Prince of Ravens

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 included 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?

“What? What happened?” Narm demanded.

Jack realized that the swordsman hadn’t heard any of Dresimil’s message. “A message for Balathorp,” he answered, absently rubbing his fingers. “It’s the drow. They have a strong force somewhere, and they intend to attack in cooperation with the slavers. Tonight, at ten bells of the evening.”

“That would explain the ledger entry. Did the drow say anything about their target?”

“Lord Norwood,” Jack replied. His mind raced. Where would Marden Norwood be this evening at ten bells? It would be someplace that Dresimil expected Cailek Balathorp to be, too … A sick dread began to gather in the pit of the stomach as the answer became clear to him. He turned a stricken look on Narm and urgently asked, “What time is it now? What is the hour? Selune grant that we’re not too late!”

“It struck nine just before I came in, but that was a good quarter-hour ago, perhaps more,” Narm said. “Where will the dark elves strike?”

“The Lord Mayor’s Spring Revel,” Jack answered with a grimace. “Dresimil mentioned Lord Norwood by name, and that is almost certainly where Balathorp would be if we hadn’t lured him out last night.” He looked down at the slaver’s ledger. “The Lord Mayor is a Blacktree, isn’t he? That’s Blackwood Manor there. It must be.” He leaped to his feet, seized the pouch, the stone, and the ledger, and threw his cloak over his shoulder. “Come on, Narm. We have to warn them!”

The half-orc rose to his feet. “Jack, what can we do? Blackwood Manor is a couple of miles outside town. What is the point of racing out there just in time to be murdered or enslaved?”

“You do not understand. Seila is there!” Jack hurried over to the counter, ripped a piece of blank paper from the slaver’s journal, and scribbled out a quick message.

Tharzon looked at Jack with a furrowed brow. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“The drow. They’re going to strike at the Lord Mayor’s revel. I have to get out to Blackwood Manor at once.” Jack finished his note and handed it to the old dwarf. “Find someone to take this to Nimber’s Skewer Shop, and have your man ask for Elana. The quicker, the better.”

Tharzon’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is wise?” he asked.

“She’s no friend to the dark elves, I can tell you that. And if I am right, we might need all the blades we can find tonight.”

The dwarf stared in surprise a moment longer before nodding his head. “Right, then. Wait one moment and we’ll find a ride for you.” He turned and waved his cane at the barkeeps and workers in the taproom. “Bann! Come here, I’ve got a message for you. Grith, go harness the wagon and horses, we need it now! Orph, go find Kurzen and tell him to fetch his armor and his hammer, he’ll have need of them. Hurry, all of you! There’s not a moment to lose.”

Jack wavered, uncertain whether he’d be better off to go at once or wait on Tharzon’s messengers. He decided he’d need a wagon or carriage or horse in any event, and Tharzon’s was the closest to hand. “You have my thanks, Tharzon,” he said. “Narm, fetch the rest of the Blue Wyverns if you can find them fast. I leave as soon as we can hitch the team.” Then he hurried out to the stable behind the taphouse to lend a hand with the wagon.

The night grew darker and drearier as the brewer’s wagon clattered loudly along the Fire River Road. The overcast was thickening, hiding the moon, and a biting wind from the north drove small, stinging droplets of cold rain against Jack’s face. He clung to the bench with both hands as the wagon bounced and swayed along the rutted road. Beside him, Kurzen gripped the reins and drove the two-horse team onward through the night; in the straw-covered wagon bed Narm, Halamar, and Arlith hung on with all their strength.

“Kurzen, slow down!” Halamar called. “You’ll overturn us!”

“No time!” Jack shouted back. “Drive them harder!”

The dwarf grimaced, but did not bother to reply to either of them; all of his attention was on the road. But he flicked the whip at the galloping horses and shouted “Yah! Yah!” spurring them on even faster.

Jack spied an iron gate standing open up ahead on the left-hand side of the road. “Blackwood,” he said to Kurzen. “Turn there!”

The dwarf nodded. He let the horses thunder up to the gate and finally slowed them just enough to make the turn. The wagon careened on two wheels, and they very nearly rolled right at the entrance of the manor’s drive, but somehow Kurzen steered the team back the other way just enough to bring all four wheels back to the road. Ahead of them stood a magnificent manor house amid stately old oaks and laspars, festively illuminated by scores of colorful lanterns. Fine carriages filled the drive in front of the manor’s door, with liveried footmen waiting patiently by their master’s coaches. Two guards in the black and silver of House Blacktree flanked the door. “Thank the gods, we’re not too late,” Jack said. But how long did they have?

