“Twelve bells, night of the seventeenth at Mumfort’s warehouse,” Jack decided. Balathorp had recorded Jack’s anticipated abduction as one more item of business, it seemed. From neighboring entries he quickly discerned that mchd meant “merchandise” and that the slaver had noted him as a thiry-year-old male human. Destination clearly suggested Chûmavhraele, and Balathorp seemed to guess his value at five hundred gold crowns, which seemed like a lot to Jack. Then again, the slaver probably hoped that Dresimil Chûmavh would gladly pay to get her hands on the man who’d whisked Seila Norwood out of her clutches. Perhaps the ledger might reveal more of Balathorp’s acquisitions and deliveries—that would seem to be sufficiently incriminating to help the Watch along with its investigation. Jack began to scan the ledger for more information, paging back to see if he could find a record of Seila Norwood’s capture and sale to the dark elves, and lost himself in the tale of brutality, greed, and woe recorded in the slaver’s books. Fetterfist was a very busy fellow, it seemed, and he’d made a fortune out of buying and selling people.
“A good evening to you, Jack.” The rogue looked up; Narm gave him a friendly nod and seated himself at Jack’s table, his large hand wrapped around a mug of Tharzon’s stout. The swordsman had evidently decided that Jack was not so bad a fellow, especially since Jack had paid him quite a good deal of coin in the last tenday or so. “Working on another job already?”
“Satisfying my curiosity,” Jack answered. “These were in the pouch we took off Balathorp last night.”
“No more gold,” Narm observed, with a small frown of disappointment.
“No, but we have Fetterfist’s books here. See, he recorded every, er, acquisition he made or intended to make, then where and when he sold his merchandise.” Jack pointed out the entry referring to himself. “Here is last night’s business. It seems he meant to sell me for five hundred crowns.”
“You should hand that over to the magistrate,” Narm observed. “It seems like damning evidence against Balathorp. Speaking of which, I didn’t see anything in today’s handbills about his arrest.”
Jack shrugged. “The Watch is most likely keeping the affair quiet while they investigate. A man of Balathorp’s station unmasked as a slaver? Shocking! Sensational! The last thing the authorities would want is to have it all come out in the broadsheets and handbills before they are certain of the facts.”
Narm paged through the ledger, looking it over. “What do you make of this one?” he asked. He showed Jack an entry that read: 18 Tars. 10b. Mchd: Lot of 60–80? Source: Blkwd. Dest: Shark. Val: 10 ea. “It’s for tonight.”
Jack looked at the notations. “A lot of sixty to eighty captives at once? Is that possible? I haven’t heard of any slaver trying something as ambitious as that.” He frowned, wondering what sort of scheme Balathorp had planned, and whether it was still going forward with the slaver lord in the Watch’s custody.
He was interrupted by the strange stone from Balathorp’s pouch, which hummed softly. The thing was glowing with a faint luminescence, almost as if the flecks of emerald in its mottled surface were gleaming of their own accord.
“What in the world?” Narm muttered, staring at the small stone. “What manner of magic is this?”
“I am not sure,” Jack answered. He stared at the dark stone for a long moment, then reached out tentatively to turn it over and see if anything was unusual on its other side.
The instant his fingertips brushed the cool stone, he felt a presence in his mind. “Fetterfist,” a cool elven voice seemed to whisper through the stone. Jack recognized Dresimil Chûmavh’s lilting tone, and found a strikingly clear image of the drow noblewoman in his mind’s eye. “I have sixty warriors in the cellars,” she continued. “Make sure your men are ready—we strike at ten bells. And watch Norwood, he brought additional guards.”
Jack snatched his hand away from the stone, startled. A sending-stone! he realized. He’d heard of such devices before. Somewhere in the Underdark below his feet, Dresimil was holding in her hand a stone that was a twin to the one sitting on the wooden desk in front of Jack. As far as she knew, the stone Jack held in his hand was still in Fetterfist’s possession. Did she expect a reply?
“What? What happened?” Narm demanded.
