Varys skirted the flames and advanced with his hand crossbow trained on Jack’s midsection. “Clever,” the sergeant said. “I had hoped you might provide a little sport for us. Now place your hands on your head and hold still while my warriors bind you. I do not care to carry you all way back down to Chumavhraele, but I will put you to sleep if I must.”
“What do you want with me?” Jack demanded. “Are you in such sore need of dung-shovelers?”
“I suspect you will soon beg for the chance to shovel dung, my lord,” Varys replied. “The marquise has something special planned for you. Your hands?”
Jack glanced left and right, searching for some opening and finding none. The fire in the front hall was spreading to the room’s hangings and the fine paneling; acrid smoke filled the air. He could try a spell, but the dark elves would stick at least one envenomed quarrel in him before he finished, and then he’d be just as useless as poor Edelmon snoring on the floor. He briefly considered forcing the drow warriors to shoot him just for the spite of making them carry him back down to the Underdark, but then he realized that if he had any hope at all for escape, he would need to be conscious. With a shallow cough and watering eyes, he backed away into the kitchen and reluctantly raised his hands.
The dark elves wasted no more time. In a flash two surged up to seize his wrists and bind them behind his back, while a third fitted him with a gag and yanked a thick black hood over his head. Jack twisted and fought in protest, to no avail. Hands closed on his arms and shoulders, and he was hustled out of Maldridge with the smell of smoke thick in his nostrils.
Hooded and bound as he was, Jack could only guess at where the drow were taking him. They shoved him out the kitchen door and through the garden outside, keeping such a tight grip that when he inevitably stumbled and tripped over unseen obstacles they dragged him along with hardly a step missed. Jack thought he heard the rasping sound of the garden gate’s rusty bolt sliding through its brackets, and then Dresimil’s hunters hurried out into the unpaved alleyway behind Maldridge. They turned left, or so he thought, and led him down the alley some distance before another door creaked open. Then the rogue was manhandled through a doorway and down a short flight of wooden steps into a dark, damp place-a cellar, most likely. Something clattered and thumped; the dark elves whispered to each other. Although Jack strained to listen in, he couldn’t make out much of their strange Elvish, at least not with the heavy hood over his head.
It seems the drow use the cellars and alleys to stay out of sight, he decided, or at least they took pains to avoid being seen on the open streets by daylight. How many abandoned cellars or secret boltholes did they have scattered throughout the city? A moment later, stone scraped on stone, and a whiff of cold, rank air came to his nose. The dark elves seized him again and maneuvered him through a doorway and down several more steps. He could hear the gurgle and splash of slow-moving water, and the sounds around him took on a hollow, echoing tone.
“The sewers,” he murmured to himself-although the gag over his mouth rendered the remark into a muffled pair of grunts. Jack mentally added the excellent dwarf-built network of drainage tunnels beneath Raven’s Bluff to the dark elves’ routes for moving around the city unnoticed. He would have thought the drow too fastidious to spend much time in the dank, unhealthy tunnels, but then again, one could hardly come up from the Underdark without passing through Sarbreen, and one could hardly go from Sarbreen to the surface without passing through the sewers. The dark elves turned him toward the right, keeping to the somewhat drier ledge or walkway that ran close to the right-hand wall. Once or twice Jack stepped into cold, foul-smelling water. He found himself wishing they’d hurry up and leave the sewer behind, until he remembered what was likely waiting for him when they reached Tower Chumavhraele.
He winced inside his hood. If he was lucky, Dresimil Chumavh would have him put to death in some quick and spectacular manner. Otherwise she’d have her minions torture him for days or tendays before allowing him to die. “I refuse to give her the satisfaction of begging for mercy,” he resolved under his gag … but somehow he suspected that the dark elves had ways to break tougher men than he. Some morbid part of his imagination started worrying about which specific tortures the drow would employ, and no matter how much Jack fought against it, a whole array of fiendish devices and tactics filled his mind.
Suddenly he was jerked to a halt and roughly pushed to his knees. He started to protest, but a drow close behind him cuffed him by his ear. “Still and silent!” the dark elf hissed.
