Jack drew in a breath, and quickly reviewed everything he’d ever studied for the purpose of creating Jaer Kell Wildhame. He’d actually researched the part at some length back when he first concocted the persona, anticipating that he might need to answer awkward questions. “Wildhame is-was-a county near the Nunwood, rather small and out of the way.” He found the small forest on the map, and pointed with the greatest confidence he could muster. “Good hunting in the woodland, as you might expect, and good wine country, too; our vineyards produced a strong, full-bodied red that was best laid down a few years to mellow.”
“Ah, just south of the Nunwood?” Marden peered at the map. “Strange, I would have thought those lands to be under the rule of Hlath.”
“Oh, the Wildhames are a Hlathan family, Lord Marden. Why, we have a fine house within the city walls, not a stone’s throw from the king’s palace,” said Jack. “But I think of the manor of Wildhame as home.”
The silver-haired lord sighed. “This map shows Hlath and the Nunwood, as you can see, but neither survived the Spellplague. The eastern shore of the Vilhon today is a wilderness where no civilized folk travel if they can help it. I am afraid you are very likely orphaned of family and home both.”
“I intend to go see for myself as soon as I am established here,” Jack declared. “Not that I doubt your learning or counsel, Norwood; I simply will not be able to rest until I know the fate of my home. One can still take passage to Turmish, I assume?”
“Of course.”
“Then, when the spring storms have passed, I may do exactly that.”
“Well said, Wildhame,” Norwood replied. He clapped Jack on the shoulder and nodded in approval. “Norwood coasters sail regularly to Alaghon; I will be happy to provide passage whenever you wish to make the journey.”
“Again, I thank you, Norwood.” Jack had not the slightest intention of sailing off to meander around a land where, as Seila’s father put, no civilized people set foot-especially since the landgraviate of Wildhame existed only as a figment of his imagination. He’d find one reason or another to delay sailing until the weather turned again, and by the time he might be expected to try once more, he was certain he could produce “proof” that his lands were destroyed, obviating the need for a tedious journey. By then, if all went well, he might be so established among the elites of Raven’s Bluff that there would be no need to ever produce any proof of Jaer Kell Wildhame’s aristocratic birth.
Seila’s father bowed. “But of course,” he said. “Now, I believe that we have a few hours yet before the guests begin to show up. Seila, why don’t you introduce your friend to your Aunt Derina and your cousins? If I’m not mistaken, their carriage was just drawing up to the door when I spotted the two of you.”
Seila sighed, but she took Jack by the arm. “Come on, Jack,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s time to meet some more of the family.”
Jack spent the afternoon in Seila’s company, smiling and bantering his way through a series of introductions to aunts, grand-uncles, second cousins, and dear friends of the family. The Norwood clan seemed small at first introduction, but it turned out that Lord Norwood had two sisters who’d married into other noble families, while Seila’s mother came from the Boldtalon clan. Other than Marden Norwood’s sudden and disconcerting interest in the Vilhon Reach, Jack considered the afternoon a success overall. Although he had little time alone with Seila, he made sure to take the opportunity to study her relatives by asking seemingly innocuous questions about who was related to whom, and remind them of his role in Seila’s rescue by praising her stoicism and courage in the face of adversity.
The banquet itself was a thoroughly enjoyable affair, even though Jack was, as Seila had warned, introduced to Baron Terent Ampner, Saer Avernil Skyhawk, and Lord Erik Therogeon. All three of the noblemen were said to be interested in courting Seila or striking an alliance with the Norwood family, although Baron Terent was easily twice Seila’s age and Lord Erik was a strikingly shy young fellow who seemed quite flustered any time he was addressed by a pretty woman. Avernil Skyhawk, on the other hand, was tall, sandy-haired, and confident, a rival Jack would have to be wary of. He turned out to be a decent fellow, too, and praised Jack effusively for the daring rescue, which made it hard for Jack to dislike Skyhawk as much as he wanted to. However, Jack was the guest who was seated at Seila’s elbow, just one place removed from Lord Norwood himself. Jack gamely joined in the table conversation, engaging several of his recent acquaintances from Lady Moonbrace’s luncheon, the reception at the playhouse, and of course the meeting of the Historical Society. Wine flowed freely, but Jack indulged with care; he did not want to be remembered for some drunken faux pas.
