Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A little before eight bells in the evening, Jack strolled up to the Rundelstone Opera House. He’d hurried from the Smoke Wyrm to the dismal little apartment above the vacant tinsmith’s shop, washed quickly, and changed his clothes before racing back across town to Rundelstone. He wore a fine pair of black silk breeches, a double-breasted tunic of black with silver buttons, a short cape, and a rakish felt hat. They were the least-rumpled and least-smoky of his clothes. Of course, no one noticed his fine ensemble at the door, because he was invisible.

With some difficulty he worked his way through the crowd; in close quarters it was difficult to avoid being jostled, especially when other people had no reason not to walk right through where he happened to be standing. Jack feared for a moment that arousing suspicions with an invisible collision was inevitable, but before he caused a scene he hit upon the strategy of drawing up as close as he could behind a tall, important-looking lord. Other opera-goers naturally deferred to the fellow and helpfully cleared out of his path. Once the nobleman paused to sniff at the unexplained aroma of smoke in his vicinity, but he pressed on with a shrug, and Jack followed him inside.

Jack quickly fled the crowded lobby and climbed the stairs to the box level. Finding himself momentarily alone in the stairwell, he resumed visibility and began to look for the Norwood box. He discovered that the boxes were labeled with brass placards engraved with the name of the seats’ owner for the season, which made finding Seila a simple matter indeed. With one last look around for any observers, Jack cautiously opened the door at the back of the box and slipped into the back of the small balcony enclosure.

Seila waited inside, wearing a splendid green dress with a pale golden fur draped over her lovely shoulders. She looked up as Jack entered and frowned at him. “There you are,” she said in a low voice. “I have been worried sick about you all day, Jack! I feared you were lying dead in the ashes of Maldridge.”

“There was no need to fear,” Jack told her. “I am unharmed; I was not even home when the fire started.”

She gave Jack a suspicious look. “Then why do you smell like smoke?”

“I am afraid that my clothes-other than the ones I was wearing at the time, of course-were home. I managed to rescue half my wardrobe before the flames consumed the manor; this outfit seemed somewhat less permeated than anything else remaining in my possession.”

He took the seat beside hers and leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back after lightly brushing his lips with hers. “Jack, Maldridge was better than two hundred years old,” she said. “The house was a treasure of my family. I have to tell you, my father is beyond furious. I have never seen him so angry. He thinks you burned down Maldridge on purpose!”

“That is ridiculous. Your father and I have our differences at the moment, but destroying Maldridge certainly would do nothing to resolve them. What could I possibly gain from such an action?”

Seila wavered, her mouth pursed. After a long moment she asked, “How did it happen?”

“Your father should take up that question with Marquise Dresimil. Her warriors were the fellows responsible for Maldridge’s destruction.”

“The drow set fire to Maldridge?” Seila exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than she’d meant to. Jack noticed heads in nearby boxes glancing in their direction. Fortunately, the orchestra was beginning to tune up, and the theater was filled with the audience’s chatter before the show; Seila’s voice did not carry far. “They were in Raven’s Bluff? Why would they do such a thing?”

“They were very definitely in Raven’s Bluff,” Jack replied. “As far as why they attacked Maldridge, well, I had occasion to speak with Myrkyssa Jelan a few days ago. She informed me that a party of dark elves had tried to spirit her back to the Underdark. I can only speculate that the band that attacked Maldridge was looking for me, and perhaps fired the house in spite when they found that they’d missed me. It seems that Dresimil wants her escaped captives back.”

“You’ve seen Myrkyssa Jelan?” Seila was self-conscious enough to lower her voice to a whisper this time. “By all that’s holy, Jack, what have you gotten yourself into? You couldn’t possibly expect me to believe that she is involved in this, too!”

Jack stifled a small cough. “As long as we are dealing in unfortunate developments, I should probably add a word of warning about Master Tarandor Delhame-you remember, the wizard we met at the party? He represents interests that imprisoned me in my own time, and is dissatisfied with my liberty. He may try to find me through you.” Seila started to protest, but Jack motioned for patience and leaned forward to spy out the crowd as discretely as he could. “A moment, my dear-give me a chance to look for our friend the slaver before they lower the house lights.”

“Fetterfist would seem to be the least of your concerns right now,” Seila said, a little crossly. But she drew closer to Jack and studied the crowd for a moment.

“Look for a tall, clean-shaven man, with straw-colored hair,” Jack replied. “Not too young, not too old-I would guess his age at thirty to forty.”

“Hmm. That fellow in red, in the third row?”