Kurzen drove the heavy old beer-wagon right up to the foot of the steps, sideswiping a fine coach with a tremendous crash as he reined in the exhausted horses. The instant the wagon slowed, Jack vaulted to the ground, followed by the rest of his companions. The guards at the door shouted in alarm and hurriedly shifted their halberds from their shoulders. “Here now!” one of the guards shouted. “You stop right there!”

“Narm, Kurzen!” Jack called. He simply rolled beneath the lowered halberds and darted past the guards. As they turned to strike, the half-orc swordsman and the burly dwarf tackled them on the steps, pummeling them furiously. Ignoring the spreading commotion behind him, Jack hurried through the great house’s foyer and front hall. Well-dressed lords and ladies turned in surprise as Jack strode toward the palace’s grand ballroom … but more of the Blacktree guards now hurried to intercept Jack. This time Halamar dealt with the armsmen, conjuring a wall of roaring flame to block their path. Gasps of astonishment and cries of panic spread through the crowd at the sight of the magical flames.

“Better speak swiftly,” Halamar said to Jack. “I will not be able to keep the guards out for long without killing some of them, and I have no wish to spend the rest of my days in the city dungeons.”

“My thanks, Halamar!” Jack answered. He clapped the sorcerer on the shoulder and strode through the ballroom’s wide doorway; he could feel the heat of the roaring wall of flame at his back. He paused, looking left and right, and then he saw Seila and her parents standing together near the center of the room. Squaring his shoulders, Jack strode purposefully toward Lord Norwood, conscious of the eyes of hundreds on him.

“Jack, what are you doing?” Seila asked in a low voice. She wore a beautiful floor-length green dress. Despite the danger he knew was drawing near, Jack’s heart took a tumble at the sight of her. “You should not be here!”

“I know, dear Seila. I will explain myself later, but first I must speak with your father.” He turned to Marden Norwood, who regarded him with a look of stony disapproval. “Lord Norwood,” he said, “you are all in terrible danger. The drow plan to attack you here in a matter of minutes. Their warriors are below the manor house at this very moment. Every important lord and official in Raven’s Bluff is here tonight-Dresimil Chumavh means to decapitate the city in a single stroke.”

Norwood glared at Jack. “Preposterous,” he declared. “I have never known you to speak a single word of truth. And the drow would never dare such a brazen attack.”

Jack momentarily hesitated. Marden Norwood had good reason to doubt his words, but he hadn’t expected to be dismissed out of hand, especially when bringing the old lord a warning about the drow. Seila, however, inadvertently rescued him. “How do you know this, Jack?” she asked.

“I caught Fetterfist,” he explained, “and intercepted a message for him from Dresimil Chumavh. Cailek Balathorp is Fetterfist!”

“Balathorp is Fetterfist?” Norwood repeated. “That is impossible!”

“I turned him over to the Watch last night,” Jack said. “Now, I beg you-”

“Just one moment, Norwood.” Jack glanced to his right … and there stood Cailek Balathorp, dressed in elegant black garb for the ball. “I cannot let that accusation pass unanswered,” said Balathorp.

Jack stood dumbfounded for several heartbeats. Balathorp should have been locked up in a cell in Ravendark Castle, not walking about at his liberty attending social functions! For that matter, even if some friend or ally of his had secured his release, the man ought to still be unconscious. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed. “You should be in the city dungeons!”

“Address me as ‘My Lord,’ or I will have you taught to speak more respectfully to your betters,” Balathorp snapped. “As it turns out, the magistrate does not place much stock in anonymous letters full of baseless allegations; he recognized that something was gravely amiss and summoned a healer to rouse me.” The tall lord then turned to Marden Norwood. “This houseguest of yours waylaid me in the street and drugged me. I have no idea what madness or villainy drove him to treat me in such a fashion, but I will not stand by and allow him to slander my good name in front of all these people. Silence him at once, or you will answer for his words.”

Jack glanced back to Marden Norwood, and saw nothing but cold fury on the old lord’s face. He tried again, desperate to make Seila’s father see the truth of his words. “Lord Norwood, Balathorp is in league with the drow! He has blades of his own here this evening to aid their attack. You must believe me!”

“That is enough,” Norwood snarled. He made a curt gesture with his hand. Jack noticed that while many of the Blacktree house guards were blocked from the ballroom by Halamar’s spell, there were still a dozen or so armsmen of other houses standing discreetly by the curtained alcoves and windows in the ballroom, several of them in the Norwood house colors. The Norwood armsmen began to hurry through the crowd toward Jack.

“I do not like the looks of this, Jack,” Arlith whispered behind him. “Are you certain you’ve got the right villain?”