Jack realized that the swordsman hadn’t heard any of Dresimil’s message. “A message for Balathorp,” he answered, absently rubbing his fingers. “It’s the drow. They have a strong force somewhere, and they intend to attack in cooperation with the slavers. Tonight, at ten bells of the evening.”
“That would explain the ledger entry. Did the drow say anything about their target?”
“Lord Norwood,” Jack replied. His mind raced. Where would Marden Norwood be this evening at ten bells? It would be someplace that Dresimil expected Cailek Balathorp to be, too … A sick dread began to gather in the pit of the stomach as the answer became clear to him. He turned a stricken look on Narm and urgently asked, “What time is it now? What is the hour? Selûne grant that we’re not too late!”
“It struck nine just before I came in, but that was a good quarter-hour ago, perhaps more,” Narm said. “Where will the dark elves strike?”
“The Lord Mayor’s Spring Revel,” Jack answered with a grimace. “Dresimil mentioned Lord Norwood by name, and that is almost certainly where Balathorp would be if we hadn’t lured him out last night.” He looked down at the slaver’s ledger. “The Lord Mayor is a Blacktree, isn’t he? That’s Blackwood Manor there. It must be.” He leaped to his feet, seized the pouch, the stone, and the ledger, and threw his cloak over his shoulder. “Come on, Narm. We have to warn them!”
The half-orc rose to his feet. “Jack, what can we do? Blackwood Manor is a couple of miles outside town. What is the point of racing out there just in time to be murdered or enslaved?”
“You do not understand. Seila is there!” Jack hurried over to the counter, ripped a piece of blank paper from the slaver’s journal, and scribbled out a quick message.
Tharzon looked at Jack with a furrowed brow. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“The drow. They’re going to strike at the Lord Mayor’s revel. I have to get out to Blackwood Manor at once.” Jack finished his note and handed it to the old dwarf. “Find someone to take this to Nimber’s Skewer Shop, and have your man ask for Elana. The quicker, the better.”
Tharzon’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is wise?” he asked.
“She’s no friend to the dark elves, I can tell you that. And if I am right, we might need all the blades we can find tonight.”
The dwarf stared in surprise a moment longer before nodding his head. “Right, then. Wait one moment and we’ll find a ride for you.” He turned and waved his cane at the barkeeps and workers in the taproom. “Bann! Come here, I’ve got a message for you. Grith, go harness the wagon and horses, we need it now! Orph, go find Kurzen and tell him to fetch his armor and his hammer, he’ll have need of them. Hurry, all of you! There’s not a moment to lose.”
Jack wavered, uncertain whether he’d be better off to go at once or wait on Tharzon’s messengers. He decided he’d need a wagon or carriage or horse in any event, and Tharzon’s was the closest to hand. “You have my thanks, Tharzon,” he said. “Narm, fetch the rest of the Blue Wyverns if you can find them fast. I leave as soon as we can hitch the team.” Then he hurried out to the stable behind the taphouse to lend a hand with the wagon.
The night grew darker and drearier as the brewer’s wagon clattered loudly along the Fire River Road. The overcast was thickening, hiding the moon, and a biting wind from the north drove small, stinging droplets of cold rain against Jack’s face. He clung to the bench with both hands as the wagon bounced and swayed along the rutted road. Beside him, Kurzen gripped the reins and drove the two-horse team onward through the night; in the straw-covered wagon bed Narm, Halamar, and Arlith hung on with all their strength.
“Kurzen, slow down!” Halamar called. “You’ll overturn us!”
“No t
ime!” Jack shouted back. “Drive them harder!”
The dwarf grimaced, but did not bother to reply to either of them; all of his attention was on the road. But he flicked the whip at the galloping horses and shouted “Yah! Yah!” spurring them on even faster.
Jack spied an iron gate standing open up ahead on the left-hand side of the road. “Blackwood,” he said to Kurzen. “Turn there!”
