The gray-bearded dwarf gave a low laugh. “It didn’t take you long to find yourself some new scheme, did it? Well, come inside. I will see what I can do.” He led the way to the taproom—empty again, as it was still an hour shy of opening for the day—where Kurzen was busy breaking out new kegs and setting them up behind the bar. The younger dwarf gave Jack a friendly nod and went on with his work as Tharzon and Jack found seats by the hearth.
“Where’s that fetching noble lass of yours this morning?” Tharzon asked.
“At Norwood Manor, so far as I know. Her father decided that he’d be happy to put me up here in town, so I’ve been staying in a fine house over in Tentowers.” Jack gave Tharzon a grin. “I think he suspected my motives toward Seila.”
“Aye, well, he would be wise to,” the dwarf agreed. “So what do you want to know about Sarbreen, Jack?”
“Have you ever heard of a great hall with pillars carved in the shape of ancient dwarf warriors? The floor is made of honey-gold marble, and there is an altar of some sort in the shape of a great anvil. Behind the altar is an old mosaic of a hammer surrounded by fire.”
“Ah, the Temple of the Soulforger. That’s the place you’re speaking of, Jack.”
“The Temple of the Soulforger?”
“Moradin’s shrine, Jack, Moradin’s shrine. Sarbreen held a magnificent cathedral consecrated to the maker of all dwarves. There’s no mistaking the anvil altar.”
“Where is it?” Jack asked. “Do you know how to get there?”
Tharzon’s brow lowered as he eyed Jack for a moment. “What business do you have in the Temple of the Soulforger, Jack? You don’t intend anything … disrespectful, do you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I consulted with a seer of the Diviners’ Guild yesterday, and that’s the place I saw in my vision. Someone collected a number of old tomes and scrolls and left them in the temple; I’m looking for one in particular. The temple itself I have no designs upon.” Well, not unless there’s some great treasure lying about just waiting to be pocketed, he added to himself.
Tharzon held Jack’s gaze a moment before nodding to himself. “In that case, then yes, I can tell you how to find it. But it’s on one of the deeper levels, and it’s not a journey for the faint of heart. That quarter of Sarbreen is dangerous, Jack, very dangerous, with monsters of sorts you won’t find roaming the sewers just beneath your feet. If you mean to get to the Soulforger’s Temple, you’ll want some good swordarms at your back, and probably a mage as well.”
Jack sighed. He’d hoped the temple would be somewhere close to the surface and not terribly perilous to reach. After all, his circumstances were reasonably comfortable at the moment, and he didn’t feel any particular driving need to risk life and limb unless the prize was truly extraordinary. On the other hand, he knew where the Sarkonagael was and no one else did. It would be a shame to pass by that sort of opportunity, especially with the chance to double his fortune as the stakes.
He leaned a little closer to Tharzon and asked, “Have you kept your hand in the game at all, Tharzon? Do you know where I might find a few trustworthy fellows who’d be willing to dare Sarbreen for a great prize?” Once upon a time Tharzon had been a thief almost as skilled as Jack himself, although the dwarf was by nature a tunneler and a lockpick. His thefts were patient and methodical affairs, the sort of work for which Jack had never had the temperament.
“I retired forty years ago,” the dwarf replied. He tapped his cane on the ground. “My knees are ruined, and my back’s none too good, either. I decided a long time ago to let younger dwarves worry about what sort of monsters they might meet in the dark and whether the authorities might nab them as they went about their trade. Too much risk, not enough profit.” He gave a small shrug. “Besides, the Smoke Wyrm returns a decent living for an honest day’s work.”
Jack glanced around the taproom and raised an eyebrow. “Friend Tharzon,” he said, “I have the feeling that your honest day’s work is more loosely defined than you let on.” After all, a profitable and well-known business was the perfect cover for a fence; the taproom likely provided Tharzon with all the spare coin he needed to buy what working thieves had to sell. “Tell me, do you export that excellent stout of yours?”