Jack followed Seila’s gaze, and shook his head. “Too fat. Fetterfist is a lean, bony fellow.” Together they searched the crowd until the house’s lamplighters came out to lower the lights, to no avail-the slaver was nowhere in sight. However, Seila did point out several men of about the right frame and appearance that Jack was able to definitively eliminate. The young noblewoman had actually brought a list of the male guests from the Norwood party who answered to Fetterfist’s general description, and she lined out names with a small charcoal pencil.

“Well, that was not as useful as I’d hoped,” Jack remarked as the opening overture began. “What now?”

“Wait and watch,” Seila advised. “It’s not unusual for people to show up late. We might find him at intermission.”

They watched the opening scene of The Fall of Myth Drannor. Jack found it confusing and melodramatic, with far too many Elvish names and characters to keep track of. He soon fell to studying the crowd in the low lighting, turning his attention to the stage only when some particularly spectacular movement of the music caught his ear. Seila, on the other hand, seemed quite affected by the opera and watched with rapt interest as the hero and his lady sang of the folly of love in a time of war and destruction.

At a quiet moment between scenes, Jack renewed the conversation. “I see a number of new arrivals, but no sign of our slaver yet,” he said. “How about you?”

Seila shook her head. “I recognize most of the people who have taken their seats during the first act. None of them could pass for Fetterfist unless he is a master of disguise.”

“Hmmm, perhaps he has no particular liking for opera. When is the next event of social significance?”

“The Lord Mayor’s spring revel, the night of the eighteenth,” Seila replied. “It’s supposed to be a grand affair this year; everybody will be there. I expect to attend with my family, however, so it may be difficult to smuggle you inside.”

“We have three days to think of something,” Jack said. He was not concerned; there wasn’t a ball, masquerade, or debut he couldn’t crash if he put his mind to it. On the other hand, the mention of Seila’s father brought another thought to mind. “As long as we have a moment, my dear, do you know of a reason why your father would be interested in a magic tome? Specifically, a book called the Sarkonagael?”

“The what?”

“The Sarkonagael. It is a book of shadow magic.”

“No, I have never heard of it. What does my father have to do with it?” Seila asked.

“He offered a very substantial reward for its recovery,” said Jack. He started to add more, but the next scene began with a fanfare of trumpets, and Seila looked back toward the stage. The rogue turned his attention from the audience on the floor of the house to the box seats on the opposite wall, studying each in turn with great care; now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light, he could make out more of the room.

At the next interval of dialogue in the production, Seila belatedly replied to Jack. “My father sponsors adventurers from time to time,” she whispered. “If he offered a reward for some old book, I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“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.

A quarter-hour later, the wizard Tarandor Delhame hurried through the door, sweeping the room with his eyes. Jack, of course, still wore Balathorp’s face, but he’d drawn his hat low over his face in a show of discretion. He signaled the wizard with a motion of his hand. Tarandor frowned, but he crossed the room and slid into the bench opposite Jack. “Are you the one who left me the note at the High House?” he asked.

“I am,” Jack replied, performing a good imitation of Balathorp’s deep and mellifluous tone. “I hope I did not cause you any great inconvenience, Master Tarandor.”

“If what your note claimed is true, then it is no inconvenience at all.” The wizard studied his face, evidently trying to place it. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?”

“A simple man of business. Some call me Fetterfist.”

Tarandor’s eyes narrowed. “The slaver,” he said flatly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“We all do what we must to get by.”

“Why did you seek me out?”

“I heard that you are very interested in this Jack Ravenwild fellow. I can deliver him to you.”

The abjurer frowned. “My interest is hardly public knowledge. How did you learn that I was seeking him?”

Jack gave a small shrug. “I had a little conversation with the fire-mage Halamar at that taphouse he favors last night. You might say we have some mutual acquaintances. Now, I am sure you are a busy man, and I have many things to attend today as well, so allow me to get to the point: I have Ravenwild, and I’ll sell him to you for two thousand gold crowns.”

“Two thousand-” the abjurer spluttered. “Why, you don’t understand! He poses a dire threat to the safety of the entire city. I must take him into custody as a public service.”

Jack took a long sip from his beer. “Do I look as if I am interested in performing public services?” he asked. “You are not the only party interested in this fellow, you know. The drow would love to get their hands on him, too, and they’ll pay me that much or more.”

“No, don’t do that! The dark elves may not follow the necessary procedures, and I will never be free of this detestable duty.” Tarandor scowled, but after a moment he nodded. “Fine. Two thousand crowns, then. Where is he?”

Jack stood and hid a smile. That last bit about asking for money was pure inspiration of the moment; the idea that Tarandor would pay for the privilege of being duped was exquisite. He should have asked for more. “Meet me at ten bells tomorrow night at the icehouse on Black Visor Street,” he said. “I’ll have him all bundled up and ready for you. And don’t forget the coin. Now, are we agreed?”