A short, round-bodied fellow in a gold-embroidered black coat approached Norwood, frowning. Jack recognized the gold oak-leaf emblem of the Blacktree family on his coat, and the large gold chain that served as the mayor’s badge of office. “What’s all this about, Norwood?” the short nobleman asked.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Blacktree,” Norwood said through gritted teeth. “It appears this interruption must be dealt with. Please have him arrested.”

Jack glanced around and saw nothing but anger, suspicion, and contempt on the faces of the city’s assembled elites. He had only moments before Norwood’s soldiers dragged him away. Well, some of the lords and ladies in the room would get exactly what they deserved if the dark elves murdered them all after they ignored his warning. Others, most notably Seila, were innocent and were likely to be hurt or killed if he could not prove his point.

The great mantle clock in the adjoining room struck the hour; the first bell rang clearly throughout the hushed crowd. In pure desperation, Jack murmured the words to his invisibility spell and vanished from view.

The crowd gasped and stirred in shock. Cries of “The villain is escaping!” or “Stop him!” rang through the room. Jack, however, did not flee. He reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth Fetterfist’s leather half-hood. Then he stole up behind Balathorp, unsheathing his dagger. The second bell struck. With the quickness of a striking snake, he pulled the half-mask down over Balathorp’s head while immobilizing the tall slaver with the threat of a bared blade at his throat. The sudden motion spoiled Jack’s invisibility, as he expected; he wavered back into view.

“Stand down your guards or Balathorp dies!” Jack shouted. The third bell chimed. “Seila-look at this man’s face. Is this Fetterfist?”

“I’ll have you fed to the eels for this!” Balathorp hissed to Jack. He twisted in Jack’s grip until Jack pinked him with the point of the dagger.

“That is one outcome,” Jack agreed. Another bell rang. “On the other hand, if I am a villain or madman, as you claim, there is no reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat if I am doomed anyway. Now hold still, or I’ll see if Seila can identify your corpse.”

Jack saw the bodyguards, armsmen, and retainers who were converging on the ballroom watching him with alert, determined expressions; well, if he’d done nothing else, he had at least put them on their guard. Norwood stepped forward and addressed Jack. “Stop this at once!” he barked. The fifth bell sounded. “I have no idea what game you are playing at, but your villainy is at an end!”

Seila, on the other hand, stood staring at Jack and Balathorp with a sick expression on her face. “Seila, it would be helpful if you could resolve this question soon,” Jack prompted her. “Is this the man who ambushed the Norwood caravan and sold you into captivity in Chumavhraele?”

Seila shifted her eyes from Jack’s face to Balathorp’s. The sixth bell struck … and a flicker of shock, then anger, crossed her features. “Yes, it is,” she said, almost as if she were surprised to hear herself speak. Then, more loudly, “Yes! He is Fetterfist. I will not forget that hood and face as long as I live. Father, Jack is right!”

Norwood turned to Seila and started to say something, but his words died in his throat as he took the measure of her expression. He looked back to Balathorp, and his eyes narrowed. The seventh bell of the hour sounded. “Incredible,” he said to the tall lord. “You dared to abduct my daughter? You murdered my retainers?”

“It is a lie! This man-” Balathorp shouted, but Jack silenced him with a little more pressure of his dagger. The clock struck its eighth bell.

Jack looked past the slaver’s shoulder at Seila’s father and Lord Blacktree, still standing next to each other. “My lords, there will be time later to demand explanations. Dresimil Chumavh is here, and she means to take or kill you all.”

“What do you say?” said Blacktree. The ninth bell sounded. “The drow will attack us here?”

“Along with any thugs or sellswords Balathorp here could arrange,” Jack replied. He swept the ballroom and its balconies with his eyes, looking for cloaked and hooded figures in the shadows.

“Perhaps it would be wise to-” the Lord Mayor started to say, but at that moment the tenth bell of the hour struck. On the very note, globes of pure blackness suddenly sprang into being throughout the grand ballroom, followed at once by screams of panic and the sudden shrill sound of steel. Jack caught one glimpse of slender figures in dark cloaks appearing in the doorways and alcoves of the room before darkness suddenly swallowed him where he stood. The scuffle and trample of panicked footsteps seemed to be all around him; he tightened his grasp on Balathorp. But at that moment a large, strong hand clamped onto his right wrist, challenging him for control of the dagger-Balathorp had used the cover of the darkness to make a grab for the weapon.

Jack struggled to drive the blade home and managed to give the tall slaver a nasty cut, but a hard-driven elbow knocked him back. Balathorp grunted and twisted out of Jack’s grip. “Too late, Ravenwild,” the slaver hissed from somewhere nearby. “We have prepared a long time for this day. When we are done here, I will be the only lord left in Raven’s Bluff.”