“As it turns out, we ship it all over the Vast. Tantras, Calaunt, Procampur, even across the Dragon Reach to Harrowdale sometimes,” Tharzon admitted. “Sometimes the kegs are a wee bit heavy.”
Jack tipped his cap to his old comrade. “Clever, my old friend, very clever. So what of it? Do you know any good hands who could help me?”
“I thought you intended to make a great show of becoming respectable, Jack.”
“Becoming respectable is a surprisingly expensive process. And there’s nothing disreputable about venturing into the lost halls of Sarbreen to indulge an interest in archaeology or lost artifacts. Who knows what sort of harmless eccentricities the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame might indulge? Why, strange tastes and extravagant habits are the very hallmark of nobility!” Jack paused a moment to further consider Tharzon’s point. “Still … it wouldn’t do to be seen in truly unsavory company. No murderers, necromancers, or gnomes, if it can be helped.”
Tharzon leaned back in his chair, absently knotting his thick fist around his cane. His eyes took on a sharper, more calculating expression as he gazed toward the hearth. “I have a few handy fellows in mind,” he said. “They’ll want a cut of the prize, mind you. But they’ve had a thin time of it lately and they shouldn’t drive too hard a bargain. I could arrange for you to meet them in a day or two.”
“Can I trust them?”
“Only if you’re a fool, but I can see to it that you’ve got a friend at your shoulder.” The old dwarf rapped the cane on the floor again and called to Kurzen, still working to ready the taproom for the afternoon’s patrons. “Boy, leave that nonsense be for now and come have a seat. There’s business to discuss.”
Kurzen set the last of the kegs in place behind the bar, brushed his hands off on his apron, and came over to join his father and Jack. “What’s the work, Da?” he asked.
“Sarbreen, the seaward quarter, five levels down. Jack here has a book he’s looking for, and if there’s one valuable tome lying about, there’s likely to be two. We’ll bring in Narm and his band. They haven’t been too lucky of late, so they ought to be willing enough.”
Kurzen studied Jack for a moment, his dark eyes stern and unfriendly. “I’ve heard plenty of good stories about you, but it’s my neck as well as yours. Are you any use in a scrape?”
“Ask your Da,” Jack replied. “I saved him from a deep dragon once. And we fought the Warlord and her sellswords together.”
The younger dwarf looked over to Tharzon, who shrugged. “Jack’s not the man you want if you’re looking for a scrape, but he’s a good fellow to have on your side if you find one you weren’t expecting,” he said. “He’s quick on his feet, he’s a fair hand with a blade, and he’s got a little magic. But most important he’s got an eye for opportunity, and his wits are sharp. You could do worse, my boy.”
Jack nodded to Tharzon and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Anything he said after that wouldn’t help much, so he waited for Kurzen to make up his mind. After a moment, the younger dwarf gave a grudging nod of his own. “All right, I’m in,” he said. “When do you want to make the try?”
“Four or five days from now,” Jack decided. Sooner would be better, but there was no way he was going to risk missing the Norwood revel by getting himself stuck in Sarbreen somehow. “Now, let’s talk about how we’ll split the loot. In my experience it’s best to deal with that question right up front to prevent unfortunate misunderstandings later.”
Any fears Jack might have felt about boredom setting in before the grand event at Norwood Manor proved ill-founded. He spent the afternoon of the eighth designing the Wildhame arms with the help of the limner, claiming to remember a device of three sable stags on a golden field divided by a
scarlet chevron, with grapevines wreathing the emblem and the motto DARE, STRIVE, TRIUMPH on a scroll below. Master Willon thought it was a handsome crest indeed and promised to have it rendered and engraved in a tenday. After that, Jack attended the opera, discovering that the Bride of Secomber was a work of comic genius, flamboyantly played by its talented cast. Lord and Lady Flermeer struck him as somewhat coarse and grasping, asking him to bring up this suggestion or that with his good friend Marden Norwood when it was convenient; Jack soon realized that the Flermeers were desperate to get themselves into Norwood’s good graces, but he played along by generously offering to endorse any proposals they wished to advance.
