“I hope so. The Sarkonagael has something of a sinister reputation.”
“Are you accusing my father of dabbling in dark magic?” Seila asked sharply.
“I said nothing of the sort,” Jack quickly said. “It’s simply that I have personal experience of the Sarkonagael, and it is frankly dangerous. I would like to know what your father wants it for.”
“Am I supposed to question him about it?” Seila turned in her seat to glare at Jack. “Exactly how should I broach the matter, Jack? ‘Father, the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame suspects you of collecting forbidden tomes. Can you give some account of yourself?’ ”
“Your father may be involved in something … unpleasant,” Jack replied. “Is that so hard to imagine? Many men of his station and position are.”
“As far as I know, he hasn’t answered to no less than three different names in my hearing, or pretended to be lord of any imaginary domains!”
Jack winced. “Very well,” he said. “I retract the question; your father’s interests are none of my concern. Let us put it behind us.”
Seila sat in silence for a long moment, her face turned away from his. Finally, she took a deep breath, and said, “I think you had better go now.”
“Now, Seila, I only asked a simple question about …” Jack began, but he did not finish the thought. Seila’s arms were crossed, and she stared stonily at the opera unfolding below. Jack had great confidence in his powers of persuasion, but he sensed that there was little he could say that would retrieve the situation. He grimaced, surprised to find that he was honestly hurt by her temporary rejection.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he stood and bowed. “I am sorry for this … misunderstanding. Whatever you may think of me, please be careful, Seila. Dark designs are at work in the city, and I am not at the bottom of all of them.” Then he let himself out of the box, leaving Seila to her anger.
“Jack, you fool,” he muttered to himself. “That was poorly done.” It seemed his evening at the opera was at an unfortunately early end.
He paused in the stairwell to alter his appearance, just in case he ran into any of the well-heeled folk he’d met at the historical society, the theater opening, or Lady Moonbrace’s tea. He changed his hair color, thickened his nose, and added twenty years of lines and crow’s-feet to his face, then proceeded to the lobby. Seila’s suspicion was a disappointment, to say the least. Somehow he would have to find his way back into her good graces, but other events would seem to suggest that the best thing he could do for the moment was to drop out of sight. With the wizard Tarandor and Dresimil’s dark elf warriors both looking for him, the lower his profile, the better. Matters were entirely out of hand; he could hardly make a show of repairing his good name when he dared not show his face in public.
He descended the stairs to the house’s lobby and spied a wine steward arranging his service at one side of the room. Jack crossed the gleaming marble floor, eying a goblet of Chessentan red. “Five talents, sir,” the steward said.
“Half a crown for a cup of mediocre wine?” Jack grumbled, but he fished the necessary coinage out of his purse and paid the fellow. He was not the only audience member up and out of his seat; a handful of others were in search of refreshment, or on their way to or from the powder rooms. Putting his back to the wall, he turned to watch the fine folk come and go-and then he saw Fetterfist. The tall, yellow-haired lord wore a tunic of blue with a great gold chain and a shapeless blue hat; he had a pair of striking beauties on his arms, one with dark hair and the other with hair of burnished copper.
Quickly Jack turned back to the wine steward and gestured discretely at the unknown lord. “Who is that fellow in blue, the one with the redhead and brunette in his company?” he asked the servant.
The steward gave a small shrug. “Why, I am not sure if I remember his name.” Jack produced a gold crown and pressed it into the steward’s hand. “Ah, wait, now it comes to me,” the steward continued. “That is Lord Cailek Balathorp, of the Balathorp family. His companions I do not recognize, but he seems to be in different company each time he attends.”
“My thanks,” Jack said drily. He stood watching Balathorp-Fetterfist-while he considered his various difficulties … and then a bold idea came to him. He examined the notion carefully, considering it in all its aspects, and nodded firmly to himself. Two different parties wished to deprive Jack of his freedom; very well, he would see to it that their ambitions were fulfilled, so that perhaps they might leave him in peace.
Draining the last of his cup, Jack ambled toward Balathorp and gave a small bow. “My lord, might I have a discreet word with you?”