The dwarf nodded. He let the horses thunder up to the gate and finally slowed them just enough to make the turn. The wagon careened on two wheels, and they very nearly rolled right at the entrance of the manor’s drive, but somehow Kurzen steered the team back the other way just enough to bring all four wheels back to the road. Ahead of them stood a magnificent manor house amid stately old oaks and laspars, festively illuminated by scores of colorful lanterns. Fine carriages filled the drive in front of the manor’s door, with liveried footmen waiting patiently by their master’s coaches. Two guards in the black and silver of House Blacktree flanked the door. “Thank the gods, we’re not too late,” Jack said. But how long did they have?
Kurzen drove the heavy old beer-wagon right up to the foot of the steps, sideswiping a fine coach with a tremendous crash as he reined in the exhausted horses. The instant the wagon slowed, Jack vaulted to the ground, followed by the rest of his companions. The guards at the door shouted in alarm and hurriedly shifted their halberds from their shoulders. “Here now!” one of the guards shouted. “You stop right there!”
“Narm, Kurzen!” Jack called. He simply rolled beneath the lowered halberds and darted past the guards. As they turned to strike, the half-orc swordsman and the burly dwarf tackled them on the steps, pummeling them furiously. Ignoring the spreading commotion behind him, Jack hurried through the great house’s foyer and front hall. Well-dressed lords and ladies turned in surprise as Jack strode toward the palace’s grand ballroom … but more of the Blacktree guards now hurried to intercept Jack. This time Halamar dealt with the armsmen, conjuring a wall of roaring flame to block their path. Gasps of astonishment and cries of panic spread through the crowd at the sight of the magical flames.
“Better speak swiftly,” Halamar said to Jack. “I will not be able to keep the guards out for long without killing some of them, and I have no wish to spend the rest of my days in the city dungeons.”
“My thanks, Halamar!” Jack answered. He clapped the sorcerer on the shoulder and strode through the ballroom’s wide doorway; he could feel the heat of the roaring wall of flame at his back. He paused, looking left and right, and then he saw Seila and her parents standing together near the center of the room. Squaring his shoulders, Jack strode purposefully toward Lord Norwood, conscious of the eyes of hundreds on him.
“Jack, what are you doing?” Seila asked in a low voice. She wore a beautiful floor-length green dress. Despite the danger he knew was drawing near, Jack’s heart took a tumble at the sight of her. “You should not be here!”
“I know, dear Seila. I will explain myself later, but first I must speak with your father.” He turned to Marden Norwood, who regarded him with a look of stony disapproval. “Lord Norwood,” he said, “you are all in terrible danger. The drow plan to attack you here in a matter of minutes. Their warriors are below the manor house at this very moment. Every important lord and official in Raven’s Bluff is here tonight—Dresimil Chûmavh means to decapitate the city in a single stroke.”
Norwood glared at Jack. “Preposterous,” he declared. “I have never known you to speak a single word of truth. And the drow would never dare such a brazen attack.”
Jack momentarily hesitated. Marden Norwood had good reason to doubt his words, but he hadn’t expected to be dismissed out of hand, especially when bringing the old lord a warning about the drow. Seila, however, inadvertently rescued him. “How do you know this, Jack?” she asked.
“I caught Fetterfist,” he explained, “and intercepted a message for him from Dresimil Chûmavh. Cailek Balathorp is Fetterfist!”
“Balathorp is Fetterfist?” Norwood repeated. “That is impossible!”
“I turned him over to the Watch last night,” Jack said. “Now, I beg you—”
“Just one moment, Norwood.” Jack glanced to his right … and there stood Cailek Balathorp, dressed in elegant black garb for the ball. “I cannot let that accusation pass unanswered,” said Balathorp.
Jack stood dumbfounded for several heartbeats. Balathorp should have been locked up in a cell in Ravendark Castle, not walking about at his liberty attending social functions! For that matter, even if some friend or ally of his had secured his release, the man ought to still be unconscious. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed. “You should be in the city dungeons!”
“Address me as ‘My Lord,’ or I will have you taught to speak more respectfully to your betters,” Balathorp snapped. “As it turns out, the magistrate does not place much stock in anonymous letters full of baseless allegations; he recognized that something was gravely amiss and summoned a healer to rouse me.” The tall lord then turned to Marden Norwood. “This houseguest of yours waylaid me in the street and drugged me. I have no idea what madness or villainy drove him to treat me in such a fashion, but I will not stand by and allow him to slander my good name in front of all these people. Silence him at once, or you will answer for his words.”