“By all means, keep talking,” Jack replied, groping in the darkness. “I find this fascinating.” Someone blundered into him, and Jack very nearly stabbed him or her before he recognized the soft curve of a woman’s shoulder under his fingers. The woman gave a shriek of fright and recoiled; Jack muttered an oath and sheathed his dagger. He stopped moving and held still, listening for his foe, but it was hopeless. The ballroom was panic and bedlam, with screams of pain, cries of panic and dismay, the crash and clatter of furniture and glass, and countless footsteps and boot-scufflings in the dark. He heard Marden Norwood shouting commands, Lord Mayor Blacktree shouting out orders of his own, and half dozen other lords and captains all trying to assert control over the room.

“Chaos and calamity,” Jack said to himself. “This is madness!” If he moved he might blunder into someone else’s raised blade. If he stayed put some clever dark elf might cut him down like a stupid sheep. Jack stood paralyzed, unsure whether to wait for the darkness to end, try to find his way out, or announce his presence by calling out. But then a single terrified scream ended his indecision-Seila’s cry, ringing from somewhere not far off.

“Help! Jack!” she cried. Her cry was suddenly muffled, as if by a hand or gag clamped over her mouth.

“Seila,” Jack breathed. Without another thought, he rushed in the direction of her voice, only to stumble at once over a body lying motionless on the floor. He picked himself up and proceeded more carefully-and then he felt a strong counter spell wash across the ballroom. The drow darkness-globes evaporated one after another, dispelled by some spellcaster in the room. The return of the ballroom’s lanternlight revealed a scene of absolute pandemonium: Dozens appeared to be dead or wounded already, and drow warriors moved through the crowd, cutting down some and shooting others with their drugged quarrels. The guards of half a dozen noble houses battled fiercely against quick, graceful drow swordsmen, while others fought against a large gang of brown-hooded ruffians-Fetterfist’s men, or so Jack guessed-who were pouring into the manor’s foyer and front hall, blocking escape.

At first the whole scene appeared to be an unmitigated disaster, and Jack’s heart sank. But then he noticed that things were not all in the villains’ favor. Many of the nobles and city officials were armed with rapiers, daggers, and other such weapons suitable in a social setting, and they appeared to know how to use them. Others were spellcasters, and they plied wand and spell against the manor’s attackers. Norwood stood in the middle of a knot of his own armsmen, his wife Idril by his side shouting “Seila! Seila!” and looking desperately around the room. Jack spied Narm and Kurzen battling furiously against the ruffians near the ballroom entrance, while Halamar defended himself with five darting daggers of flame that wheeled and tumbled through the air around him.

“The issue is in doubt,” the rogue said to himself as he turned one way and another, searching for some glimpse of Balathorp or Seila. After a moment he spotted the tall lord’s yellow hair near the main entrance. Balathorp was shoving his way toward the brown-hooded sellswords blocking the door … and he was dragging Seila along behind him. Jack ran after him, dodging and twisting his way through the press of panicked party-goers and brawling guards.

A pair of drow warriors appeared in front of him, and Jack found two rapiers hedging him in. Behind them stood one of Dresimil’s brothers-most likely Jaeren, because he was the one with the sense of humor and the sorcerer confronting Jack had a wide and insincere grin on his ebony features. “Well, well,” said the drow prince. “If it isn’t the Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame! We have been looking for you, sir. You departed without taking your leave of my sister; she was very disappointed.”

“I have always heard that it is unwise to overstay one’s welcome,” Jack replied. He drew his own rapier, although he did not fancy his odds against two skilled drow warriors at once, especially if Jaeren employed his magic. He lost sight of Balathorp, but then glimpsed the tall, thin lord once again, now fighting with his gang of ruffians at his back. “You might be well advised to consider that old adage, Lord Jaeren. Your troops are outnumbered and you no longer possess the advantage of surprise.”

“Do not fear, Lord Wildhame. We shall withdraw when we are good and ready,” the sorcerer promised. “In the meantime, my sister has specifically instructed me to extend you the hospitality of Chumavhraele, and your friend Seila Norwood as well.” He glanced at Jack’s blade, and raised an eyebrow. “If you please?”

“I fail to see what possible use your sister has for us. I was an indifferent field hand, after all.” Jack stood his ground, trying to project confidence he did not feel. “Was Seila Norwood a better scullery maid than I thought?”

