“Three men are approaching,” Arlith whispered. “One looks like he might be the tall yellow-haired fellow you described.”
“Three?” Jack repeated. He grimaced; of course Balathorp wouldn’t have come alone.
“You only mentioned one man when we settled a price last night,” Narm growled. “This, of course, must be taken into account.”
“Nonsense,” Jack replied. “This is the sort of unexpected development that might arise in any business transaction. We are all exposed to unanticipated risks.”
“In that case, you are free to deal with all three slavers as you wish,” Narm replied.
“That is unfortunate,” said Jack with a great show of patience, “since we agreed the balance of your payment for the night was contingent upon Fetterfist’s capture.”
“Enough, both of you,” Halamar whispered. “We can manage all three easily enough, but not if they hear us arguing from the street. To your places.”
The half-orc swordsman frowned, but he moved to stand beside Jack. Kurzen hid in a dark space between two large stacks of crates; Halamar in another one farther from the door. Arlith came down from her window and took up a place by the warehouse door. For his own part, Jack drew a blindfold over his eyes-seemingly opaque, but merely translucent-and knelt beside Narm with his hands locked together behind his back, loops of cord loose around his wrists. In his right fist he hid one of the expensive vials he’d purchased during his hectic morning preparations, wrapped in a fine silk cloth. A moment later there was a sharp knock at the warehouse door. Jack adopted an attitude of defeat, allowing his shoulders to slump and his head to nod on his chest. Narm’s callused hand settled on his shoulder, as if holding him upright.
Arlith gave the small company a wink and opened the door for Balathorp. The slaver wore the same leather hood Jack had seen him wearing in Chumavhraele; gone were the fine clothes and effete manners of the nobleman. One of the ruffians with him was a short, hairy fellow with black hair and long arms and the other was a tiefling with skin the color of charcoal. “Well, we are here,” the slaver announced. “Do you have my wares?”
The halfling looked up at the tall human and snorted. “About time. We’ve been waiting for an hour.”
“Take that up with the fellow who made the arrangements, not me,” Balathorp answered. His eyes fell on Jack, kneeling beside Narm, flicked to the half-orc, and then returned to the halfling. “So where is our mysterious go-between, anyway? I don’t know either of you.”
Narm shrugged. “All I know is that we were paid to bring this poor wretch-” he slapped the side of Jack’s head hard enough to make Jack’s ears ring-“to this warehouse and wait for someone called Fetterfist. Is that you?”
The slaver stood in the doorway for a long moment, and Jack wondered if he was going to back out. Then he shrugged and stepped inside, his thugs following close behind him. “Let’s see if this is who I think it is,” he remarked, and approached Jack. He reached out to pull up the blindfold and peer into Jack’s face … and at that instant Jack crushed the vial with the yellow musk extract in his hand and shoved the seeping cloth up under Balathorp’s nose, while seizing the slaver’s tunic with the other hand to hold him close.
Jack had taken the precaution of slipping plugs in his nostrils ahead of time, and he was careful to hold his breath … but even so, the faintest whiff of the extract’s aroma tickled his nose, and his head swam as if he’d been drinking half the night. Balathorp cried out in surprise and protest, but in the process he couldn’t help but to draw a breath of the potent aroma. The remaining two ruffians cursed and went for their weapons, but now the Company of the Blue Wyvern leaped out of ambush. Arlith, who stood by the door momentarily forgotten, expertly kicked the legs of the black-haired thug out from under him even though he was twice her size. Narm leaped past Balathorp to pummel the tiefling furiously, his fist wrapped around a solid lead slug. Kurzen charged out of his hiding-place and clubbed the black-haired thug with a short truncheon as the fellow tried to roll to his feet. The thug managed to draw a knife, but the dwarf smashed it out of his fingers with one blow of the club and knocked him senseless with the second and third. Meanwhile, Balathorp’s furious struggles ceased, and his knees began to buckle. Jack kept the soporific extract right under the slaver’s nose and eased him to the floor.
The tiefling roared in anger and summoned up a blast of infernal fire as Narm struck at him, driving back the half-orc for a moment. He turned and started for the door, but Arlith leaped up, took two quick steps, and yanked the tiefling to the warehouse floor by his cloak. Kurzen and Narm set in at the devil-blooded ruffian immediately, and in a few short moments the last of the slavers was unconscious on the floor. Halamar extinguished the tiefling’s fire with a wave of his hand, and the building fell silent.
