As they neared the city’s northern gate, Jack noticed that the woods that had once grown close up to the city walls had been cut back by a bowshot at some point in the past. The small cluster of buildings that had once stood just outside the gate was gone as well. Evidently Raven’s Bluff had faced some threat from the northern road, and readied itself to fight off an attack. He added it to the long list of questions he had about what had transpired in the years he’d been absent. The driver paused at the gate, where a half-dozen guards questioned everyone entering the city, but they were quickly waved through-the soldiers knew the Norwoods by sight and were careful not to annoy an important noble family.
The Tantras Road became Manycoins Way at the city gate; Jack looked about eagerly, noting many details that he’d missed in his exhaustion and light-blindness when he and Seila had found a carriage to take them to her family’s manor a few days before. Raven’s Bluff was surprisingly unchanged, for the most part. Perhaps four in five of the buildings Jack remembered from his own time still stood, although some had fallen into disrepair and others had been reshingled or painted in new colors. Most of the businesses and shops seemed to have changed hands at least once.
His wonder must have shown; Seila watched him with a wide smile on her face. “You seem overwhelmed,” she offered.
“I am. It’s very much the same, but different in so many of the details,” Jack answered. “There was a guide service in that barrister’s office, and that building under the sign of the Blue Basilisk Coster I knew as the Black Flame merchant house.” He turned his attention to the people thronging the street, and frowned. “Hmm. Fashions have changed a good deal while I’ve been … away. The cut of clothing is different, and most of the men are clean-shaven. Is my goatee out of style now? I can see that I shall have to adjust my grooming and seek advice about gentlemen’s fashions.”
The driver turned onto Vesper Way and drove two more short blocks before stopping in front of the taphouse Jack remembered. He could see at once that it had been expanded once or twice, and in fact sported a brand new sign with a painting of a sleeping dragon, smoke from its nostrils encircling its head. Jack hopped down from the carriage and gave Seila his hand as she climbed down after him. They descended a short flight of steps to the taphouse entrance-the common room was in the cellar-where Jack tried the door and found it locked. He gave it a firm rap with his knuckle. It was probably not much later than ten bells of the morning; there wouldn’t be many taphouses open at this hour.
After a moment, he heard heavy footsteps from within, and a small clatter of dishware. Then the door rattled as its bolt was drawn, and it opened from inside. A dark-haired dwarf in a leather apron with gold rings in his thick black beard looked up at them. “Sorry, goodfolk,” he grunted. “We’re not open yet. Come back in an hour.”
Jack peered at the fellow, wondering. Could it be? “Tharzon?” he asked tentatively.
“No, that’s me da,” the dwarf said. “I’m Kurzen.”
The rogue shook his head. Tharzon’s son looked just like Tharzon had, well, a hundred years ago. He tried to find a way to say that without confusing the poor fellow, and settled for asking, “Is Tharzon still … here?” After so many years, it simply seemed impossible that he might still be the proprietor of the Smoke Wyrm.
“Aye. What’s your business with him?”
“I’m an old friend.”
Kurzen squinted at Jack. “I’m near sixty years old, and I’ve never seen you before. Give me your name, then.”
“Tell Tharzon that Jack Ravenwild is at his doorstep,” Jack said. “I’ll wait.”
The dwarf grunted and closed the door. Seila glanced at Jack. “Ravenwild?” she asked.
“A nickname,” Jack explained. “Tharzon and I were sometimes engaged in ventures that wouldn’t have been entirely sanctioned by the civil authorities.” He heard Kurzen’s steps receding inside, and the distant sound of deep voices from somewhere inside. He gave Seila a quick wink. A moment later there came a cry in Dwarvish, and a sudden rush of footsteps toward the door, punctuated by a thumping or knocking sound. Then the door flew open wide again, and Jack found himself gazing upon the aged features of Tharzon the dwarf. If Tharzon had once looked very much like his son did today, he did no longer. His beard was gray, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, and most of the hair on top of his head had gone the way of last year’s snows. He was thinner than Jack remembered, too. The old dwarf’s shoulders were more hunched, and he leaned on a heavy cane-but the dark, fierce eyes and bushy brow were the same.
“Good morning, Tharzon,” Jack said. “I’ll wager you’d thought you’d seen the last of me.”
“Impossible,” the old dwarf whispered. “Impossible!”
“Not impossible, my old friend, merely highly improbable,” Jack answered. He glanced up at the taphouse and nodded in approval. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hard to believe you’ve kept it for a hundred years.”
“Are you well, Da?” Kurzen said to his father. “If this fellow troubles you, say the word, and I’ll run him off for you.”
Tharzon stood, his mouth agape, for a long moment, and then he managed to shake his head. “No, my boy, no. Don’t you know who you’re looking at? This is the man that found the Guilder’s Vault and defeated the Warlord herself. Did you not listen to any of the stories I told you when you were a youngster?”
“But that’s not possible,” Kurzen protested. “Why, he’d have to be a hundred and thirty years old! That’s no great age for our folk, but not so for a human.”
“Nevertheless, here I am,” said Jack. “Seila, this is my old comrade in arms, Tharzon Brewhammer. Tharzon, this is my new friend, Lady Seila Norwood of the Norwood family.”
“The noblelady as was rescued from the thrice-damned drow the other day?” Tharzon replied. “Don’t be so surprised, the story’s all over the town. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady. Please, come in. Come in! Jack Ravenwild, as I live and breathe. What a day!”
The old dwarf led the way into the empty taphouse, and motioned for his son to set up a table and chairs. “What can we draw for you fine folk?” he asked.
“It’s a little early in the day for me,” Seila replied. “I don’t suppose you have some tea?”
“I’d ask if you still brew Old Smoky, but I won’t get far today if I started now,” Jack said. “Better make it your mildest lager.”
“Suit yourself, then,” Tharzon replied. Kurzen retreated to the bar, and soon returned with mugs for Jack, his father, and himself, and a plain kettle and teacup for Seila. “Where have you been for all these years, you scoundrel? How is it that you turn up a hundred years after the last time I saw you, not looking a day older?”
Kurzen frowned at Jack. “Doesn’t seem right, Da. Maybe he’s one of those … undead.”
Tharzon harrumphed. “Use your eyes, boy. Did you not see the sun shining outside? It’s no weather for such things as ought to be in their graves.”
“Someone imprisoned me with magic, Tharzon,” Jack replied. “They entombed me in the old mythal stone where we fought Jelan and her sellswords, and left me there. I might have gone on sleeping until the end of days, but the drow took it into their heads to meddle with the wild mythal and released me just a few tendays ago.” He took a sip of his lager and nodded in appreciation. Trust dwarves to know their business with a good ale. “Which reminds me: Do you have any idea who might have encysted me in an ancient ruin half a mile deep in the Underdark? I have no memory of the event, and I would dearly like to find out who used me with such malice.”
“Those of us who knew you wondered about that for years, Jack,” Tharzon said. “You simply vanished one night without a word to anyone. Most folk assumed that you’d run afoul of some enemy who’d chained an anchor to your feet and dumped you in the harbor, although there were some as held that you’d fled to safer parts after angering some high and powerful person with your … indiscretions.”