The following day, he spent his morning with the Historical Society—which, as it turned out, provided him with an excellent opportunity to address a longstanding injustice of which he hadn’t been aware. Rather to his chagrin, Jack discovered that he was not remembered kindly in the accounts that had survived from his former time. Some versions suggested that he was a common criminal in Jelan’s employ, while others presented him as a feckless dupe whose bumbling efforts nearly handed the Warlord her final victory, and a few failed to mention him at all. Outraged, he went to great lengths to correct the inaccurate records of the events surrounding Myrkyssa Jelan’s fall in a manner that suitably reflected his own involvement. In the afternoon, he called on master tailor Gregor Silverstitch to pick out several of his finished garments for the Norwood banquet.
As Jack went about the town from the opera house to the Historical Society’s meeting-place to the tailor’s fitting room, he kept his eyes open for mysterious figures skulking about in dark cloaks, but no more drow—real or imagined—crossed his path. By the time he returned home the day before the Norwood ball, he discovered that new invitations and calling cards were waiting for his attention.
“What do these people do when they’re not calling on each other?” Jack wondered aloud, examining the correspondence in his study. “Why, keeping up with the social obligations is a profession all its own.”
“Many gentlemen occupy themselves with their investments and speculation,” Edelmon informed him. “Others take an interest in sporting events, such as hunting, boating, racing, or various games of chance.”
That caught Jack’s interest. “I assume wagering is involved?”
“Very much so, Master Jack. As they say, horse racing is the sport of kings.”
“That has distinct possibilities. See if you can’t find out when the next event of that sort is to take place, and who I would have to ingratiate myself with to win an invitation. I am a great admirer of contests of skill.” He was an even greater admirer of gambling, of course. If he couldn’t find a way to separate a few foolish layabouts from generous portions of their inheritances, then he was no thief at all. He was a professional, after all, and he’d knife through any casual gamblers’ games like a wyvern stooping on sheep. The only difficulty would be to avoid winning so much that he made an enemy or acquired a reputation.
“I shall look into it directly, sir,” Edelmon replied. He reached over to tap a finger on a small note. “This may be of interest to you. The Turmishan Embassy is hosting a tea the day after tomorrow; Lady Mislen Hawkynfleur wrote to express the hope that you’ll attend.”
Jack glanced up at the ceiling, trying to recollect which of the various personages he’d met over the last few days was Mislen Hawkynfleur. After a moment it came to him; she was one of the stately old matrons of Lady Moonbrace’s circle. “We shall regretfully decline,” Jack replied. “The Norwood affair is the only thing on my calendar for the next two days, Edelmon.”
He went to bed early, already drawing up schemes by which he invested in racehorses (or jockeys) and wondering just how one might go about fixing the results of a regatta. When he arose, he was greeted by another fine spring morning, unseasonably clear and warm. “An auspicious beginning to the day,” he remarked, and immediately began his daily ablutions. For the ball he decided to wear a long, mustard-yellow coat strikingly trimmed in silver piping over a ruffled white shirt, with red suede boots and a matching red hat crowned by a white plume; his rapier rode in a scabbard low on his left hip. Jack took a quarter-hour to admire his sartorial splendor as he congratulated himself in the mirror and adopted various poses and stances to show off his new clothing. Then he directed Edelmon to pack him a small valise for the night, and engaged a carriage to drive him out to Norwood Manor shortly after noon. A little less than an hour later his carriage clattered down the long drive of the Norwoods’ estate and came to a halt at the manor steps.
“Jack, you’re here!” Seila hurried down the steps to greet Jack as he climbed down from the coach, and leaned forward to quickly brush her lips against his cheek. She wore a simple blue dress to her ankles; no doubt she had a gown picked out for the evening, but Jack was struck again by her midnight hair and her luminous smile.
He found himself grinning foolishly at her before he regained his composure. “How could I miss this occasion?” he replied. He followed her inside as a valet fetched his bag. The great house was full of servants and workers who were decorating for the party, arranging the furniture, tending to ovens that already smelled delicious, and setting up pavilions and lanterns in the grounds just behind the manor. Scores of tables and hundreds of chairs were appearing before his eyes, and Jack had to admit he was impressed. “I can see this will be some event,” he remarked. “How many people did your mother invite?”