“By Cyric’s black heart, that stuff is strong, Jack,” Arlith said. The halfling raised a hand to cover her mouth and nose as she climbed to her feet. “I can feel it from over here.”
“It should be, given how much I paid for it,” Jack said. He’d nearly drugged himself earlier in the day when he’d applied the stuff to the simulacrum he created. Removing his false blindfold, he carefully took the crushed vial and the damp cloth and dropped them both into a small leather pouch before cinching it tight. “Quite expensive, but far and away the best tool for the job.”
“Best to secure him, anyway, and the others as well,” Narm said.
“Of course. I am noted for my attention to detail,” said Jack. He relieved Fetterfist of his sword, dagger, and boots (just in case there were any hidden blades or compartments in the heels), removed a sturdy leather pouch from the slaver’s belt, and pocketed his coinpurse, too. Then he produced a sturdy length of cord from under his cloak and made sure Fetterfist was tightly bound, while Arlith and Kurzen saw to Fetterfist’s associates.
“That was simple enough,” Halamar observed when they’d finished. “Now what do we do with them?”
“Now we summon the watch.”
“Summon the watch?” the sorcerer cried in amazement. “Whatever for?”
“Why, to deliver the notorious slaver Fetterfist to the forces of law and order and unmask him as the traitorous lord Cailek Balathorp.” Jack drew a large envelope out of his pocket and laid it atop the unconscious slaver. “This is a little note explaining his various crimes and misdemeanors. I also took the liberty of claiming credit for his capture.”
“You are simply going to give up a prisoner as valuable as this fellow to the watch?” Narm said. “And make an enemy of the Balathorps, as well? You did not mention the rest of us by name in that letter, did you?”
“Your anonymity is assured, friend Narm. And I do not look at this as giving up a valuable chip for nothing-I mean to buy back Norwood’s favor with Balathorp, here.”
“If that’s the case, it would be better to drop this fellow on Norwood’s doorstep in the dark of night,” Kurzen said thoughtfully. “You’d have a better chance of claiming the credit without the involvement of the watch.”
Jack shrugged. “Norwood might have me murdered on sight by his guards after the whole unfortunate business with Maldridge. I thought it best to arrange a gift for him before showing myself at Norwood Manor.”
The Blue Wyverns exchanged skeptical glances, but offered no more arguments. Jack nodded to himself and gave Balathorp’s coinpurse a jingle. “Now, I do not know about the rest of you, but I find that my labors this evening have left me with a great thirst. Shall we find some friendly establishment to celebrate our successes? Cailek Balathorp has generously offered to buy the first round.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next day, after numerous rounds at the smoke Wyrm and one final uncomfortable night on the hard, narrow plank that served as the bed in the room above the tinsmith’s shop, Jack took his duffel of clothing and his momentarily full purse to an inn billing itself as the Ravenstrand Arms on North Road. The place was half-full, with a mercantile clientele that in
cluded Sembian importers, Dalesfolk traders, and even a pair of traveling arms merchants from distant Mulmaster. For his own part, Jack passed himself off as a lord’s agent from Calaunt, tasked with inspecting his master’s investments in Raven’s Bluff. He gave the innkeeper reason to believe that he intended to dawdle and shirk at these duties to the greatest extent possible, enjoying the opportunity to live well on his employer’s stipend for a few tendays. The accommodations were far, far better than the tinsmith’s apartment, if somewhat pricier than Jack might like. He immediately put the place to the test by crawling back into bed and sleeping away most of the day, counting it as a reasonable reward for his recent labors.
“A more permanent arrangement is, of course, to be preferred,” he told himself as he dined at the Ravenstrand’s common board that evening, “but for a tenday or so, this will serve well enough.” He examined a couple of the daily handbills from the inn’s common room while he ate. The Lord Mayor’s Revel was of course the chief topic of the day; Jack read about the lavish preparations and delightful entertainment planned for the evening. Seila would be there, perhaps expecting him to show up to unmask Fetterfist if word had not yet spread that Balathorp had been turned in to the city watch with serious accusations leveled against him. The thought of crashing the affair to see her crossed his mind, but then he reminded himself that he was trying to stay out of sight until the obnoxious Tarandor Delhame returned to Iriaebor.