After the dinner, the guests retired to smoking rooms or parlors while the household staff cleared away the tables in the banquet hall to make space for dancing. Jack accompanied Seila to a drawing room as he plotted his next move. But he was intercepted in the hallway outside the door by a lean, balding man who wore the elegant dress robes of a mage. “Lord Wildhame?” the mage said. “May I have a word with you?”
Jack and Seila turned to face the fellow. He was a man of striking appearance, with winglike sweeps of black hair brushed back above his ears and a long, pointed goatee; both his beard and his temples were shot with narrow streaks of silver-white. Dark eyes glittered beneath a strong brow and a rudderlike nose, but his smile was warm and sincere. The mage inclined his head to Seila, and then Jack. “Allow me to congratulate you on your escape from your imprisonment and your return to Raven’s Bluff.”
Jack returned the fellow’s nod. “I only did the best I could in the circumstances, Master …?”
“Ah, I beg your pardon. Tarandor Delhame, at your service.”
“Master Tarandor,” said Jack, inclining his head again. Where had he heard that name before?
“Please forgive my confusion, but are you by any chance also known as Jack Ravenwild? And enrolled in the Wizards’ Guild as the Dread Delgath?”
Seila’s eyebrow lifted. “ ‘The Dread Delgath’?” she asked. “I shall have to add that to Ravenwild, I suppose. Exactly how many pseudonyms do you have, Jack?”
“In the past I sometimes found it advisable to adopt various aliases for my purposes,” Jack answered. “Remember, it was a different day and age, and the Warlord’s agents were everywhere. It saddens me to say it, but even the Wizards’ Guild was not completely above suspicion then; I did not trust them with my true identity.” He returned his attention to the mage. “I take it you must have spoken with Initiate Berreth.”
“Indeed. The Guild is fortunate to have such a celebrity as yourself among its membership.”
“I am sure the Wizards Guild must include many illustrious gentlemen and adventurers whose exploits outshine my own modest accomplishments,” Jack declared. “It is a pleasure to meet one of my esteemed colleagues in a social setting.”
“Ah, I must admit that I am not actually a member of the Raven’s Bluff guild, although I am acquainted with some of its masters,” said Tarandor. “I belong to the Mage Guild of Iriaebor; I am only visiting for a short time, and must return home soon.”
“What brings you to Raven’s Bluff, Master Tarandor?” Seila asked.
“I have learned that my master left important arcane matters for me to attend here in the Vast,” Tarandor replied. “In fact, I would dearly love to speak with Master Ravenwild about some old business that I think he may be able to help me resolve. It’s something of a mystery, and it’s puzzled me for years.”
Jack wondered what in the world the mage might be referring to, and then his memory finally placed the fellow’s name. “Ah, of course, you’re the Master Tarandor who called at Maldridge. Forgive my tardiness in replying, I have been very busy in the last couple of days.”
The mage waved his hand. “Think nothing of it. But I do need to speak with you, the sooner the better.” Seeing Jack’s hesitation, Tarandor hurried on. “Not tonight, of course. Perhaps noon tomorrow?�
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“I may not return to the city until late tomorrow, and I have a previous engagement the day after,” Jack replied. “Better make it the evening of the thirteenth. Shall I expect you at Maldridge around seven bells?”
A look of impatience crossed Tarandor’s features, quickly smoothed away with a small nod and smile of acceptance. “Actually, I hope I can persuade you to join me at the warehouse of Mumfort and Company. It’s in Bitterstone, off Red Wyrm Ride.”
“A warehouse?” Jack asked.
Tarandor spread his hands apologetically. “I have come into possession of a large statue there, which can’t easily be moved. The statue is what I wish to speak to you about.”
“Master Tarandor, I know nothing about any statue.”
“When you see it, I think you will understand why we sought your professional expertise. In the meantime, the less said, the better.”