Seila glanced over her shoulder at him. “Everybody,” she said. “I think we’re expecting around three hundred guests, perhaps a few more. To tell the truth, I’m a little embarrassed by all the attention.”
“Nonsense! You deserve it, my dear, after what you went through.”
“You endured even worse treatment than I,” Seila pointed out.
“Well, in that case I deserve it, too,” Jack answered.
She laughed, and caught his hand, leading him out on to the veranda behind the manor. “I’ve missed you these last few days, Jack. Oh, I’ve heard a great many things about your doings in town—everybody is talking about you—but I can hardly believe you’re the same person who brought me out of Chûmavhraele. How have you been? Have you improved your opinion of our age?”
Jack shrugged. “I am very comfortable at Maldridge, of course—I must thank your father again when I see him—and I am making new friends. However, I have missed you as well. It’s a strange thing to begin a whole new life all at once.” He leaned on the balustrade, gazing out over the gardens. “I feel sometimes that I am waiting to wake up and find that this was all a strange dream.”
Seila reached out to turn Jack’s face toward hers, and she smiled sadly. “I think I know what you mean,” she said. “It’s been harder than I would have imagined to find myself home again. I suppose I’d given myself up for dead; I made my peace with many things. Now here I am, surrounded by the people and things I have loved all my life, and none of them seem the same. They haven’t changed, of course—I have. But my mother, my father, the household servants who have known me all my life, they seem anxious to simply pick up and carry on as if I hadn’t been buried in that awful place for months and months. Why, they hardly want to speak of what happened, but I feel I have to talk to somebody or I’ll just burst!”
Jack stood in silence for a moment, weighing her words. He was many things, but a canny student of the human heart was not one of them. Still, from time to time he chanced upon insight, and one came to him as he looked at Seila standing in the sunshine. “Your family and friends don’t mean to misunderstand you,” he finally said. “Whether they know it or not, they think it’s a kindness to forget those awful days as quickly as they can, and they believe that you must want to do the same.” A sudden thought struck him, and he laughed softly at himself. “And that might help to explain why your father was so anxious to remove me from your house. Well, that and the fact that he must worry that I entertain designs upon your virtue.”
&nbs
p; Seila glanced away with a small snort. “He’s been worried about that since my fifteenth summer, give or take. It seems that every young man with prospects in the Vast knows that I’m the heir to the Norwood fortune and has a mind to seek my hand. Every few months a new suitor arrives at our doorstep, a complete stranger who hopes to persuade my father that he’s the best match for me … and at the same time sweep me off my feet with charm and flattery.”
Listen well, Jack, he told himself. She’s telling you how not to win her affections. “I gather none of them have won your heart,” he said carefully.
“My father points out that I’m now in my twentieth year, and it’s time to settle this question for the sake of the family. I know there are several good prospects that would please him well, and that a girl in my situation must make this sort of decision with her head, and not her heart. Still … I don’t feel that I am ready to marry yet, especially with the shadow of my time in the drow castle lingering over me.” She looked back up to Jack. “I should warn you, by the way, that several of my former suitors will be in attendance tonight. I have no doubt they’ll spend much of the evening trying to elbow each other out of the way to get to my side.”
He straightened up and rendered her a formal bow. “I shall of course defend you from any unwanted attentions,” he declared. “No well-born bore will ruin this night for you as long as I have anything to say about it.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Seila asked sweetly.
“I’m afraid I’m becoming far too fond of your company to share it easily. Your father may not be entirely wrong about me, after all.”
Seila blushed and lowered her eyes. “Jack, I don’t know if I—if we—”
“I understand,” he said. “It’s best not to rush into this sort of thing, especially because we met in such dark circumstances. It would be easy to mistake one’s feelings.” He reached out to rest his hand on hers. “But you’ll forgive me if I hope that no tall, handsome lordling from a fine family sweeps you off your feet tonight.”
Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel Page 15