Balathorp glanced at Jack with a look of annoyance. “Do I know you?” he asked.
“No, my lord, but we share certain business interests.”
“I do not attend the opera to discuss business.”
“I will not take much of your time.” Jack raised a hand to his chest, and made a show of wrapping the fingers of the other around his wrist as if to massage an ache … or to imitate a manacle.
Balathorp’s eyes narrowed, but he acceded. “Mirta, Saneyn, excuse me for just a moment,” he said to his companions. He followed as Jack drew him aside to a quiet corner of the room, where no one else stood within earshot. After a quick glance around, the tall lord scowled at Jack and said, “This had better be important. I never permit my business interests to intrude in the social circles I customarily inhabit.”
“Do you know Jack Ravenwild? Sometimes called Jaer Kell Wildhame?”
“The rescuer of Seila Norwood. What of him?”
“Our friends in Chumavhraele are anxious to get their hands on him.”
Balathorp hesitated. “Who are you?”
“Let us say we share an employer,” Jack replied. “What would you say if I were to tell you that I can have Ravenwild waiting for you at the warehouse of Mumfort and Company in Bitterstone-say, the night of the seventeenth at midnight?”
“I would wonder why you needed me.”
“Transportation of goods, my dear sir. It is your area of expertise, is it not?” Jack pressed on quickly; intermission had been announced, and audience members by the dozens were beginning to arrive in the lobby. “I can get Ravenwild to the warehouse and have him ready to be moved. All you need do is take him … downstairs. I understand there is a substantial reward for his capture. Are you interested?” That last remark about a reward was simple speculation on his part, of course, but he thought it had a certain plausibility; if Dresimil was willing to send her warriors up into the streets of Raven’s Bluff, she was likely willing to pay well for his return if someone else arranged it.
“I am well aware of the reward for Ravenwild,” Balathorp answered, confirming Jack’s guess. “But how do you profit from this arrangement?”
“I am well paid for my services,” Jack said with a sly smile. “You might say I am on retainer.”
Balathorp-Fetterfist-studied Jack for a long moment, his eyes cold as steel. “The fact remains that I do not know you, and have no real reason to trust you,” he finally said.
“You will have to accustom yourself to the former condition. I have reason to avoid giving you my name. As for the latter …” Jack gave a small shrug. “You are regarded as a reliable fellow, and I would be happy to employ you. But if you are not interested, I can find someone else.”
Balathorp glanced around at the increasing crowd, and lowered his voice. “Fine: Mumfort’s, two nights from now, twelve bells.”
“Excellent,” Jack replied. He nodded and began to leave, but Balathorp reached out with one long-fingered hand and grasped him by the upper arm. The slaver’s grip was strong, and he did not spare his strength.
“I have my ways of getting to the bottom of things,” the tall lord murmured. “If you wind up wasting my time, I will find out who you are, and you will have cause to regret trifling with me. And one last thing-never approach me in public again.” Then he released Jack and headed back
to rejoin his companions.
Jack surreptitiously rubbed at his arm, and allowed himself a smile. “One down,” he remarked to himself. Then he let himself out of Rundelstone and headed into the gloomy night.
Putting his unfortunate argument with Seila out of his mind for the moment, Jack hurried back to the Smoke Wyrm with a tentative answer to his difficulties taking shape in his mind. The night was damp, cool, and windy; a waning moon peeked through fast-scudding clouds from time to time, but otherwise the sky was dark and starless. He retained his nondescript magical guise until he reached Vesper Way, just in case anyone with sinister intentions toward him was skulking about in the shadowed alleyways and looking for a wiry, dark-haired, dark-goateed fellow with a confident manner and impeccable taste in clothing. No dark elf war parties or cabals of scheming wizards put in an appearance, so Jack deemed his precautions a success and trotted down the steps to Tharzon’s tap-room.
The Smoke Wyrm was as full as Jack had seen it. Close to twoscore laborers, clerks, touts, merchants’ wives, and dancing girls crowded the room, all of them speaking loudly at once to be heard over the energetic strumming of a trio of minstrels who played by the far wall. It was a merry little scene, and Jack had half a mind to join in the revels for an hour or two … but he had serious business to attend, and there would be time for good ale and dancing later. He paused to study the crowd and spied the brawny half-orc Narm against the wall, nursing a mug of Old Smoky.