Jack bit back another cry of pain and did his best to keep still. He listened intently, hearing nothing but the dripping echoes of the sewer around him. The drow barely made a sound; he could imagine they were talking to each other with the clever sign language he’d seen once or twice in Chumavhraele. Why would they stop here? he wondered. Had they met someone else in the sewers?
He leaned forward, trying to hear something, anything at all-and suddenly complete chaos exploded all around him. Shouts of anger rang through the tunnels, steel whispered against leather as blades were drawn, bowstrings snapped, and frantic splashing and plunging broke the steady murmur of the drain water. “What? What’s going on?” Jack demanded of his captors, and of course succeeded only in producing more unintelligible grunts. Then he was shoved to the ground by a hand in the middle of his back, and the shrill ring of steel against steel filled the tunnel. Someone screamed nearby, and someone else roared in fury.
“Fools!” shrieked Varys. “You dare to interfere with us? Slay them all!”
Jack started working to free himself. Lying on the ground, he got one foot against the sewer wall and used the leverage to scoot his bound hands underneath his buttocks. A few heartbeats of desperate wriggling brought his hands up under his knees, then around his feet one at a time. The fight raged on all around him, with cries of pain and panic-some drow, some human. There was a strange crackling, tearing sound, and Jack sensed strong magic close by him. A body fell almost on top of him-a dark elf, judging by the slender build and light weight. Jack ignored the body and dragged the hood from his head, rolling to his feet to make a break for freedom.
Several of the dark elves lay dead or unconscious around him, alongside a couple of human ruffians he didn’t recognize. More of the street toughs surrounded the rest of the drow, battling with knife and sling against rapier and hand crossbow. One of the dark elves went down under the impact of a sling bullet, and the fighting grew even more desperate. Jack decided that he wouldn’t get through the press in that direction, and turned to flee in the other direction-but there the drow sergeant Varys dueled none other than Myrkyssa Jelan. The elf wizard Kilarnan stood just a few steps behind the warlord, sword and wand in hand.
“Jelan?” Jack said in surprise, except that it came out as “Jmm-wnnhh?” because he was still gagged. Angrily he reached up and yanked the gag from his mouth. What he needed was a bit of magic, perhaps an invisibility spell to steal away from this unexpected brawl before he was missed … but he was too late. Jelan parried two lightning-quick thrusts of Varys’s rapier, then stepped inside the dark elf’s reach and sliced his head three-quarters off his neck with a wicked draw cut. Varys reeled around and collapsed in a heap as Jelan’s thugs overpowered the remaining drow.
Jelan eyed the dead drow in front of her with a small smile before she raised her gaze to Jack. “Well, then. I thought I told you to watch out for the drow, Jack.”
The rogue stared a moment in surprise, relief, and no small amount of apprehension. Out of the frying pan and into the fire? he wondered. “Elana,” he finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I and my Moon Daggers have been engaged in something of a dispute with the drow for several tendays now,” Jelan replied. “They seem to think they have the run of the city. I disagree. I certainly saw no reason to let them take you back down to Chumavhraele.”
“But …” Jack’s natural loquaciousness was nowhere to be found. It seemed this day
was full of surprises; he rallied and tried again. “How did you know they had me?”
“I have my sources at Horthlaer’s. I received word this morning that a deal had been struck for the Sarkonagael, so I moved my agents into place to seize the book. One of my spies was watching Maldridge; when the drow stormed the house, he sent for help. I had an idea the dark elves would head for the nearest entrance to Sarbreen with you, so I moved to intercept them. Excuse me for a moment.” Jelan moved past Jack to check on the rest of her men. She knelt briefly by one of the fallen ruffians, and shook her head-it looked like the fellow had taken a rapier-thrust through the heart. She moved to the next, and pulled a small crossbow-quarrel from his shoulder. “Darrek should be fine,” she said to her ruffians. “He’ll wake up in an hour or two with a splitting headache. Drow sleep-venom is strong stuff.”
“You were plotting to steal the Sarkonagael from me?” Jack demanded.
Jelan shrugged. “I would have done it last night, but you and the book were nowhere to be found. Where were you hiding?”