“It would be better to hand him over immediately.”

“I have some arrangements to make first. But never you fear, Master Tarandor. I will keep him safe until we deliver him to you.”

The wizard sighed. Jack almost felt sorry for him; the fellow seemed very anxious about the fact that Jack was not imprisoned in the mythal stone at this very instant. “I agree,” he said. “I’ll be at the icehouse at ten bells. Be warned that I will be well protected by magic.”

“Of course,” Jack said, with an insincere smile. He inclined his head to the abjurer, and left the Kettle.

Once outside, Jack took a quick turn down the nearest alleyway, then used his spell of shadow-stepping to teleport himself several blocks away. He changed his appearance again with his disguise spell, taking on the semblance of an olive-skinned Chessentan freebooter with hair of curly black and a brightly checkered cape. “Tarandor might be tempted to employ spells of scrying,” he told himself. “It seems wise to make sure he does not find me if he does.”

Satisfied that he’d given any magical spies the slip, Jack threw himself into a whole host of special errands for the day. He visited various apothecaries across the city until he found one that carried the somewhat illicit essence that was at the top of his shopping list. He stopped by the icehouse and the warehouse of Mumfort and Company to arrange his use of the facilities the next night, which mostly involved making sure he could break in when he wanted to and that no night watchmen were going to be on hand. He bought several of the leading handbills from the criers hawking them on the streets, looking for any reports about the Sarkonagael or Maldridge’s destruction and whether he was wanted in connection with either; nothing was in the news about the book, but the fire at Maldridge was quite prominent. He went by Albrath’s counting house to confirm the payment of the Sarkonagael’s reward, and finally finished with a long and expensive visit to a dealer in magical reagents and spell components.

Jack didn’t return to the tinsmith’s shop until four bells in the afternoon. He took one careful look around to make sure no one was watching the place, then let himself in, hurried up the steps to the upstairs rooms, and dumped out on the uneven table in the middle of the room the assorted reagents he’d bought. Quickly he organized the collection of jars, vials, and paper wrappings, making sure he knew what each one was. This would be a challenging piece of work, and accuracy was absolutely essential.

“Careful now, Jack,” he told himself. “Slow and steady, not a step out of place, not a word omitted.” Then he drew the folded pages of the Sarkonagael’s shadow-duplicate spell from his pocket, smoothed them on the table in front of him, and began to perform the ritual.

Steady rain pattered down around Jack and the Blue Wyverns as they pushed a borrowed cart through the dark streets of the Bitterstone neighborhood. The halfling Arlith went ahead of the small party, scouting for trouble, but they stuck to the alleyways as much as possible-Jack did not want to blunder into the city watch with the cart’s contents. He had an idea or two for how he might handle an unexpected encounter, but it would be much easier to avoid any such embarrassment altogether. Fortunately, the warehouse districts tended to be quiet and lightly trafficked after dark, and the weather further helped them to pass without notice.

Ulwhe’s Icehouse loomed up out of the fog and rain, and Jack allowed himself a sly grin. “Ah, here we are, my friends,” he said. “Bring the cart around to the alley side, and I’ll let us in.”

“Be quick about it,” Narm grumbled. “I’d like to get out of this damned rain.” Jack motioned for him to follow; the half-orc put his shoulder to the cart, while Kurzen leaned into the other side. They wheeled the cart around the corner of the building to the loading dock at the rear, while Jack went to a back window and pulled it open-he’d made sure to unlock it during his visit earlier in the day. He climbed inside and had the back door open in a moment.

“Bring our sleeping prince inside,” he told his comrades. Narm and Kurzen drew aside the old sailcloth covering the cart, revealing a bound and hooded figure underneath. The dwarf and the half-orc picked up the motionless captive by his feet and underarms and hurried into the icehouse. Halamar and Arlith followed after; with one last glance up and down the street, Jack closed the door. “This way.”

Jack led the way through the storage area as Narm and Kurzen lugged the unconscious man after him. The icehouse was full of layer after layer of great blocks of ice, separated by layers of straw. In midspring, the supply of blocks cut in the winter months hadn’t yet been drawn down or melted off by very much-the place was full almost to the rafters. Jack had picked out a spot in the building’s business office, a room not quite so damp or chilly as the ice storage area because it was separated by a thick door. He pointed to a clear spot, and his companions stretched out the motionless body on the wooden floor.

“So who do we have here?” asked Halamar. “Is Tarandor interested in him, too?”