Jack glanced back to Marden Norwood, and saw nothing but cold fury on the old lord’s face. He tried again, desperate to make Seila’s father see the truth of his words. “Lord Norwood, Balathorp is in league with the drow! He has blades of his own here this evening to aid their attack. You must believe me!”
“That is enough,” Norwood snarled. He made a curt gesture with his hand. Jack noticed that while many of the Blacktree house guards were blocked from the ballroom by Halamar’s spell, there were still a dozen or so armsmen of other houses standing discreetly by the curtained alcoves and windows in the ballroom, several of them in the Norwood house colors. The Norwood armsmen began to hurry through the crowd toward Jack.
“I do not like the looks of this, Jack,” Arlith whispered behind him. “Are you certain you’ve got the right villain?”
A short, round-bodied fellow in a gold-embroidered black coat approached Norwood, frowning. Jack recognized the gold oak-leaf emblem of the Blacktree family on his coat, and the large gold chain that served as the mayor’s badge of office. “What’s all this about, Norwood?” the short nobleman asked.
“I apologize for the disturbance, Blacktree,” Norwood said through gritted teeth. “It appears this interruption must be dealt with. Please have him arrested.”
Jack glanced around and saw nothing but anger, suspicion, and contempt on the faces of the city’s assembled elites. He had only moments before Norwood’s soldiers dragged him away. Well, some of the lords and ladies in the room would get exactly what they deserved if the dark elves murdered them all after they ignored his warning. Others, most notably Seila, were innocent and were likely to be hurt or killed if he could not prove his point.
The great mantle clock in the adjoining room struck the hour; the first bell rang clearly throughout the hushed crowd. In pure desperation, Jack murmured the words to his invisibility spell and vanished from view.
The crowd gasped and stirred in shock. Cries of “The villain is escaping!” or “Stop him!” rang through the room. Jack, however, did not flee. He reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth Fetterfist’s leather half-hood. Then he stole up behind Balathorp, unsheathing his dagger. The second bell struck. With the quickness of a striking snake, he pulled the half-mask down over Balathorp’s head while immobilizing the tall slaver with the threat of a bared blade at his throat. The sudden motion spoiled Jack’s invisibility, as he expected; he wavered back into view.
“Stand down your guards or Balathorp dies!” Jack shouted. The third bell chimed. “Seila—look at this man’s face. Is this Fetterfist?”
“I’ll have you fed to the eels for this!” Balathorp hissed to Jack. He twis
ted in Jack’s grip until Jack pinked him with the point of the dagger.
“That is one outcome,” Jack agreed. Another bell rang. “On the other hand, if I am a villain or madman, as you claim, there is no reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat if I am doomed anyway. Now hold still, or I’ll see if Seila can identify your corpse.”
Jack saw the bodyguards, armsmen, and retainers who were converging on the ballroom watching him with alert, determined expressions; well, if he’d done nothing else, he had at least put them on their guard. Norwood stepped forward and addressed Jack. “Stop this at once!” he barked. The fifth bell sounded. “I have no idea what game you are playing at, but your villainy is at an end!”
Seila, on the other hand, stood staring at Jack and Balathorp with a sick expression on her face. “Seila, it would be helpful if you could resolve this question soon,” Jack prompted her. “Is this the man who ambushed the Norwood caravan and sold you into captivity in Chûmavhraele?”
Seila shifted her eyes from Jack’s face to Balathorp’s. The sixth bell struck … and a flicker of shock, then anger, crossed her features. “Yes, it is,” she said, almost as if she were surprised to hear herself speak. Then, more loudly, “Yes! He is Fetterfist. I will not forget that hood and face as long as I live. Father, Jack is right!”
Norwood turned to Seila and started to say something, but his words died in his throat as he took the measure of her expression. He looked back to Balathorp, and his eyes narrowed. The seventh bell of the hour sounded. “Incredible,” he said to the tall lord. “You dared to abduct my daughter? You murdered my retainers?”
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