a dozen with command of it left in the world I would count myself surprised. Now listen to me,” Torvul said, stepping forward and pressing the potion bottle into the man’s free hand. “This will ease your pain. It will make it easier to walk. It won’t cure your wound and it won’t make you forget that you’ve got it. Each spoonful will let you walk across this city with no more pain than most men your age. And it’s yours to keep, no matter what you do or don’t do for my associate. For this,” the dwarf said, with a certain sober formality, “the product of my craft, I ask for nothing. I will accept nothing. It is freely given.”
Torvul stepped back from Tibult, leaving the potion bottle snugly in the man’s hand. The veteran stared at it for a moment, then tucked it away in his rags.
“Not like anyone in this city to give somethin’ of real value away for free. Man’s got to be short a leg or an eye to end a day w’ a bowl full o’ lead bobs and copper halves,” Tibult muttered.
“Well there’s not anyone else like us in this city, Tibult,” Idgen Marte said, drawing a string of links from a purse with one finger. “Less the friend of ours we need to help.”
“Eh? And where’s he?”
Idgen Marte pointed across the water at the hulking shadow of the Dunes. “In there. And not like to come out again unless we go and fetch him.”
“You’re mad,” Tibult said. “And just what am I to say, what words do I drop in anyone’s ear, that’s gonna make any difference in a madwoman and a dwarf stormin’ the walls of the tightest keep in the baronies?”
Idgen Marte smiled. “It’s not about helping us get in,” she said. “It’s about helping us make it clear of the wall. The city wall.”