escape town

You know there is nothing there, but you can't help but look now and then. You came here because it is the only place that came quickly to mind that is sunny, on the edge of town, and where you are not known by name, having only been here a handful of times; but you can't help checking the back entrance, over your shoulder, where every time you look you see only the weedy field through the open window, which unaccountably makes you more nervous, though there is no reason at all that it should. In the parts of town where you are more known, the view, if there were one, would be of a dingy alley or a slant of gray sky perhaps.

Two more ales in, and your glance is unexpectedly answered by a dwarvish face peering in at the window passing by. It is followed by others in a line, some of whom peer in as they pass, and one of whom pauses the merest moment to return your gaze with a squint, before looking a bit nervous and hurrying on.

The back door opens, and the lot shuffles in nervously. The inn keep hurries over and meets them where they stand, all laden with traveling gear and talks quietly for some moments before some agreement is reached, and the boy is sent to tend their mules you suppose.

You smile and order another from the keep when he has finished with them, thinking how comical and out of sorts they seem, milling and shuffling there, finding their way to a table, and yes, glancing back at you; and all your anxiety and searching thoughts flee out of the window, as you settle back and prepare to spend the next couple of hours observing them, and entertaining yourself by wondering what they are about. Clearly they have just come in off the highway, from distant parts, and are wary of appearing foolish to humans, and city folk at that.

They order some rounds, and eat some food, and talk in hushed but carrying tones, as the afternoon wears on. They surely are as drunk, or drunker than yourself, but the tenor of their talk does not change; and you start to lose interest and wonder after all, what you are going to do yourself. That is why you came to this place, and why you were anxious before they distracted you.

You cannot think clearly at this point, though, and decide to get a room for the night and hope for the best until morning; when a shadow hovers over your empty mug accompanied by a voice, which quietly says, "Would you, sir, join us at our table for a beer?"

You look up, slightly surprised and secretly overjoyed.

"Or an ale, or a mead, or a glass of wine, if you'd rather," he hurries, still sort of whispering. "Would you permit us, sir, to buy you a drink at our table?"

You nod slightly and carefully stand. He smiles at this and nods, and fidgeting nervously, he leads you over to their table.

"I am Lars," he says, "and you are ...." His nose is ruddy and his beard is brown, his traveling hood an ochreish yellow and his eyes almost beady but rather a bit sad, beneath the glow of ale in his face.

"I am Dirk," you reply, humbly in spite of yourself.

"These are my various companions," he says and gestures for you to sit; and you settle among them, trying to lean down on your elbows to their level, without appearing ridiculous or excited.

Eight dwarvish faces, a bit blurry and amorphous, regard you hopefully. You remain plain faced.

Another round is ordered, and haltingly it is explained to you how the dwarves are from elsewhere (you pretend this is not obvious) and in the market for a good thief for hire, and do you know of one?

"I just might," you say, neutrally, "but what sort of job ... is it?"

More drinks are ordered, and they become slightly more animated, explaining that while many of them are quite accomplished in various ways and means themselves, they are as you can clearly see each and all of rather limited stature and therefore less apt to certain types of tasks, and well, the long and short of it, is that there is a certain wall of such and such height that wants scaling, and none of them are up to it.

You lean back slightly, savoring the moment. "I know of no better climber of walls, in this city, or in all the world for that matter," you say, "than ... myself."

The eight bearded faces stare at you, and for a moment you think this is not wise, then one who has heretofore been silent speaks.

"We are perhaps so fortunate.... But that has not been our fate before now."

You shrug. "I do not lie," you say, "but tell me, where is the wall you want me to climb?"

"You'll have to come with us," says Lars quickly. "It's some days journey."

You start to speak again, feeling mixed; but he interrupts: "If you win over the wall and open the gate to let us in, then you can either wait in the trees while we finish the job, for a half share; or you can come with us for a full share." Some of the others look around nervously.

"This is all a bit much," you say, after a moment, "to digest. Shall we not ... for bed now and convene in the morning?"

A muttering goes round the table, and one last round is ordered, but it is agreed that for both parties it is over much to be decided until morning, and sobriety; and you retire for the evening, grateful, for your part, that you needn't think further on your own predicament, which in the drunkenness and unexpectedness (of the friendly dwarves) has receded murkily, without however altogether going away.

You go to bed with dagger drawn and by the bedside; and you awake some hours later to dead stillness and quiet and excessively bright moonlight pouring in through the window. You get up, without quite knowing why, and go to the window. The courtyard below is still, quiet, empty. You are still a bit drunk. You stare at the moonlight, wondering why it should bother you.

A cloud partially occludes the moon for a moment, and you feel a chill. Somewhere you recall, someone (or perhaps more than one) is almost certainly hunting you right now, with your quick and efficient death in mind and a reward to be had for it. Feeling a bit crazy, uncertain, and yet more awake, you gather your few things and exit the window, to climb carefully down to the courtyard and stumble over to the shadows behind the stable, where you collapse on the grass and pass the rest of the night without event.

The sun wakes you, and you find your way across the dewy grass to the common room, where the amusing yet fearful and themselves mysterious dwarves are already seated and ordering breakfast.

"Just took a walk to settle some accounts," you explain, "so as to be ready for the road, should we ... still find each other agreeable to it."

They accept this with an aplomb that would seem overconfident if not in the context of their abiding anxiety of everything. It's as if taking the serendipity of meeting you, and the drunkenness of both parties, for them is more reassuring than the seeming ordinariness of the town they have just wandered into. You smile the more so; and breakfast is finished, and it seems both parties have agreed without saying anything, or perhaps even really thinking on it, that you will together take to the road immediately.

The morning is bright and, for Spring, cold, and the east road is shaded by many oaks; and there is little talk. They have four mules between them, for gear; and you have only what is on your person: your dagger, your long sword, your pack with water-skin, wine-skin, thieves' tools, and rope, and some personal mementos of varying worth.