Jack frowned in puzzlement. He truly had no idea what the wizard was referring to, but he had to admit that his curiosity had been piqued. And it was rather flattering to think that the Guild recognized his unusual experience and expertise and believed he might be of use to a prominent mage visiting from a distant city. It might be a wise investment of his time and effort to go along with Tarandor’s request. “Very well, Master Tarandor, I will offer what help I may. Seven bells on the thirteenth, the Mumfort warehouse on Red Wyrm Ride.”
“Excellent!” the wizard replied. He nodded again to Seila and to Jack. “In that event, I will delay you no longer. My congratulations on your safe return, Lady Norwood.” With that, the wizard withdrew.
“That was mysterious,” Seila remarked.
“Indeed. I am the sort of person around whom mysteries and conundrums seem to gather.” Jack indicated the drawing room. “Shall we?”
After a short respite, the guests were summoned back to the banquet hall, which the household servants had transformed into a grand dance floor. A quartet of musicians were situated on a small balcony overlooking the hall; as the partygoers streamed back in, they struck up a merry air, and the dancing began. To his surprise and horror, Jack discovered that he was not at all familiar with the steps of the dances; apparently those, too, had changed during his long absence. Fortunately Seila was a very understanding partner, even if she did laugh at the startled look on his face when everyone on the floor went one way and he went another.
“I see that I am once again a century out of date,” he cried in frustration. “How mortifying! I have always been a good dancer.”
“Never fear, I’ll straighten you out soon enough,” Seila replied. “Step, step, step-step, turn and skip. Step, step, step-step, turn and skip.”
Jack was a quick study, and he picked up the new steps in short order. Regrettably he had to relinquish Seila’s company all too soon; there were only about a hundred or so gentlemen in attendance who wanted to dance with her. He was able to gain her hand two or three times during the evening, but for the most part he had to content himself with a glittering array of elegant young noblewomen, many of them Seila’s cousins, distant cousins, or dear friends. He told himself there were worse ways to pass an evening, but he kept an eye on Seila the whole time, mostly watching out for any of his potential rivals.
Sometime a little after midnight, he excused himself for a bit of air and strolled out onto the veranda, gazing over the pavilion and lanterns gracing the garden below. A familiar laugh caught his ear; he turned back toward the ballroom and saw Seila there in the middle of a knot of talkative young noblewomen. He gazed at her from his vantage, admiring the way her smile lit up her face. No, there would be far worse fates than to become the husband of Seila Norwood, he reflected. Not only would he be richer than he’d ever imagined and his place among the Ravenaar noble class cemented for life, he’d have that smile to brighten his days. Why, when he thought about it, he might not care if she were wealthy or not … “Stop that nonsense, Jack,” he murmured to himself. “The one sure way to miss your chance is to forget the game you’re playing.”
He gave himself a firm shake, readjusted his hat to a rakish tilt, and started to return to the fray. Then a voice nearby caught his ear. “Alas, my lady. You wound me, you truly do!” a man said with a low laugh.
Jack paused, and glanced around to find the speaker. He’d heard that turn of phrase before; a moment later he fixed his eye on a tall nobleman with long yellow hair, who stood on the balcony ringing the ballroom’s upper floor, conversing with a young noblewoman who laughed at his remark. Something about the fellow seemed familiar, but Jack couldn’t quite place him. “I’ve seen you before, but where?” he murmured aloud. The opera, perhaps? Or the meeting of the Historical Society?
Frowning, Jack stared at the mysterious lord for a long moment, forgetting about Seila and her friends on the dance floor. Tentatively he held out his arm and raised his hand slowly, positioning his fingers in his line of sight until he cropped out the upper half of the man’s face. All that was left was the bony jaw and the fringe of yellow hair falling about the fellow’s neck. “Ah, there you are,” Jack breathed. He’d seen that face and hair before, all right, but masked from the nose up in a leather cowl. The man standing on the balcony was Fetterfist the slaver … and he was apparently a guest at the Norwood ball.