“He will be,” Jack promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to don my disguise. Our colleague may be here at any moment.” He brought to mind his tried and true spell of disguise, and wove a new appearance for himself-taller, paler, with long lank yellow hair and a strong jaw. In the space of a few moments he stood six inches taller; he took care to adjust his clothes to what he’d been wearing when he met Tarandor at the Kettle.

“Now that is a handy trick,” Kurzen grunted. “If you can do that, why go to all this trouble? Give yourself a new semblance every few hours, and no one would ever find you when you don’t want to be found.”

“Because, friend Kurzen, I am fond of my own face and do not care to spend the rest of my days hiding it from sight,” Jack answered. “Halamar, if I may be so bold, perhaps you had better find a place to hide. If Tarandor sees you here, he will naturally wonder how and why you are involved.”

“As you wish,” the fire-mage replied. He chose a closet in the office, and ducked inside.

“Do you expect any trouble from this wizard?” Narm asked Jack.

“No, but it would be wise to be prepared, anyway. I doubt Tarandor will attempt to steal his prize rather than pay for it, but a show of vigilance on our part may be just the thing to dissuade him.”

They waited for a time, Arlith keeping watch from the office window and Kurzen stationing himself by the back door. Half an hour crept by, and Jack began to wonder if Tarandor had reconsidered the whole business. But finally, as the temple chimes throughout the city struck ten bells, Arlith gave a small signal and hopped down from her perch by the window. A knock came at the icehouse’s door. Jack straightened his tunic, tugged at his cuffs, and went to answer the door.

In the yellow lamplight of the street outside stood Tarandor, along with two of his apprentices-the bearded young man and the Calishite. “Ah, good evening, Master Tarandor,” Jack said warmly. “I commend you on your punctuality.”

The wizard gave him a brusque nod, and peered past Jack at the room beyond. “Who are they?” he asked, looking at Arlith, Narm, and Kurzen.

“Have no fear, Tarandor. They are simply my employees,” Jack answered. “And who do you have with you?”

“My apprentices,” the lean wizard replied. “Do you have him?”

“If by ‘him’ you mean Ravenwild, well, see for yourself.” Jack stepped out of the way and indicated the man on the floor with a sweep of his arm.

Tarandor glanced once more at the others waiting in the room, and strode inside with his apprentices crowding behind him. He frowned down at the bound figure at his feet. “Remove his hood. I need to be certain of his identity.”

Jack motioned to Narm. The big swordsman knelt by the figure on the floor and quickly undid the hood covering the face. The man unconscious on the floor was Jack’s twin, with the same dark hair, the same pointed chin, and the same neatly trimmed goatee. The rogue allowed himself a well-deserved smile of satisfaction; the Sarkonagael had not failed him. It was more than a little disconcerting to stare down at his own familiar features on another’s body, but he was a fine-looking fellow, after all-his simulacrum would have cause to be grateful for its good looks if it ever had reason to wake.

“Are you satisfied?” Jack asked.

The lean abjurer studied the unconscious man on the floor with a frown of concern. “You haven’t killed him, have you?” he asked.

“I understood that you wanted him alive,” Jack replied. “Ravenwild’s had a good strong whiff of yellow musk extract, that’s all. He might not stir from his slumber for a day or two.”

Tarandor knelt by the unconscious man, leaning forward to examine him. “I see that you gagged him, anyway.”

“He is said to be a sorcerer of some elusiveness.” Jack smiled with just the right combination of heartlessness and greed. “Ravenwild is known to employ a teleport spell that requires but a single word, so if I were you, I would exercise caution and keep him gagged all the way to your destination, whatever it might be. Don’t be taken in by any demonstration or struggles, no matter how energetic. A moment of compassion, and you may lose him all over again.”

“Have no fear on that score,” Tarandor replied. He straightened up and brushed off his hands, then motioned for his apprentices to come forward. “Begin your preparations,” he told them.

“First things first,” Jack said. “Do you have my coin?”

Tarandor produced a good-sized coinpurse with a frown of distaste, and set it on a table. Jack nodded to Arlith, who undid the drawstring and poured out a few dozen gleaming gold crowns. “Very good,” Jack said. “Ravenwild is yours, Master Tarandor.”

The younger wizards carefully set a familiar green bottle beside the unconscious man and set to work drawing a magic circle on the floor around him. The abjurer supervised their work, checking each mark and glyph they chalked on the floor. Jack took a surreptitious step backward, and then another; he did not care to take any chance that whatever magic Tarandor was planning might catch the wrong Jack Ravenwild.

“My information is not complete,” Jack observed, “but I understand that you mean to take him to the dark elf ruins below the city?”