Jack made his way over to the swordsman and inclined his head. “Narm, I believe you are just the fellow I am looking for,” he began. “Did you get your cut from Tharzon?”
“Not a quarter-hour ago,” Narm answered. He patted his left side; there was a jingle of mail and a clink of coin. “Tharzon called me over as soon as I walked in the door. A good thing, too, because I was beginning to wonder whether you had a notion to play us false.”
“Such a notion never crossed my mind,” Jack said nervously, belatedly asking himself if Narm was in fact the fellow he needed at the moment. “I merely retained the book until I was certain the entire sum was forthcoming.”
Narm nodded. “A wise precaution. When one agrees to perform a dangerous task in exchange for a certain sum of gold, one expects to be paid.”
“I agree wholeheardedly,” Jack replied. There was no need to bring up the additional fee he’d negotiated for the Sarkonagael’s return. “Now, speaking of employment … would the Blue Wyverns be interested in assisting me the night after next, around nine bells? I need to arrange a difficult transaction, and I am willing to pay each of you fifty gold crowns for your time and trouble.”
The big swordsman scratched at his stubble-covered chin. “In light of the mortal danger we encountered on our last venture, we’ll need to be paid in advance. And I’ll be the judge of whether fifty crowns is enough for your job. Now, what do you have in mind?”
“Let us find a place to speak more privately, and perhaps see if Kurzen is interested as well,” Jack answered. The rogue and the sellsword moved over to the crowded bar, where Tharzon’s son and a pair of human barkeeps worked to keep the mugs and pitchers of the Smoke Wyrm’s customers full.
Kurzen glanced up and saw Jack and Narm waiting. He gave them a small nod, wiping his hands on his apron. “Back again, Jack? I thought you were off to the opera or some such business this evening.”
Narm glanced down at Jack. “The opera?” he asked.
“I am a cultured man. Besides, that’s where the rich people can be found.”
“I see that another scheme is afoot,” said Kurzen. “Speak quickly, if you please-we’re a mite busy this evening.”
“This shouldn’t be more than a few moments of your time, friend Kurzen,” Jack replied. “Do you have a quiet place to talk?”
The dwarf glanced at the room and the waiting customers. “Hold down the bar, lads,” he said to the barkeeps. Then he came out from around the bar and led Jack and Narm to the kegroom where Jack had spoken to Tharzon earlier. Several of the big kegs were lying empty on the floor, which was now wet and slick with spillage. Jack was impressed; they went through a good deal of ale at the Smoke Wyrm, or so it seemed. Kurzen wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around once to make sure no one else was in earshot. “Well, Jack, what’s on your mind?” he said.
“I need some help in convincing some persistent enemies to leave me alone.”
“It’ll cost you more than fifty crowns to hire me as an assassin,” Narm muttered.
“That is not precisely what I was planning,” Jack replied. “I wish to retain you for security.”
He went on to describe the situations with Tarandor and the dark elves while Narm and Kurzen listened closely. At length the half-orc made a counteroffer, and after some negotiation, they settled on a price of four hundred gold crowns for the participation of Kurzen and the Company of the Blue Wyvern.
“Good enough,” the dwarf grunted. “But let’s have half in advance, if you please.”
“Aye, half in advance,” Narm agreed. Jack started to protest, but the half-orc only smiled. “You’ve just told us that two different bands of foes are looking for you. If they catch you, Kurzen and I will have nothing for our troubles.”
“Fine, then,” Jack grumbled. He grudgingly paid half the agreed sum in advance. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that if his little ploy worked, it would be money well spent; neither dark elf assassins nor officious wizards would have any more reason to haunt his steps. “After all, is that not how men of means defeat their troubles?” he asked himself. “Any problem that can be solved with something as simple as a bag of gold crowns is not much of a problem at all, really.”
“What was that?” Narm asked, pausing in his count of coins.
“A philosophical observation, and nothing more,” Jack replied.