“The dastard,” Jack fumed. Was he entertaining ideas of abducting her again? Or was he there simply because the Norwoods had innocently invited him among all the other assembled nobles of Raven’s Bluff, unaware of the fact that one of the city’s aristocrats was secretly a bloody-handed slaver? Either way, Jack meant to find out at once who the fellow was and expose him to the Norwoods-there was no reason to let Fetterfist walk about free one moment longer than he had to.
At that moment Fetterfist raised his eyes and spied Jack staring up at him. They locked gazes for a brief moment before the yellow-haired lord smiled, straightened, and turned to leave the balcony he stood on.
Jack swore and hurried inside to the hall just outside the ballroom, seeking the stairs to the upper floor. He quickly threaded his way through the elegant throng that mixed and mingled by the grand staircase, bounding up the stairs just in time to see Fetterfist descending the steps at the far end of the upper hall. Jack pursued the fellow at once, hurrying back down and crossing the ballroom to the manor’s foyer, deflecting greetings left and right as he rushed through the crowd. A moment later he clattered out onto the manor’s front steps, where a number of guests waited for their carriages to be brought up. He stood there on the steps, searching the crowd with his eyes, until he finally caught a glimpse of Fetterfist’s face glancing back from a carriage window to the Norwood’s manor. Then the coach with the slaver inside rolled away down the drive.
“Damn the luck,” Jack swore. He looked around desperately for some means of pursuit, but all he could see were more noble carriages and their coachmen. He briefly considered commandeering one, but at that moment Seila emerged from the manor and hurried down to join him on the steps.
“What is it, Jack?” she asked. “I saw you rush away. Is something wrong?”
He debated whether or not to alarm her before deciding that he would rather have her on her guard. “Fetterfist was here,” he told her.
Seila’s eyes opened wide, and a look of horror blanched her face. “No,” she gasped.
“I recognized him at a distance. Well, I am almost certain I did. When I saw him at Tower Chumavhraele half his face was hidden by that leather hood, but the shape of the jaw, the hair, his build, they all matched. And he seemed to take an interest in you.”
“Was he here as a guest?” Seila asked in a weak voice.
“I’m afraid so. At least, he was dressed for the party and seemed to fit in with the crowd.”
“Did you recognize him? I mean, do you know who he is?”
Jack shook his head. “I recognized his face, but that’s all. Remember, I don’t know many people in this day.”
Seila shivered in the cool night air, and wrapped her arm
s around herself. “Jack, if he means to take me back down to the drow again … I can’t go back to that dark awful place. I simply can’t!”
Jack caught her in his arms and drew her close; she buried her face in his neck. “Never fear about that,” he said. “We’ll make sure your father is warned, and we’ll find out who he is, trust me. I would die before I’d let them have you again.”
And, to his surprise, he realized that he meant exactly what he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The party began to break up an hour or two after midnight, as more and more guests called for their carriages and left for their homes. Jack rather hoped that he might entice Seila to join him in the guest chamber at some point in the night, but Marden Norwood made a firm point of showing him to his room and explaining that a servant would be in the hall just outside his door all night long in case he needed anything.
“For a genial old fellow he seems to entertain an uncomfortably keen sense of curiosity and certain suspicions about my moral fiber,” Jack grumbled to himself.
Even with that precaution he might have been tempted to try his luck by stealing his way into Seila’s room instead-after all, spells of invisibility or changing appearance were extremely useful for that sort of thing-except that Seila’s mother had mentioned that the manor was absolutely full with so many relatives visiting, so Seila would be sharing her room with a couple of her dear cousins. Jack settled for a peck on the cheek at the top of the stairs under Marden’s watchful eye, and passed the night quite alone.
He slept late the next morning, recovering from the night’s revels, then passed much of the day in a long, chaperoned ride with Seila and several of her close friends. Jack was not an experienced rider, but he hid his discomfort as best he could-any nobleman would be expected to ride well, even one from such a distant realm as the Vilhon Reach of a century past. Later in the afternoon, with his thighs and back aching, he gamely helped Seila go over the previous night’s guest list, searching for a name to put with the face of Fetterfist. Based on Jack’s description of the man’s height, leanness, and yellow hair, Seila was able to line out all but twenty or thirty possibilities.
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