There was a sudden surge in the fighting near the door. Jaeren glanced over, as did Jack. A new band of fighters entered the fray, crashing into the rear ranks of Balathorp’s slavers. They were a motley band of ruffians and sellswords, not much different from the slavers they attacked, but instead of brown hoods, these wore surcoats or jackets with a flash of white cloth over the breast-the image of a crescent moon crossed with a dagger. Jack caught a glimpse of the tattooed swordsman who’d fought for Myrkysa Jelan in Sarbreen, and an instant later, he saw Jelan herself, dressed in her armor of black mail and wielding her katana with precise savagery. Jack grinned and raised a fist. “Huzzah!” he shouted. “Your timing is impeccable, Elana!”

Jaeren’s good humor vanished. He spared one more glance for Jack, and gestured to the two warriors with him. “Take him alive,” he said. “I must deal with this.” Then he leaped into the air, hurling bolts of black ice at the mercenaries accompanying Jelan.

The two warriors facing Jack struck as one; the rogue barely parried the first blade, and twisted awkwardly away from the other. The dark elves tried again, and this time Jack took a shallow cut along his ribs. The drow grinned and circled him, flashing finger signs at each other, and then they attacked again. The first warrior pressed Jack closely, and their blades flashed and rang in the middle of the chaotic ballroom. But the second warrior stepped back, drawing his hand-crossbow and loading it with a poisoned quarrel. He took deliberate aim at Jack while Jack was fully engaged by his comrade … but before he could shoot, Arlith slipped up behind him and stabbed him with her dagger. The drow cried out and twisted, firing his quarrel randomly into the fray before sinking to the ground. The warrior dueling Jack glanced back at his comrade for just an instant, but it was long enough for Jack to circle his rapier under his foe’s blade and skewer him. “What a scene,” the halfling said to Jack. “Things aren’t often boring around you, are they?”

“Not often,” Jack agreed. He started after Balathorp again, only to realize that the slaver was no longer where he thought. Jelan’s mercenaries had turned the tide of the fighting by the entrance, and the assembled nobles with their armsmen had blunted the drow assault. Battle spells thundered and crashed across the manor as Jaeren and other drow spellcasters traded blasts of ice and seething acid with Halamar and other wizards among the assembled lords. The dark elves were giving ground everywhere Jack looked. He finally caught sight of the slaver again, this time standing among the drow who were retreating toward a large alcove where a stage had been set up for the evening’s entertainment.

Jaeren abandoned his duel with Halamar and abruptly flew back to the stage where the dark elves gathered. The sorcerer reached into his robes and pulled out a rod or scepter of silver, shouting the words to a spell. A swirling, dark portal formed in the wall … and the drow once again used their darkness spells, blotting half the ballroom in magical darkness. The clash of arms ebbed, although many of Balathorp’s brown-hooded ruffians were still on their feet. This time Jack watched Halamar and Jelan’s elven wizard Kilarnan hurriedly cast counter spells to remove the inky barrier, wiping away the unnatural blackness shadowing the area by the stage.

The drow were gone … and so, too, were Balathorp and Seila.

“No,” Jack groaned. He surged toward the black, rotating disk of magic that hovered before the far wall, along with half the remaining nobles and armsmen in the room. Marden Norwood stood close by him, his face ashen, his guards in a tight knot around him. But Jack merely stared at the portal. Seila was in the hands of the drow again, and the gods alone knew what sort of tortures they would invent to punish her for her previous escape.

Myrkyssa Jelan strolled up beside Jack, cleaning the blood from her katana. “A useful trick,” she said, glancing at the portal. Then she looked back to Jack. “I came as you asked. Do you have what you promised me?”

Jack reached into his inner pocket and withdrew the pages he’d cut out of the Sarkonagael. Jelan smiled and extended her hand-but Jack folded the pages from top to bottom, and deliberately tore them in half. He handed the top halves to Jelan, who stared at him in amazement and growing anger. “This is the one spell in that book that you were concerned about,” he told her. “You didn’t trust Norwood with this spell, but I remember what you did with it when it was in your hands. Keep this half, and you will be assured that no one will create a shadow simulacrum without your consent.”

“That is not what you promised me in your message,” Jelan said, her eyes flashing.

“Read my note again, my dear Elana. I promised you that Norwood would not have it, and I lived up to my word. I have learned better than to make you a promise I do not intend to keep.”

Their conversation attracted Marden Norwood’s attention. The lord looked at Jack and Jelan, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the dark parchment with its silver lettering in Jack’s hands. “What do you have there?” he demanded.

“The spell of umbral simulacra from the Sarkonagael,” Jack replied. “I doubt that you will forgive me for this, but I do not trust anyone with the entire spell. However, if you wish to assure yourself that no one will employ this magic against you, you need only keep this somewhere safe.” He handed the remaining fragments to the old lord.

