“Fixing the fireplace,” the man in the back added helpfully.
“It’s after curfew. You won’t be able to get back in until morning.”
“That’s all right. We’ll stay at my granny’s.”
The guard still thought the whole thing was extremely fishy, but his orders were more about people and things coming into the city than people and things going out.
“All right. Pass on then. But I’m going to remember the lot of you.”
“Well?” said the tall one at last.
“Well what?” the guard replied.
“Aren’t you going to open the gate?”
“If you want the gate opened do it yourself. There’s three of you.”
The driver started to protest, thought better of it and nudged his companion to get down off the seat.
“Takes two to manage. Can you at least help him?”
The guard jerked his chin at the man in the back of the cart. “What’s wrong with him? And why’s he sitting funny like that?”
“Hurt meself loading the cart,” the little one said. “Set off me lumbago, it did, and sitting any other way hurts.” The guard snorted and turned to help the third man open the gate. The cart creaked through and off into the night with Wiz still magically frozen under a load of turnips.
“Hurry up with that cement, will you? My arm’s getting tired.”
A fire provided light and kept off the chill. A couple of hundred feet away the horse, still hitched to the cart, munched grass placidly. Wiz was standing in a tub half-full of cement, gesturing to empty air. One of the thugs was holding a sword to his throat and the other two were bent over another tub stirring the contents with wooden hoes.
“You want another turn at it?”
“All this work. I think we’re underpaid, charging for this like a simple kidnapping. Between the hauling, the mixing and the rest I swear stone cutting’s an easier living.”
“Where is he anyways?” the third one put in. “I want to count me money and see the back of this job.”
“We’re supposed to meet him at Bottomless Gorge, and we’re still a good half mile from Bottomless Gorge.”
“And who was it who decided we’d stop and do it here, eh?”
“I didn’t decide. Here’s where the cart broke down.”
“I knew it would,” the third one said gloomily. “Overloaded it was, and as soon as we got off the main road . . .”
“It will ride lighter with nothing but him in it,” the tall one told them. “Just get that stuff mixed up good and we’ll have plenty of time to fix the cart while it sets hard. Meanwhile our client will just have to wait.”
“I dunno. Not good business practices to keep a client waiting. How’s that cement coming?”
“Still more like soup than cement.”
“You put too much water in,” the tall one said from where he held the sword on Wiz.
“I did not!” the shorter man retorted.
The third one stuck his hoe blade in the trough and watched the milky concoction run off the end. “This lot’s got chalk mixed in with it. Adulterated, that’s what it is.”
“Came right out the city warehouse, it did,” the short man said morosely. “Councilman Hanwassel’s best. You can’t trust no one nowadays. The decline in honesty in our society is shocking. Positively shocking. Me, I lay it all to the parents.”
“Me, I lay it all to you,” the tall one said acidly. “Last time I let you get the supplies for a job!”
“And who was it who was too busy nattering over his ale in the Blind Goat to go out and get the necessaries?”
“That was planning,” he answered loftily. “Something like this takes planning-and delegation. It’s up to the subordinates to fulfill the tasks delegated to them.”
“You can delegate all you want,” the short man answered sullenly. “But next time you steal the flipping cement.”
The other one started to reply, but the third man gestured them to silence.
“Hsst. Here he comes.”
Pieter strode into the firelight.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “And what are you doing here?”
“Cart broke down,” the tall one told him. “We figured we’d set him up here and then take him the rest of the way.” But Pieter had quit listening as soon as he caught sight of Wiz.