Rogi wrenched his mind away from remembrance of his mothe— no, not mother, though he still thought of her that way… rather the witch who had raised him—"She plucked you from the sea, after you bad been thrown in twice"—or so the S'danzo Elemi had said as she read her seer's cards. Even so, had he not substituted that other green potion for the one he "accidentally" drank, perhaps his mother the witch would still be—
"It is done," whispered the ghastly, hollow voice of Rogi's master, a voice like dead leaves rustling in icy wind. "Now we wait." With an awkward, stumping gait, Rogi hobbled around to face the enshadowed cowl; the malformed little man in an overlarge shirt peered up at the gaunt, six-foot-one necromancer, all the while hoping he wouldn't see the oh-so-terrible, painted-on eyes. "Now the champion will come, eh, Mathter Halott?"
In a dark corner of the Vulgar Unicorn, two men sat drinking brandy: one a fairly handsome young man, the other rather nondescript. "But I want that gemstone, Soldt, and I will pay well for its winning."
Toying with his glass, Soldt looked across at the fair-haired eldest son of Arizak. "You can enter the tournament yourself, Naimun. You have an adequate hand at swords."
"Ah, but contestants have come from all over—have you not seen the docks? Hardly a slip left open. And the stables are full as well, the inns near to bursting." Naimun gestured at the crowded common room. "And see these bravos, blades on their hips, surely the best of the Rankans and the Ilsigi as well as of the Irrunes. Aye, perhaps I could win a few, but I am not one to fool myself: I have no chance of reaching the final, much less of winning it. But you, Soldt, you are a master, a teacher of the dueling blade, and certain to win."
Soldt shook his head, his ragged-cut brown hair ruffling. "But for the lessons I give, Sanctuary is the place I come to get away from swordplay. I do not like to let blood within the city walls."
"But it's just to first blood—a simple nick, Soldt—and the prize well worth the risk. Ha! For you, there is no risk."
Again Soldt shook his head. "Naimun, whenever there's an edge or point involved, there is always a risk. Have you not been listening during your—?"
The blond Irrune shoved out a hand of negation. "Pah! You are the best swordsman in the city, Soldt, and I wager in the land as well. None can match your skill. Besides, when you win and I gift the gemstone to my father, I'll stand higher in his eyes, perhaps even on an equal footing with—" Of a sudden Naimun fell silent and stared into the dregs of his drink, and bitterness dwelled in his gaze, or so it seemed to Soldt.
Soldt's angular face remained impassive, and he continued to toy with his glass. Moments passed with no word between them, but finally—"What would it be worth to you?"
Naimun looked up. "What would you ask?"
Soldt peered across the crowded common room: men at every table, serving maids rushing here and there, doxies among them plying their trade, Pegrin the Ugly behind the bar, filling jacks and glasses and mugs. Among the tables a passed-out drunk slumped forward upon one, his mates ignoring him, as well as the one on the floor. Off in a corner booth two men furiously argued; perhaps it would come to blows or blades. Soldt's gaze returned to Naimun.
"Three things." He held up his hand and raised a finger. "First:
For each one I face I get paid, whether or not I win, and thrice my usual training fee, since there is blood involved."
Naimun nodded. "Agreed."
Soldt raised a second finger. "If I am wounded, I am to be treated only by the best of healers—Pel Garwood will do, if Velinmet's not available—but I'll have no mages nor priests involved, and especially no witches… and you will pay for all."
Soldt raised a third finger. "Lastly, I will be paid a fair price for the gemstone itself, as appraised by Thibalt the Rankan. Once the Dyareelans were done with their, um, offerings, there weren't many jewelers left, but Thibalt survived and is one of the few I trust to give a true assessment. It is his valuation we will use to set the worth of the stone."
"Agreed," replied Naimun. He waited, but Soldt said no more. "That's it?"
Soldt turned up a hand.
"Huah," grunted Naimun. "And here I was going to offer you a new sword to replace that smudged up blade of yours."
Soldt cocked an eyebrow at Naimun.
"I still will," said Naimun. "We'll go up to Face-of-the-Moon Street on the Hill, up to that new weapons dealer, um…"
"Spyder," supplied Soldt.
"Right. Spyder… he and that girl—a pretty thing—quiet as a mouse, but moves like a cat, she does."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Soldt's mouth. "Familiar. —Her movement, that is."
Naimun looked at Soldt, but the duelist added nought. "Regardless, Soldt, my offer yet stands: a new sword. Rumor is that some of his blades are enchanted."
Again a fleeting smile crossed Soldt's face. "So they say, my friend."
"Then shall we add a new sword to your fee?"
Soldt gave a slight shake of his head. "The one I have will do."
"As you wish," said Naimun. He swirled then swigged the last of his brandy and glanced at Soldt's near-empty drink, then he caught the eye of a passing serving girl and raised his glass and signed for two more of the same.
Muttering to himself, Rogi waddled back and forth past a now-lit lantern sitting adock at the root of an empty slip, one of the many built after the great blow, there along the shore nigh Fisherman's Row. The small hunchback stopped occasionally to pull up a floppy sock, first on one leg and then on the other, but then resumed his awkward gait. As he passed by the lantern for perhaps the hundredth time, a pair of wharf rats scuttled across his path, and Rogi flopped back the cuffs of his too-long sleeves from his hands and clutched at the small blow gun on its thong about his neck and fumbled in his belt pouch for a dart along with his tin of special paste. "Ratth, Mathter," he said with a lisp, his overlong tongue getting in the way. "I'll put thorn to thleep for you." But at gesture of negation from the necromancer, Rogi let loose the pipe and watched the rats disappear into the darkness. Forthunate ratth— even Rogi's thoughts lisped—you will not awaken to be thkinned alive by my Mathter Hdlott.
Rogi took up his pacing once more. Now and again the little hunchback peered past the slip and out into the eerie mist… for what?… he knew not. Occasionally he glanced at his Master Hal-ott, seeking some clue as to what might come, or perhaps seeking confirmation that nothing would. And the dark, blood-red moon was yet swathed in shadow.
But then…
But then…
… there faintly sounded the dip and pull of oars, and coming through the silvery mist, coming through…
"A thyip," hissed Rogi. "Mathter Halott, a thyip comth." Not knowing what to expect, the little man scuttled behind the tall, gaunt figure and peered around at the approaching craft.
Halott did not move.
Luminous mist aswirl with its passage, a small, single-masted ketch—its sail hanging lank, its oars creaking—eased through the chill waters and toward the pier, and Rogi could make out a huge figure plying the blades, while a smaller one sat astern at the tiller, both encloaked and hooded.
Onward came the ship, past others moored in the bay at anchor and toward the crowded pier, aiming for the light of the lantern, and as it neared the huge figure gave one last pull, then shipped the oars and stood and turned about; Rogi breathed a sigh of relief, for now he could see it was a man—what else he might have imagined, Rogi could not say. The man stepped to the bow and took up a mooring rope as the craft coasted into the slip. "Aid them," whispered Halott, and Rogi sprang forward, causing the man in the ship to frown in startlement at this scuttling misshapen creature. Nevertheless, he tossed the line to the small hunchback, and Rogi hauled the bow of the craft to the root of the slip and tied it to a mooring post as the man hung two tethered bolsters of hemp over the side to fend the craft from the jetty.