The abjurer gave Jack a sharp glance. “You are better informed than I expected.”

Jack gave a low chuckle. “The wizard at the Smoke Wyrm was somewhat in his cups the other night.”

“I shall have to have a stern word with Master Halamar regarding the confidentiality of wizardly affairs.”

“The fault was not entirely his,” Jack replied. “I furnished him with a pint or two of Old Smoky when the conversation began to take an interesting turn. After all, it is my business to smell out this sort of … opportunity … when it comes along. In any event, if you mean to carry him down to Chumavhraele, I advise you to approach the dark elves directly and deal with them in a forthright manner. The drow are a pragmatic folk, and it is merely a matter of setting the price to purchase their cooperation.”

“In other words, I must pay to take possession of this wretched sorcerer, and then pay to be rid of him?” Tarandor said with a sour expression.

“Far be it from me to meddle in the affairs of wizards,” Jack replied.

“We are ready, master,” one of the apprentices said. They were finished with the arcane diagram surrounding the man on the floor; the bottle with its great black stopper waited nearby. Jack noticed that the green bottle was now encircled with a fishnet-like covering of fine silver chain, and the stopper was covered with potent silver glyphs; evidently Tarandor meant to ensure that no one would teleport out of it this time.

Tarandor briefly inspected the circle, and nodded in approval. “Stand back and remain still, if you please,” he said to Jack and the other Blue Wyverns. Jack obliged by taking several steps back. The abjurer murmured a lengthy spell under his breath, weaving his hands in sweeping motions as he spoke, until he finished the last syllables of the spell. There was a shower of greenish-silver sparks that whirled around the unconscious duplicate on the floor. Jack caught a glimpse of some impossible movement, and then the magic circle on the floor was empty, while the bottle smoked and rocked back and forth. One of the apprentices stooped quickly and jammed the stopper in the bottle with a very final thunk.

“Astonishing,” Jack observed. “I would have simply carried him down to the Underdark while bound and drugged.”

“There are arcane hazards at work here that must be reckoned with,” Tarandor replied. The abjurer checked on the bottle, where Jack thought he could see a tiny black-clad form lying bound and gagged on the fine white sand, and then motioned for his apprentices to secure the case. “Our business here is done,” he said to Jack. “This was an exceptional meeting, but it is now concluded, and I have no desire to continue our association. Do not contact me again.”

“I shall abide by your wishes,” Jack replied. He gave a formal bow as Tarandor and his apprentices filed out of the room.

Arlith saw them to the door and watched for a long moment. “They’re gone,” she finally announced.

Narm and Kurzen sighed in relief. Halamar emerged from the closet where he had been hiding. “Do you think the dark elves will let him anywhere near their mythal?” the sorcerer asked.

“I have no idea,” said Jack. “If they do, then Tarandor will inter my double in the stone. If they choose not to, I expect they’ll kill my double in some gruesome fashion. Either way, Tarandor’s business in Raven’s Bluff is concluded, and he’ll be on his way back to Iriaebor where he’ll never trouble me again.”

“The drow might kill him or take him prisoner instead,” Kurzen pointed out.

“A chance I’m willing to take,” said Jack. “Speaking of which, our work for the night is only half-done. We should be on our way.” He scooped up Tarandor’s bag of gold and slipped it into his shirt, leaving the mysterious chalked circle on the floor of the office. No doubt Ulwhe and his employees would be quite mystified in the morning, but that was hardly Jack’s concern. They reclaimed the cart on which they’d carried Jack’s simulacrum to the icehouse, and set off through the rainy streets again.

Mumfort and Company was only a couple of streets over from the icehouse. No one was abroad on such a dismal night, and they saw no one as they made their way through the darkened warehouses. As before, they left the cart by the building’s back door, and let themselves inside. They spread out to search the place and make certain no unpleasant surprises were waiting for them before gathering again in the room where Jack had been trapped by the symbol.

“Do your plans for Fetterfist remain unchanged?” asked Halamar.

“More or less,” Jack replied. “I am open to suggestions, if you have any. Otherwise it’s merely a matter of finding good places to hide, and waiting.”

The small party took the next half-hour or so to study the warehouse layout, reposition a few crates and kegs in useful places, and consider any number of contingencies that might arise. Then they settled in to wait, posting Arlith as a lookout again by the front door and Halamar by the rear entrance. Jack found himself worrying over whether Balathorp would show, and wondered what he would do next if the slaver arrived an hour or two late, or simply didn’t appear at all. But it turned out that his fears were ungrounded; Arlith stirred at her watchpost almost a quarter-hour before the stroke of twelve bells.

“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.”