Jack frowned, wondering what had deterred Jelan for a moment before the answer came to him: She must have been looking for him during the time that he’d been confined in Tarandor’s accursed green bottle! Truly, events were moving at a dizzying pace; his rivals and enemies were falling all over each other in their eagerness to foil him. “I was inconvenienced by a completely unreasonable wizard,” he replied. More than that she probably would not believe.
“You would be wise to choose your enemies with more care,” Jelan said. She indicated the dark elves lying dead in the sewer tunnel with a nod of her head. “Now, it seems to me that I have rendered you something of a service by snatching you out of Dresimil Chumavh’s talons. The price of my assistance is, of course, the Sarkonagael. Where might I find the book?”
Jack steeled himself; somehow he doubted that Jelan would like what he was about to say. “I no longer have it, Elana,” he answered. “I turned it in for the reward. Which I have not yet collected, by the way, so there is no need to rob me at the moment.”
Myrkyssa Jelan frowned and stared levelly into his eyes for a long moment. “You turned it in?” she said. “Do not lie to me, Jack. I have been watching Horthlaer’s, and I know they do not have the book.”
“That was likely true an hour or two ago, but if Horthlaer’s does not have it by now, they will by the end of the day. I arranged another counting house to represent me, and left the Sarkonagael in their hands.”
The swordswoman muttered something to herself in a language that sounded like Shou, and turned away in frustration. Kilarnan looked at his employer. “Do we try to retrieve it from Horthlaer’s?” the elf asked. “It could be done.”
Jelan shook her head. “We would need days to arrange it; Horthlaer’s is the next best thing to a fortress. And we would set the whole of the city against us. The prize isn’t worth the cost of the throw.” She looked back at Jack, who was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he still had his hands bound in front of him and was still surrounded by her henchmen. “Did I not warn you against allowing the Sarkonagael to fall into the wrong hands?”
“Heeding warnings has never been easy for me, Elana.”
“Yes, I think I’ve learned that about you.” She glared at him. “Do you know who has the Sarkonagael now?”
Jack shook his head. “I did not determine the identity of the buyer.”
“Well, I did,” Jelan replied. “You have delivered the Secrets of the Shadewrights into the hands of Lord Norwood.”
“Norwood? Lord Marden Norwood?” Jack blinked in surprise. “What in the world would he want with it?”
“That is the question, now, isn’t it? The spell of shadow-simulacra is a potent weapon. It is a perfect tool for espionage, manipulation, or simple assassination. Do you know what might be done with that sort of magic in the wrong hands?”
Jack refrained from pointing out that Myrkyssa Jelan possessed that knowledge because she had in fact been the wrong hands just a few short years ago, by his measure. He also refrained from pointing out that the spell in question was actually in his vest pocket. Why did Seila’s father want the Sarkonagael? Was he engaged in some secret skullduggery of his own, or was he in cahoots with the drow in some unexpected manner? Jack’s mood soured even more at that thought. As heartily as he disliked Marden Norwood at the moment, for Seila’s sake he hoped that the man was not a villain. “Why do you distrust Norwood?” he asked.
“Have you seen how the nobles rule over Raven’s Bluff?” Jelan countered. “They control the city’s trade, its laws, the magistrates, the watch, the city officials, the Wizards’ Guild, everything. What do you think might happen when you give a man accustomed to using power as he pleases the sort of power the Sarkonagael holds?”
“He might want it simply for safekeeping,” said Jack, even though he was not at all sure that was the case.
“Possibly, but that is not a gamble I care to take.” The swordswoman motioned to her surviving mercenaries.
“Let us be on our way-there may be more drow about. Jack, you will find a stair leading back to the streets about thirty yards behind you.”
“That is it?” Jack asked. “You are letting me go?”
“You have nothing I want,” Jelan replied. She drew a dagger from her belt; Jack flinched despite his best efforts to hold still, but she merely sliced the bonds on his wrists and returned the knife to its sheath. “However … you have access to Norwood Manor that I do not. If Norwood tires of your games or you decide that he shouldn’t have that book you gave him after all, I’ll reward you for bringing it to me. Ask for Elana at Nimber’s Skewer Shop-that is how I prefer to be known in the current day. And you’d best heed my advice about avoiding the drow in the future, Jack. It might not be in my interest to rescue you again.” Then she turned on her heel and strode off, her small gang falling in behind her.