“You are the one who recovered the Sarkonagael?” Norwood asked in amazement. “You had the gall to extort two thousand more crowns from me, and then you give me an incomplete book?”

“Did you want the book to make use of its powers or to make sure no one else did?” Jack asked. “I would like to think it was for the better reason, but if not, then yes, I cheated you. If we meet again, I will make good on any restitution you require of me.”

“If we-” Marden Norwood glowered at Jack. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Chumavhraele, of course. Seila is there, and she needs my help.”

Jelan glanced at the portal in surprise. “Jack, don’t! If the dark elves left it open, it is almost certainly a trap.”

“I agree,” he replied, “which is why I would not recommend following. Elana, you may distrust Norwood here, but he has fought the dark elves and their friends on the Council for years. Lord Norwood, Elana here knows other ways to Chumavhraele, and she is no friend of the dark elves. Persuade her to guide you, and bring all the soldiers you can-I am counting on you to storm Dresimil’s castle. The two of you together can defeat the drow.”

Both Jelan and Norwood began to protest, but Jack ignored them. He took two quick steps and hurled himself headlong into the magic darkness.

The drow were waiting on the other side.

Jack awoke in darkness. His head was pounding as if he’d downed ten flagons of cheap wine, and he felt shaky and weak. With a small groan, he opened his eyes to a dishearteningly familiar gloom. He was in the Underdark again; the dim echoes of faerie-fire that illuminated his surroundings did nothing to dispel the cool dampness in the air or the absolute blackness brooding in the shadows. For a long moment he wondered how he had come to be in the cavern-world again, until the throbbing in his hip, chest, and shoulder reminded him that he’d been shot by small, poisoned crossbow bolts. He remembered stepping through the portal into an open place below the walls of the castle, the sudden snap of crossbows and the whirring flight of their bolts …

“Damn the drow, and all their mischief,” he groaned, sitting up and holding his head in his hands. At least they’d taken the trouble to dress the small bolt punctures. He seemed to be in a tiny, windowless cell, with nothing more than a simple pallet and a chamber pot for his convenience; one wall of the cell was made of iron bars, through which he could see cells like his own, along with a dark, smooth vault of stone blocks. There was a guardroom down the hallway to his right, from which faint purple-tinted wizard light glowed. “My accommodations have improved,” he muttered. “It seems this time I will be staying in the tower instead of the pastures.”

He heard a faint rustle from the cell to his left, and a soft voice called out. “Who’s there?”

“Seila?” Jack jumped to his feet-too swiftly, because his head reeled and his knees felt weak-and staggered to the front of his cell, trying to look down the row of cells.

“Yes, it’s me. Is that you, Jack?”

“I am afraid so. I see that I pursued you all too well.” He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. The first part of his plan had worked out, at any rate. Well, perhaps not entirely as he would have liked, because he’d had some idea of slipping out of sight after passing through the portal and slinking about stealthily without being imprisoned, too. “How long have I been here?”

“I have no way to mark time, but I would guess I heard the dark elves drag you into your cell eight or ten hours ago. I had no idea who they were locking up, though.”

That long? he wondered, before reminding himself that he was in no particular hurry to meet whatever fate was in store for him. Besides, time was on his side-it would take Norwood and Myrkyssa Jelan hours to assemble a company strong enough to attack the drow castle and lead them down to the Underdark through Sarbreen or the cavern tunnels the slavers used. “Am I correct in assuming that we are now prisoners in Tower Chumavhraele?”

He could almost picture Seila nodding in agreement in the cell next to his. “Yes, but I have never been in this part of the castle.”

“I am afraid this is the sort of dungeon reserved for the truly incorrigible captives. A nice young lady such as yourself would normally have nothing to do with a place like this.” Jack looked back down the hallway to his right, and frowned in surprise-there was a large silver ring on his right ring-finger. It was shaped like a serpent grasping its tail in its teeth. “Now that is odd. The drow put a ring on my finger.”

“A ring? Whatever for?”

“I have no idea.” He immediately tried to remove it, only to discover that it was impossible to move even a fraction of an inch-which was quite curious, because the ring did not otherwise seem unusually tight or fixed to his flesh. “Hmm. I suspect that I will not like what I hear when its purpose is explained, but I cannot remove it.”