“It depends whether you have a bag of gold or not,” Kurzen answered. “And of course some complaints can’t be addressed by any amount of coin.” He scooped up his share of the coins, and stood. “I have to get back to my work or my da will never let me hear the end of it.”
“Remember, the warehouse of Mumfort and Company, nine bells on the evening of the seventeeth,” Jack said again. “I will meet you there.”
“Nine bells,” Narm agreed. “Until the day after tomorrow, then,” he said. Kurzen nodded in agreement and led the way back to the crowded taproom. Jack took his leave of the Smoke Wyrm for the evening, hurrying back to the tiny little suite above the disused tinsmith’s shop.
He passed the rest of the evening in a close study of the spell he’d cut from the Sarkonagael, reading the magical pages in the lightless room. Tharzon’s bolthole was not a particularly comfortable place to study; the roof leaked, and there was a peculiarly strong musty odor that seemed to emerge in the rain and damp of the evening. However, the place served its purpose of providing Jack with a place to work out of the sight of those who did not mean him well. Jack had given the shadow-simulacrum spell only a cursory examination while entrapped in Tarandor Delhame’s bottle. Jack soon discovered that, as he’d thought, the spell was more of a ritual than the sort of spell one might actually memorize. The procedure itself seemed relatively straightforward, but some of the finer details taxed him sorely. By the early hours of morning he’d satisfied his curiosity enough to seek a few hours’ sleep on the narrow, hard bed.
Jack awoke to another cold, overcast morning; a steady drizzle grayed the streets and buildings around Jack’s retreat. He made his breakfast on a pair of sweet rolls and a quart of fresh milk from a nearby bakery, while he carefully composed a brief note and sealed it in a small envelope. Then he dressed himself in the plainest and most ordinary of the clothes remaining from the fine wardrobe created by Grigor Silverstitch-dark blue breeches with a matching vest, a shirt of white Turmishan cotton, a broad-brimmed hat of the same hue as the breeches, and a cape of light gray. He tucked his note into his vest pocket, then he worked his spell of disguise, making himself taller and
lanker, changing his hair to a dirty straw color, removing his goatee, and making his jawline broad and bony. When he finished, he checked his appearance in the mirror and grinned in approval; it was a good likeness of Cailek Balathorp. Then he set out into the rainy morning.
He headed south through Torchtown until he reached Evensong Ride, then strolled through Holyhouses and Swordspoint. At MacIntyre he turned left, with a small twinge of trepidation-the smoldering ruins of Maldridge were just a block or two ahead, and there was a very small chance that anyone looking for Jack might stake out the burned manor on the off chance he returned to dig through the rubble. But before he reached Maldridge or any likely imaginary spies watching for him, he came to the High House of Magic and trotted up the rain-slick steps to the door.
After one quick tug at his garments to adjust the fit, Jack knocked on the great black door. There was a long pause, then Jack heard measured footfalls from the hallway within. The heavy door swung open, revealing the tiefling chamberlain-Marzam, was that his name? — dressed in a fine black coat. The grave-looking tiefling studied Jack for a moment, and then asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“Is Master Tarandor here today?” Jack asked.
“I believe so, sir. If you’ll wait a moment-”
“No need, my good fellow.” Jack drew his note from his breast pocket and presented it to the chamberlain. “Please deliver this to him at once. It is a matter that interests him greatly.”
Marzam gave Jack a dubious look, but he accepted the envelope. “I will see to it,” he said.
“Very good,” Jack answered. He turned and trotted back down the steps; behind him, the tiefling watched him depart, then returned inside. The rogue turned south on MacIntyre and crossed Evensong Ride, making for a building just two short blocks down from the High House of Magic. A faded yellow door stood under the sign of a great black pot; Jack went inside. Back in his day, the Kettle of Many Things had been a fine little restaurant. After a hundred years, it was now a tavern that catered to the city’s working folk with filling fare and inexpensive ale and wine. Jack took a seat at a table by the window, ordered a mug of weak beer, and settled in to wait, hoping the tiefling hadn’t just tossed the note as soon as he closed the door. It was midmorning; the Kettle was quiet, with only two or three other customers minding their own business.
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