Jack stood in the dank sewer, surrounded by dead dark elves, and stared after Myrkyssa Jelan in confusion. He would never understand her peculiarities, not in a hundred years … which was ironic, considering that that was about how long he’d known her by one measure. He stooped to arm himself with a rapier and crossbow from the nearest dark elf, then hurried off to find his way back to the city streets.
Maldridge, unfortunately, burned to the ground.
“This will not endear me to Marden Norwood,” Jack muttered, watching the firefighting companies breaking up the smoldering debris and dousing hot spots with water pumped from their great wagons. “The destruction of Maldridge will try his patience sorely, or I am a goblin.” Somehow he doubted that Norwood would believe any story of drow kidnapers and accidental fires, not when the old lord was already inclined to look at him as a scoundrel and a fraud. Jack’s mind turned again to Norwood’s parting remark about the influence he wielded in the city and the sort of troubles he could arrange if his patience were tried.
He managed to retrieve about half of his new wardrobe, thanks in no small part to the fact that Edelmon had conveniently arranged his belongings close by the front door. Looters had carried off the large, fine trunks in which his new clothes had been housed. That, of course, was not unusual-opportunistic sorts had been racing fire companies to the scene of any fire since long before Jack’s time. He was, however, simultaneously insulted and relieved to find that the looters had discarded Jack’s bold and colorful garments in the street while stealing the trunks themselves. At least the looters had shown the uncommon decency to drag the unconscious Edelmon out of the burning house, or so Jack heard from the gawkers still standing about. Although he had no particular obligation to look after his discharged valet, he wouldn’t have wanted the old wretch to have ended up dead on his account.
It seemed unwise to linger near the destroyed mansion for long, so Jack carried a heaping armful of his clothing away from the scene. At a chandlery two streets over he found a large canvas duffel that could accommodate his sadly reduced wardrobe, stuffed his s
moky-smelling clothes within, and set off again with all his possessions in the world carried over his shoulder.
A temporary setback, he told himself, and not a sign of any lasting change of fortunes-but just in case, Jack went straightaway to the counting house of Horthlaer to withdraw every last copper of the credit Norwood had provided for him. The old lord might remember to revoke the line of credit, or he might not, but Jack wasn’t about to take any chances. He decided to leave the Sarkonagael reward in the care of House Albrath for now; there was a limit to the amount of gold Jack wanted to carry around in a duffel without a place to lay his head at night. And then, since the afternoon was growing late and he had no idea where else to go, he wandered toward the Smoke Wyrm. He was sorely in need of a few tankards of good ale.
The dwarven taproom was bustling with business; the workday was done for many of the city’s common folk. Jack bought a pint of Old Smoky, ignoring the irony of the transaction, and found himself a seat at a small table by the wall. His duffel he slid under his chair. “Things are not so bad as they seem,” he reminded himself after a long pull from the tankard. He was still a man of means, after all. What did it matter that all the possessions he called his own could now fit in a canvas bag under his seat? He had a fortune of thousands of gold crowns to reestablish himself in more comfort whenever he liked.
“Maldridge was too big for me anyway,” he decided, and soothed his throat with another pull from his mug. “I will find myself a smaller, more comfortable place to call my own, and fit it with a front door that would defeat a rampaging minotaur.” The notion had much to recommend it … but the small satisfaction he felt from the resolution dulled all too quickly. When he considered all the schemes and ambitions he’d developed upon liberating himself from the dark elves’ captivity, he could truthfully say he was satisfied with the progress of not a single one of them. He’d had some success in winning the affections of the delightful (and delightfully wealthy) Seila Norwood, only to incur the mortal disapproval of her father. He’d discovered who had imprisoned him in the wild mythal a hundred years past, but now an impatient wizard of some skill seemed determined to return him to his prison as soon as possible. The Sarkonagael he had recovered in a daring and well-executed expedition to Sarbreen, only to discover that he’d undertaken the effort on behalf of the man who distrusted him more than anybody in Raven’s Bluff. And of course his ambitions of establishing himself in the elevated company of the city’s noble classes had foundered on the twin rocks of Norwood’s disfavor and a drowish vendetta.
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