The effort to pull off the ring left his temples throbbing, and he leaned back against the wall to rest his head. Giving up for the moment, he considered their predicament. Was Dresimil simply intent on exacting some measure of revenge for their escape of a couple of months past? What form would that take? A return to toil and drudgery? A swift execution? Or-he shuddered at this thought-a more drawn-out and creative one? The drow were nothing if not a cruel and artful people, and no doubt they’d forgotten more interesting ways of putting someone to death than torturers in surface lands had come up with in a thousand years. Time, he reminded himself-the longer Dresimil dithered over just what to do with them, the more likely it was that help could reach them. Then again, if a threat materialized, the drow might decide to hurry things along.

Seila was silent for a long moment. “If it is any consolation, Father probably believes your story about Maldridge now.”

Jack laughed softly in spite of himself. “I can think of better ways to be proven right. Speaking of which, I have reason to hope that help is on the way. Do not despair.”

He started to say more, but then he heard light footfalls in the hall outside his cell. A drow sergeant-a woman, tall and broad-shouldered for a dark elf-appeared in front of his cell. Jack thought it was Sinafae, one of two who had escorted him to the rothe fields when he first arrived in Chumavhraele. The sergeant studied him through the bars with a cruel smile on her face. “I see that you are awake,” the warrior said. “Good. Lady Dresimil has asked for you; best not to keep her waiting.” She walked away, calling to other drow nearby in their soft language.

“If you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Jack, now would be the time to put them to use,” Seila whispered.

The rogue thought quickly. He could already hear more dark elves returning. If they’d only given him a little more time to gain his bearings, he might have had a chance to concoct some sort of ruse or find an appropriate use for his magic … but of course the drow knew their own sleep poison quite well, and likely had a very good idea of just how long its effects would last. With no better plan in mind, he started to work the spell of shadow-jumping he’d learned from the Sarkonagael, figuring that if he slipped out of his cell then more possibilities might make themselves evident-but as he started to murmur the words of his magic, a shooting, burning pain raced up his right arm from the ring to his shoulder. He broke off his spell in mid-word with a sharp cry of pain, cradling his right hand in his left and swearing colorfully.

“Jack, what’s wrong?” Seila hissed.

Before he could answer her, Sinafae and several more guards returned to Jack’s cell. The sergeant looked at Jack holding his aching hand and laughed coldly. “Ah, you tried to work some magic, did you? Well, as you have now discovered, the ring of negation you are wearing will permit no such thing. We remember your talents all too well, Wildhame. Go ahead, try another spell or two, and see if it goes any better.”

Jack stifled a retort about what Sinafae might try and glared at the dark elf. The diabolical part about the ring was that if a spellcaster wearing it became truly desperate and decided to sacrifice a finger to regain his magic, the maiming might be enough to ruin any hope of casting a spell requiring complicated gestures-which, naturally, many spells did. Very well, then; if he could not magic his way out of this predicament, he would have to fall back on his native quickness, agility, wits, and daring. “The dark elves do not have a chance,” he promised himself.

Sinafae motioned to her warriors, then produced the keys to the cells. Jack offered no resistance as two drow jerked him to his feet, bound his hands, and pushed him out into the hallway. Another pair of soldiers brought Seila out of her cell, and then they were marched off together through the echoing corridors of the drow castle. After climbing a staircase of gleaming dark marble and passing through several antechambers, the two captives were brought into a magnificent throne-hall, its walls draped in arrases of scarlet and purple. A dozen dark elf guards stood watch here, but Jack paid them no mind-the Marquise Dresimil Chumavh watched him languidly from her spider-shaped throne, one of her twin brothers standing just a step below her.

The drow noblewoman was every bit as beautiful as Jack remembered, attired in a snugly fitting gown of emerald green that seemed to almost glow against her perfect ebony skin. Jack stared at her in a curious mixture of admiration and horror, until one of the dark elf guards at his side growled, “On your knees!” Seila sank down with a defiant glare, but Jack took too long abasing himself; the guard kicked his feet out from under him, then reached down to grab him by the collar and yank him to a half-upright pose.

In that undignified position, Jack looked up and saw Dresimil gazing down at him and Seila with cold amusement dancing in her eyes. “Welcome, Jack,” she said. “We missed you in Chumavhraele, especially after your very memorable leave-taking from our fields. As you might imagine, we have been very anxious to offer our hospitality again.”

Jack winced in pain, but rallied as best he could. “I disliked the prospects for advancement in my position, and decided to seek other employment,” he replied.

“And here we have Seila Norwood as well, daughter of Lord Marden himself,” Dresimil continued. “Such a pretty girl. I see why you fancied her enough to pluck her out of our grasp, Jack. But I must say that was not well thought out-she was not yours to take. She was bought and paid for by House Chumavh. We do not like to be parted from our property, you know.”