The thought of Seila merely increased Jack’s frustration at the notion of outwaiting the master abjurer. With the remains of Norwood’s reward, the Sarkonagael’s reward, the hefty fee he’d extorted from the wizard Tarandor, and the full purse he’d found among Balathorp’s effects, Jack was as wealthy as anyone in Raven’s Bluff who wasn’t a noble or a very successful merchant. In fact, he was rich as he’d ever been in his life, a state of affairs he very much looked forward to enjoying. But that was nowhere as rich as he might be if he could win the hand of Seila Norwood. In fact, as Jack reflected on events, it occurred to him that of the various schemes and designs he’d concocted since his escape from the rothe pastures of Tower Chumavhraele, the one effort now in the greatest doubt was attaching himself in a real and lasting way to the Norwood fortunes. More to the point, he missed Seila, and found that his thoughts lingered on her merry smile, her enchanting green eyes, her lively wit, the delightful curves, the sweet sensation of her lips meeting his … he gave a small sigh, and shook his head.
“Clearly, it’s well past time to find my way back into her favor,” he reflected. “The question is, how?” He could invent a story that accounted for why he went to such pains to claim a title-an old curse or enemy he was desperate to avoid, perhaps. The difficulty was that both Seila and her father were now predisposed to doubt any new explanations he offered. If that were the case, would an honest and sincere apology stand the best chance of success? Both sincerity and honesty were somewhat foreign to Jack’s nature, but Seila seemed to have a way of bringing out strange sentiments in him. Perhaps he ought to hire a coach and go out to the Lord Mayor’s palace this very moment and tell her exactly what he felt in his heart … but, of course, he was supposed to be staying out of sight until Tarandor departed. The whole simulacrum scheme would collapse if word somehow got back to Tarandor that Jack was still at liberty.
Jack scowled to himself; he disliked waiting. Deciding he was in need of more convivial company than that offered by the Ravenstrand, he returned to his room for a cloak and rakish hat, then set out for the Smoke Wyrm. It was only a few blocks away, but he took a circuitous route to throw off any hypothetical tails. The evening was overcast, with a three-quarter moon that peeked infrequently through the scudding clouds. The rains and cold weather of the last few days seemed to finally be moving on, but the streets still seemed unusually empty, almost as if the city was holding its breath in anticipation.
The glow of lanternlight and murmur of voices from the taphouse were a welcome improvement. Jack found the Smoke Wyrm perhaps half-full, and paused in the doorway to make sure no one he did not care to meet was waiting for him. The place seemed safe enough, so he made his way to the bar. “A good evening to you, friend Tharzon,” he said to the old dwarf, who was working behind the counter. “A pint of your excellent lager, if you please. There will be no Old Smoky for me this evening.”
Tharzon snorted. “I never thought I’d live to see you learn a lesson, Jack.” He drew a pint for Jack and set it in front of the rogue. Then he reached under the counter and brought out a large leather belt pouch. “Speaking of which, you left this here last night.”
Jack looked at the pouch in confusion for a moment before he recognized it as Balathorp’s. He’d taken it from the slaver along with his coinpurse and sword, but hadn’t gotten around to looking through it during last night’s drinking at the Smoke Wyrm. “My thanks,” he said. “I had forgotten all about this.”
Taking the large mug and the leather pouch, he found a small table in a dark corner where he could watch the door without being easily seen. Carefully he emptied the pouch’s contents on the table. There was a well-worn ledger, a charcoal pencil, a pair of manacles, and finally a strange stone of mottled black and green, about half the size of his fist. He sensed magic in the stone, but its purpose eluded him; after scrutinizing it for a few moments, he set it aside. The ledger was filled out with cryptic abbreviations and columns of figures, marking dates and sums of coin. On a hunch Jack flipped to the pages for the last couple of days, and discovered on the page dated 14 Tarsakh the notation 17 Tars. 12b. Mumfort. Mchd: JR, m, hmn, 30. Source:? Dest: Chum. Val: 500? D. wants this one.
“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 Chumavhraele, 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 Chumavh 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 Chumavh’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?
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