Jack bit back his angry reply. These dark elves were so thrice-cursed unreasonable! He could not imagine the combination of pride, cruelty, and avarice one needed to steal back slaves whose chief offense was successfully escaping. “Your property may think otherwise,” he replied.

Seila was not quite so circumspect in her response. She glared at the drow noblewoman. “I am no one’s property,” she snarled. “You have no right to take me captive, and if you do, you must expect that I will bend every effort to regaining my freedom. What wrong did I ever do to you? You have hundreds of slaves already. What possible reason could you have for kidnapping me again? Or Jack, for that matter? Is this all for spite?”

“You would do well to remember whom you address, slave,” Sinafae hissed in reply. She stepped forward and struck Seila a back-handed slap that knocked the young noblewoman to the ground. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Jack surged to his feet in anger-only to find two bared blades at his neck an instant later.

Dresimil regarded Seila in silence for a moment, with a small cold smile fixed on her perfect features and a gleam of wicked delight in her eye. She rose gracefully and descended from her seat on the dais, motioning for the guards to raise Seila to her feet. “You do not understand us very well, my dear child,” she purred. “Spite is all the reason we need. Although what you term spite I might call a redress of injury-Jack left behind a good deal of damage and brought about a number of deaths when he made his escape, and as I noted before, my house paid good gold to purchase you from Fetterfist. There is a sound purpose in making certain that no one ever deals us a blow without earning retribution threefold at our hands. Your recapture serves as a highly useful lesson to all my slaves that escape is pointless; we will go to any lengths to take back what is ours.”

Seila slumped in despair. Jack swallowed carefully, conscious of the blades at his neck-a rather ironic predicament, considering how he had treated Cailek Balathorp earlier in the evening. “What do you intend to do with us?” he asked Dresimil.

The drow noblewoman studied Jack and Seila for a long time, her smile growing wide and cruel. “As it turns out, I have little further need of Seila Norwood,” she said. “She was useful for ensuring that her father made no attempt to drive me from my castle. But now my brothers inform me that the repairs to our old mythal stone are complete; our defensive enchantments will soon ring us in walls of magic that Norwood and all the rest of the foolish lords of Raven’s Bluff will be completely unable to assail. In any event, it seems that dear Fetterfist is smitten with Seila’s charms in his own way, and he has asked for her. I am inclined to indulge him.” Seila drew a deep breath and looked down at the floor, her shoulders quivering as she stifled a sob.

Dresimil laughed softly at the girl’s distress, and turned her attention to Jack. “As for you, my Lord Wildhame … I believe that we can take some steps to better fit you for your duties in the rothe fields. Although I shall miss our interesting conversations, I believe we will begin by removing your tongue. We will leave you enough of your fingers to grasp a shovel. And I think we will secure you to a chain and stake, so that you do not wander from your assigned place. You have much toil to repay before we consider your release, however that might come to pass. You are an inventive fellow; perhaps you will think of something … entertaining.”

Despite his effort to remain uncowed, Jack’s mouth went dry as dust and his knees almost failed him. He tried to speak and found himself unable to say anything at all-not a plea for mercy, a barbed insult, or a witty rejoinder came to mind. Seila looked up at him in horror as Dresimil finished her sentence.

“Lord Wildhame seems overcome,” Jaeren remarked. “A pity. I’d hoped for some small jest or perhaps a trenchant observation at this point. Ah, well.”

He motioned to the guards accompanying Jack, who moved to secure his arms and drag him off … but at that moment a drow soldier hurried into the throne room and approached Dresimil. The fellow bowed to the noblewoman and spoke swiftly in the liquid tongue of the drow. Dresimil’s eyes narrowed, and she straightened in her seat, responding with a sharp question or comment, which the messenger replied to at length. She then dismissed him with a wave of her hand and spoke softly with her brothers. Jack could only make out a few snippets of the conversation-“humans,” “warriors,” and perhaps “tunnels” or “caverns”-but the guards who had been about to drag him away halted and waited on their mistress.

Somehow Jack found the courage to speak. “Unexpected news, my lady?” he asked.

Dresimil glanced back to him, and her smile this time was without any humor at all. “It seems that our little foray against Blackwood Manor has provoked a reprisal. We anticipated this possibility, of course, and prepared a suitable reception. The mythal is my web, and Lord Norwood is ready to play the fly to my spider. We all know how that turns out, do we not?” She motioned to the guards holding Jack and Seila. “Take them back to their cells until we are ready to continue, and watch them carefully. If Wildhame offers you any trouble, torment the girl and make sure that he can hear her every cry.”

“Yes, my lady,” the guards answered. They seized Jack by the arms and spun him around, then marched him back down to the dungeon again, with Seila just a few steps behind.